At Long Last NINE

This story was started at 4:16 February 11, 2010.


The film NINE is not the musical NINE.

That has been a major complaint among the chatteratti on various show business related websites and chat boards, not to mention Facebook status messages and any number of people talking to me, directly. Die- hard fans of the Broadway musical NINE were complaining about the movie for months before it opened; and their complaints grew more vociferous once the film had opened. Their opinions, though, matter nothing to me. On this occasion, I am interested in one opinion and one opinion, only: mine.

The film NINE is not the musical NINE.

The musical NINE is not the film 8 ½.

I am sure that, when the Broadway musical opened in 1982, die-hard fans of 8 ½ were appalled. History is, now, repeating itself (as it always has and it always will). The thing that people seem to (repeatedly!) forget is that almost all artwork is inspired by something (it is very rare that an idea just pops into the head of a creator) and, very often, that which inspires a work of art is ANOTHER work of art. That is why lawyers invented a wonderful declarative in the oft used words “Based on…”. NINE the musical was based on 8 ½ and NINE the film was based on NINE the musical…. And 8 ½… and a whole lot of other things.

As I begin writing this story, months in the making, I have just come in from playing hooky and sneaking off to see NINE the film for the eighth time. I know that, for the sake of symbolism, I should have seen the picture nine times – but I’ve been really busy and just haven’t made it for the ninth time….and today is (according to Moviefone) the last day that this film will be showing in Manhattan. The first two times I saw the film were advance screenings designed to see what the audiences would like.. and they were both different than the finished film. So I’ve seen three different versions of NINE; and I loved every showing.


You see, NINE is my favourite musical (the other is SUNDAY IN THE PARK WITH GEORGE – two musicals about an artist and his creative process). I am always moved by any exposure to NINE, be it a viewing of the stage play, a reading of that script, a listening to one of the cast albums (and, now, soundtrack) or a trip to the picture show…even a screening of 8 ½. I am tapped in to this intellectual property. It speaks to me, to a place in me that goes so deep that removal is not possible.

I found the record album of 9 in a record store in Amarillo, Texas, in 1983, one summer. Fascinated by the album cover, I bought it and took it home and, listening to it, read the (rather confusing) synopsis on the inner sleeve. There were no photos but a search in old book stores turned up the LIFE magazine that did the story on 9 when it opened. The photos, the story, captured my attention; most of all, though, what got me invested in 9 was the intelligence of the score. The lyrics, as well as the musical phrasing, were all so smart – I had no choice but to fall in love, in spite of some troubling vocal performances; I didn’t care. I would listen to those recorded performances, alongside the others on the original cast album, and lose myself (entirely) in the show. Imagine my delirium when I discovered that the audio cassette had additional materials that had been cut from the album for time restrictions! Heaven. Absolute heaven.

I spent the next decade listening to that cast album, the Australian cast album, the concert cast album...and looking at photos I found in books and a souvenir program from the original production that I had found in a yard sale. I dreamed of directing the Dallas premiere of the show and, indeed, have a copy of the script with many notes, including a set design. I lived and breathed 9. When I moved from Dallas to New York, the show was relegated to a simple listening pleasure, as I shelved any ideas of ever being involved with a production (or, frankly, seeing one). Another ten years later, though, the Rondabout Theater of New York City revived 9 and, finally, 20 years after I bought that first record album, I would see Nine.

Pat bought us tickets in the second row of the Eugene O’Neill Theater. I dressed to the nines for the evening, totally dolled out in head to toe black, except for a necklace of 30 African rubies and tin. Baby Guido came onstage at the top of the show and I began to cry. The only time I stopped crying was to laugh or gasp or grin or to talk to Miss Chita Rivera, for I was the first member of the audience with whom she spoke during her Follies Bergere improvisation. When the play was over, I was in a state of elation that comes very seldom in one’s lifetime. It was one of those perfect nights in the theater and one of those perfect nights in my life. When people ask Pat and I the performances we have seen on Broadway we will always remember we begin with “Antonio Banderas in Nine…”

Broadway theater is a luxury and I was only able to see Nine two more times, each one being another heavenly experience (particularly when Rebecca Luker went into the role of Claudia Nardi). When John Stamos replaced Antonio Banderas, I had the presence of mind to not go for a return showing.

The return of the movie musical has been a great advantage for the American musical theater. Thanks to Evita and, then, Moulin Rouge, we have had the great, good, pleasure of seeing movie versions of Chicago, Hairspray, Rent, Phantom of the Opera, The Producers (I’m not saying they were all good – only that it has been great to see stage musicals turned into movies) and, finally, Dreamgirls. With the popularity and success of such movies, film versions of Broadway shows are being considered every day. I never, though, thought that there would ever be a film version of Nine. I consider the show (and score) to be too intellectual for the general public. I didn’t think it would ever sell. When it did I was stunned and thrilled. There was, of course, all the usual gossip about who would do the movie and then gossip about who was in, who was out, who was in… when the first photos were seen on the internet (Penelope Cruz and Daniel Day-Lewis), when the first song was floating around the internet (Be Italian) and, then, came the screenings and all the nay-saying by a bitchy bunch of chatterati, thrilled by their own ability to complain and the ridiculousness of criticizing something that they hadn’t even seen yet. Natch, I was nervous. I was excited to see NINE. I was nervous that my favourite musical (and something that I BREATHE) might be contaminated by a bad director. Oh, wait. The director was Rob Marshall – one of my favourites. Nah, this was gonna be great. Not good. Great.

The first screening I went to made me sign a waiver that I wouldn’t blog what I saw. I signed it and kept my big mouth shut; but I loved it. I was able to divorce myself from the play and see the film for itself and I loved it – even though they had cut my favourite song (of all time), Simple. They even cut the song that I have always felt was the most important song in the play, Getting Tall. Still, I did not care. I loved it. I loved it even though the Overture Della Donna was not in the print I saw… WHAT?! It’s ok. I loved it.

Months later, I saw another screeing. The overture was back in. The edit was cleaner. The movie was better. YAY. I was asked to sign a waiver that I wouldn’t blog what I had seen, so I signed it (again) and I kept my big mouth shut (again); but in private company I told friends I loved it. Then I went home and bought all the one-sheet movie posters from the film on Ebay. Loved it, loved it, loved it. The first opportunity I got to get the cd, I did.

The film opened to a lot of criticism – coming from all directions.

Tough.

There are still plenty of us who love the movie NINE. To the naysayers I just say “be gone – you have no power here.”

Each of the 8 times I have seen NINE, I have seen something new. My friends, who know about my passion for this piece, have asked when I would weigh in, publically, about the film version – especially those friends who are also fans of the play. Most of them know how I have reacted to this movie, especially if they have sat beside me in the cinema as I gasped and cried and sighed and held my fingertips to my teeth in awe. One would think that, being a devotee of the stage musical, I would be harsh on the film; but I am lucky in that I am able to divorce the two, in my heart and my head. I am, in fact, able to divide each decade in which I have loved a NINE, just as my personality has divided with each passing decade. You see, I believe that no artist should be forced to recreated another artists’ vision, that they should all be allowed to tell their own story. When Tommy Tune directed the original production of NINE, he did not allow the ghost of Maestro Fellini to cast a shadow over his vision, though he did pay homage to the great film director with a (nearly) completely black and white colour scheme. Neither did David Leveaux, director of the Broadway revival, allow Fellini’s or Tune’s artistic visions to dictate his work as an artist. Rob Marshall (one of my very favourite film directors and my one-time favourite Broadway choreographer – golly I miss him on the Great White Way) seems to have been able to create his own vision while, simultaneously, paying tribute to Fellini, Tune, Leveaux, Bob Fosse, Kander and Ebb, Maury Yeston, Marcello Mastroianni, Sophia Loren, the entire decade of the 60’s, Italy and, even, Rob Marshall. It is no small feat he has accomplished with NINE, his most sophisticated work, yet.

For the sake of clarity, too, let me say that the Oscar winning CHICAGO is his most seamless work, the lush MEMOIRS OF A GEISHA is his most intellectual and NINE.. well, you know how I feel about NINE, by this point in this story.

When watching the finished version of NINE, one must recognize that it is rarely possible to take a stage musical and simply film it; one must meld the two worlds, the artforms, into one. With the musicals of bygone years, that may have been possible (I am thinking, of course, of musicals like THE MUSIC MAN and MY FAIR LADY that seem to have translated to the screen with almost no changes). Even musicals like WEST SIDE STORY and THE SOUND OF MUSIC required change. With something that is as nebulous as NINE, one must go back to the beginning, consider the surrealist circus that is 8 ½, consider the fantasy that is 9 (in its’ original incarnation), consider the conceit that is 9 (in its’ revised incarnation) and then begin to rebuild. On film, one could never have gotten away with Mr Tune’s original concept, a dream in a nebulous time period that is, probably, just a creation in the mind of Guido Contini. In order to be true to Fellini AND Contini, Mr Marshall set the film in the 60s and there would never have been a female movie producer at that time – it was a boys’ club. It HAD to be another man, a contemporary of Contini’s, pressuring him to make this film. So the first order of business is to take out the Lilliane LeFleur character – to do that, though, would remove the Follies Bergere number, not to mention one of the key women in his life. There also remains the fact that nobody in Guido’s life speaks to him like an equal. His wife is, for so long, downtrodden by him that she is too tired, his mistress is so afraid of losing him that she is afraid to and, while Claudia does stand up to him, it is more from a position of aloofness – he is no part of her life, nor he, hers. Only Lili, the costumer, speaks to Guido with honesty and a lack of ulterior motive. It is a change for the better.

Now that Guido has a confidant and does not spend the entire movie alone, conducting the women (as Raul Julia did in the original play), we can focus on his intent for the two hours that we watch his story. Interestingly, when I consider the three different versions of NINE that I know, I see a different intent for each Guido. Raul Julia’s Guido seems to have been taking a journey to break away from his young self, Baby Guido, and the baggages carried by the child who haunts his mind, to become, at long last, a man. The song Getting Tall tells the audience what they need to know about the man’s ultimate struggle, though he does seem to plagued by many… Antonio Banderas’ Guido seems to be juggling battles, though the biggest one would appear to be the fact that he is in love with three women at the same time. The three times I saw the play, there just seemed to be SUCH emphasis given to the Guido-Luisa-Carla-Claudia love geometry. It was palpable; maybe it had to do with Mr Banderas’ inescapable sexual energy. In the film NINE, I see a man struggling; and while his struggle involves these three women, while his struggle involves his inability create (a BIG struggle to have, I speak from experience), what I feel his biggest struggle is that he has, completely, lost his way, indeed, lost himself. He knows not who he is anymore and is avoiding the search by wreaking as much havoc in his life as possible. The cacophony of the women, the film crew, the press, the fans just drives him further and further in his sprint to go faster, to climb higher, to get away from it all so that, finally, he might have some peace – a quiet place where he can look back, look ahead, stand still and see where, who and what he is. He goes inside his head, looking at the potentials for film making and remembering the past that made him who he is. The one nugget of truth he seems to have is that his mother has the answer but took it with her to her grave. Where will he find the answer?

NINE has given the audience a chance to see some of our greatest actresses give up performances of such nuanced layer that we become mesmerized by them. There is very little that can (or need) be said about Judi Dench or Sophia Loren, should one be familiar with their respective legacies or, even, should one just watch this film, as someone seeing them for the first time. Judi Dench is the most real, the most natural actress on film ( on stage, for that matter )and, yet, with a sense of showmanship (showwomanship) that translates perfectly in the Follies Bergere number and a sense of dry comic timing that takes straight lines and makes them funny. And she is sexy. Dudes, that bustier, the fringed up skirt... sexy. The entire performance is rooted in reality. She absolutely rocks. Then, in a completely lush and subtle performance, there is the simple and direct way in which Miss Sophia Loren pointedly lays at the feet of her despairing son, the nugget of truth that is the answer to his prayer, no matter how brutal the honesty is.

“No one can help you find your way. It’s up to you, Guido. Up to you. Nobody else.”

Only a mother could say something like that. A mother knows when to use a concise economy of words and leave their child to learn to walk alone.

The element of surprise in NINE is great for the audience because nobody expected Penelope Cruz to come out and sing and dance the way that she does; but I also think that people don’t expect the kind of range from her that she delivers in this film; from the comedic scenes as the seemingly bimbo of a mistress to the heartbreaking confession “Everything I do, I just want you to love me.” It is a performance like a winding road in Positano, with a new vision, a twist, a surprise, at every turn.

The next surprise in NINE comes from Kate Hudson, in a role created especially for her. With the Lilliane LeFleur character gone, there need be no Stephanie Necrophorous, who criticizes, wildly, Contini’s films. The removal of these two characters from the play doesn’t leave a hole in the play because, ultimately, what they are to Contini are obstacles and he certainly has plenty of those. So with Lili in the role of confidant, the Stephanie character can add a new dimension to the story and show the audience the adulation that the world has for Contini – at least one brand of the world, for Stephanie is, now, a vapid writer from VOGUE who only sees Guido Contini’s surface, who only sees his films for the style that she imposes upon them, rather than the depth with which he creates them. Her presence in the film shows the audience how our (rather dislikable) protagonist is perceived by those who do not, truly, know him; but it also shows us how a famous artist can be woo’d into believing their own press, how they can be drawn into other peoples’ perceptions of them. When Stephanie begins nattering on to Guido about his films, mispronouncing words and talking about the death of religion (which he debates) and the sexual revolution (which he enquires after deeper meaning), when the musical number that takes place in the artist’s mind evolves, it shows the glitz and glamour of which she speaks, not the humanity and artistry that he craves. At the end of the musical number, however, a new fantasy frosts the cake as Guido Contini enters her vision and strolls the fashion catwalk with the superficial airhead, caught up in the noise, the action, the mess. It is clear that he has bought into her fantasy, her opinion, her point of view. It is the only time in the movie that we see Guido changed in a fantasy. He watches the Follies Bergere fantasy. He watches the Take it All fantasy. He doesn’t even appear in the Be Italian or Call From the Vatican fantasies. And while he appears in the Unusual Way and My Husband Makes Movies fantasies, he is aloof, simply a body for the women to relate to while singing (mostly because Guido is so self involved that he is unable to connect to anyone). In the Guarda La Luna fantasy, he imposes himself into the place occupied by Baby Guido, in order that he might have one last dance with his Mama. In the Cinema Italiano fantasy, though, he becomes an active participant and gives in to Stephanie’s thought processes. And why not? How could anyone resist being a part of that world, as told and sold so supremely by Kate Hudson. Why not?

Then there is the ultimate surprise of NINE: Fergie. In the role of Sarghina the whore, she speaks almost no lines at all, managing to embody her character, solely through her physical and vocal command of the audience; and most of the audiences who have been vocal about NINE have been vocal about the fact that Sarah Ferguson was an exciting and thrilling revelation in a number that pays homage (as I mentioned before) to Tommy Tune, Bob Fosse and Rob Marshall, as well as Maestro Fellini. The grainy black and white cuts in the film pay tribute to all the wonderful films from the 60s like Un Homme et Une Femme, Darling, Georgy Girl, as well as Fellini’s cannon).

The black and white cuts are, especially, effective when the camera is focused on the incomparable Marion Cotillard, playing Guido’s put upon wife, Luisa. There really aren’t enough adjectives to describe what a treasure this actress is. She makes it all look so effortless as she splits her sternum open and lets you into her breaking heart. Every move she makes, every word she speaks, every sigh, every breath, seems to emulate from a place of purest honesty – it’s like you aren’t watching an actress at all but, rather, some person they brought in off the street who is just being filmed saying what they think. Then they put her into black and white and, in that moment, you are watching all of Fellini’s films, all of Bergman’s films, all of Truffaut’s films and a little Roger Vadim. The woman IS the epitome of this era in filmmaking. especially European movies, and it becomes clear in no greater moments than the flashback to her screen test and the Take It All Fantasy. It is one of the greatest performances I have ever seen.

And speaking of the Take It All fantasy…. Much has been said about all the material cut from the film NINE; all the songs from the musical that didn’t make it into the show. Too bad. I think those complaints are coming from people with minds so closed that they don’t realize that, in this medium, in this case, many of that musical material is out of place, as are many of the characters from the play. This is a different entity and must be allowed to live and breathe on its’ own. The song Be On Your Own is one of the most powerful moments in the musical. In the movie, though, the scene where Luisa asserts her independence from Guido lands in a spot that is preceded by two ballads. To keep the song in would have made the film ballad heavy. Furthermore, each woman expresses herself in Guido’s mind, as a bit of film making he is creating, inspired by the muses of his life. The way she tears into him, were Guido to make a film version of this moment, it would HAVE to be something raw, something stripped down and vulnerable and, definitely, something distinctly European. Taking Marion Cotillard and having her Luisa Contini do a black and white film of a striptease in a gritty, dirty, seedy French strip joint matches, perfectly, the mood and the character. Be On Your Own is a song that would be incredibly difficult to turn into a fantasy, a movie scene: it's a song in which the stage Luisa Contini rants and ravages at her husband. Take It All is a fantasy, and a dirty, humiliating one at that. It is an intense and personal moment caused by an intense and personal moment (which, by the way, is a perfect replacement for the entire Grand Canal sequence of the play. Can you imagine anything more intimate than seeing, on a big screen, your husband do with a stranger the same thing he did with you the day you met, something you always believed belonged, exclusively to you? A perfect choice and change.).

I also agree, adamantly, with the decision to change Mama’s song, Nine, out for a new song, Guarda La Luna, especially for Sophia Loren. Miss Loren has a lovely voice, though not a musical theater voice; and singing those high soprano notes in Nine would have been impossible, not to mention the need for all those other female vocals that are used in the song Nine. It is interesting to note that this song, Guarda La Luna, is a lullaby that his mama is singing to him (is it a fantasy or a memory?) at a time in the story when he is having to care for someone --something he doesn't really do at any other time in the film, since he is so busy being coddled by everyone else. Here he is, caring for Carla and dreaming of being safe in his mama's arms. This melody from the stage play has haunted me for years and, now, there are these beautiful lyrics to sing to it, and a lovely recording of Miss Loren’s lilting lullaby. most of which is in Italian. It is divinely inspired and I approve.

I approve, also, of the casting of Nicole Kidman for the part of Claudia. This character is an iconic image of celebrity and requires the same of the actress playing her. Nicole Kidman IS an iconic image, an iconic celebrity, an iconic actress. She also makes a perfect homage to an iconic Fellini image: Anita Ekberg in La Dolce Vita. Perhaps that is why they changed Claudia Nardi to Claudia Jensen and gave her a light Swedish accent. It has to be a tribute to the famous Sylvia, who strolls the empty streets of Rome and plays in the Trevi Fountain. Note all the nods to this famous scene: the very look of Kidman, the look of the empty streets, the look of the fountain, the kitten roaming the streets (Nicole even acknowledges the feline with a kiss). It is unmistakable.

I am, particularly, moved by Nicole Kidman’s performance in this film because Claudia is so conflicted; she loves him for what he has done for her in her life and career but she acknowledges, repeatedly, that he doesn’t see HER.

“You’re not seeing me. You’re seeing Lili’s wigs and makeup; I’m hidden somewhere underneath.”

“These women who come off their pedestals for a kiss.. they’re just fantasies…”

“I can’t keep playing that part”

Until finally, she takes off the wig and the jewelry and shows her true self (looking more Scandinavian than ever) and says “This is me… and you have a wife who loves you. I’ll miss you. Wrong girl.”

It is important for people to look at you and see you and know you for who you are and Miss Kidman captures, perfectly, the conflict between wanting to be seen for who she is and wanting to show her gratitude and love for the man. Finally, in the end, she must walk away. It is a highly effective performance made even more emotional by the director’s choice to lower the famed song Unusual Way (usually sung in the soprano stratosphere), into a key that is more emotional and closer to the heart and diaphragm, where emotions dwell. I think it’s fair to say that, of all the recordings of Unusual Way that I know, Nicole Kidman’s is my favourite.


While I am, so, moved by this performance by Nicole Kidman, while I relate to the facets of it I have mentioned, I am (naturally), attached to Guido Contini. Whether in the hands of Raul Julia, Antonio Banderas or Daniel Day-Lewis, I get the character. It’s not like I am a famous movie director or an Italian womanizer; but I have spent most of my life as an artist and I understand the struggle for inspiration and how stressful that can be. I have actually looked at my loved ones, my models, my muses and been able to envision the photograph or the paragraph, the way he looks at a situation and the movie scene appears in his mind. That shit does happen, friends; it isn’t a device that Rob Marshall imposed on the film. It exists. I am also in a same sex marriage that permits me the luxury of being involved with more than one man at a time; and I am possessing of a heart and mind that can lavish love on more than one person at a time. A few Christmases ago, I spent December 25th with my husband, my boyfriend and my lover. They called me Guido; and they were the Guidettes. Then there is my ongoing struggle to reconcile my inner child with my outer adult… That seems to cover each of the Guido Contini’s as I see them.

The thing about Daniel Day-Lewis’ Guido Contini is that I have never been witness to one who was so angst ridden, so emotional, so desperate to find his way again. Oh my GOSH that is me (and my loved ones will back me up on this). I was a little amazed at how rumpled and unsexy he was, as I was being introduced to him in the film. I could not, though, deny that he has such charisma, such magnetism, that I was drawn to him. No, he is not possessing of Antonio Banderas’ sex appeal; yet he is sexy and you can see why everyone in the film is drawn to him. Add to that the backstory of the character’s genius and the way that people get around talented people (who among us hasn’t had a talent crush on someone?) and you can understand, fully, who EVERYONE wants him. WANTS. HIM. This is a most complex and layered character and I found myself wondering, after some viewings of the film, where Mr Day-Lewis found it? How did he do this role without having some form of breakdown? But then, I suppose, that can be asked of so many of the roles he has played. He may, very well, be the greatest actor of his generation. I loved his angst ridden, lie telling, confused, whiny, cheating, reprehensible, weak, noble, simpy, lost, foundering, self pitying, undisciplined artist yearning for more; his flawed human being of a genius who just doesn’t know how, How, HOW to give love completely. He is as fucked up as I have been at times in my life and that is hard to turn away from. He also bounces back, returns to his roots and grows, like I have, and that is hard to not admire. There is nobody else I can think of who could have given the part the layers that he did… The nervous look he gets on his face when the reporter says “you look nervous”; the way he clutches his chest and he smiles when, in his fantasy, he sees his (late) mama again; how he diffuses a disastrous screen test where Claudia walks out by simply giving in with a “That’s fair.. that’s fair”; the exasperation he shows when the Cardinal criticizes his work, causing him to immerse himself in the water; the weeping, to the marrow, after I Can’t Make This Movie and he says “And you are so far from where you wanted to be…and you’re lost. And then you’re lost.” I feel him. I feel every moment.

As Guido finds his way back… no, as he fights his way back, he returns to the beginning. The film ends as he begins his first film in two years. He is clean shaven, his hair is combed and his clothes are pressed. He speaks with a knowledge about his craft, to the actors, to the photographers, to the crew. He goes to work on a simple little project, one where he can focus on his art. All of this takes place in full view of his life…the people in his life, not the characters in the story, become his audience in a cinematic moment that pays a kind of homage to the surreal circus parade at the end of 8 ½. Even Baby Guido uses a line that is used by one of the characters in 8 ½, at this moment: “We’re ready to begin!”; and the music that underscores this moment in NINE has a circus-like feel to it; it is extremely reminiscent of Nino Rota's work for Maestro Fellini's films. Mr Marshall has, again, found his own voice while paying tribute to the man who gave us this entire story. This moment is, for me, the most emotional in the film. You see, I believe that we carry our loved ones with us every moment of the day. Some are people that we no longer see, some are dead, some are people we saw only once but who changed us in some way, some are the younger versions of ourselves. They are with us, inside of us, inspiring us to create, firing us to move forward, watching over us in a protective way, approving our actions … and in the case of the artists, our artistry. That is the circus parade in 8 ½. That is the bow of gratitude from the people in the painting at the end of Sunday in the Park with George. That is the Greek chorus at the end of Nine The Musical (original production and revival). I feel that Greek chorus, inside of me, watching, inspiring, every moment of every day. They are my family.


It has been nine months since I saw my first screening of NINE. I have just watched it, in my Ipod, for the ninth time. It is only right that I return to my computer to finish this story that I started so long ago…even longer than the date at the top of this story.

A few years ago, I was walking home from the gym. It was a sunny summer day. I had been on a voyage of self discovery, a voyage I still walk, and part of that journey has been to bring peace to Baby Stephen, the sad and impressionable boy, so easily hurt, who controls much of my thought processes. On that day, I turned off 19th street onto Fifth Avenue; there was no traffic, so I began to walk up the middle of the street. As I walked into the sun, I felt the little hand that is always inside of my right hand as it let go of me. I stopped and turned to watch my five year old self walk in the opposite direction, leaving me to live in peace, for the rest of my life. After a moment or two, Baby Stephen turned around and looked into my eyes; and I smiled at him. He turned around, walked back, and put his hand in mine. Connected once more, we walked into the afternoon sun together. One.

I told my mother this story and she said “You called him back. You were almost fee but you called him back.”

Near the end of NINE, Lili says to Guido “Don’t stop being a child. You’ll never make another movie.”

At the end of NINE, Baby Guido runs from his place up on the scaffold, scampers across the soundstage and slips, quietly, into Guido’s lap as the crane rises into the air. No more frantic climbing for either Guido. They have found their way, as one, which is what we all must do; we must reconcile all the parts of ourselves and live, not in the black or the white, but in the grey area. That is when our journey becomes a little easier; that is when we have a crane to lift us up.

From that height we, like Guido, can see clearly.

And when you see clearly, you know which path to choose.

Here are some NINE related links, including trailers and clips from both Broadway productions.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y_5_lzags3I

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pSG9mWbD1_I

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2B2N_iRUJ7Y

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ScdHbMuUjHc

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PN5yO_oeOqA

The Pick Up Line

It was the kind of evening the little girl liked best.

How old are you when you are in 9th grade? 14? 15? Because that's how old I was when, first, I read that sentence. My mother was collecting books for the school book drive and there were boxes stacked at the bottom of the stairs, waiting to be transported to school. Early, one morning, waiting for the schoolbus, I saw a slim paperback on top, the cover illustration of which captured my attention. I pulled the volume out of the pile and began to read THE LITTLE GIRL WHO LIVES DOWN THE LANE. It was one of those times in my life when I read a book until I was finished. I read it on the bus. I read it in all of my classes, under my desk. I read it during recess and lunch and on the bus on the way home. I read it in my room, after school, and refused to come to the dinner table until I finished it. It has remained, all these years, one of my most favourite books.

Among the other books to capture me like this are PSYCHO, MAGIC (trust me, both of these books I read, straight through til dawn, too terrified to stop and go to sleep) and BLOODLINE ( that took an entire weekend, locked up in my room ); all of which I read in my childhood - that is to say, before I graduated school and moved into my first bachelor pad.

A precocious child and a friendless one, I spent most of my youth reading books far more advanced than the usual schoolboy. Indeed, when I was in the 5th grade, my teacher called my mother at home.

"Mrs. Mosher, I'm a little concerned about Stephen."

"Why?"

"The book he is reading in school..."

"Yes?"

"It's James Michener's HAWAII."

My mother lectured the teacher about her misplaced sense of priority, citing that she needed to find something of greater concern with which to focus herself, rather than my overdeveloped sense of literature.

A similar happening in another school, a few years later; this time, the 7th grade.

"Mrs Mosher... about Stephen's extra curricular reading..."

"Yes?"

"He has brought Sidney Sheldon's THE OTHER SIDE OF MIDNIGHT to school and is reading it during his time outside of class."

"I know. He borrowed it from me."

I am very fortunate to have grown up in a house where people read. My father always had books of great literature, at my disposal: The Last of the Mohicans, The Adventures of Robin Hood, Tom Sawyer. My mother had a soft leather bound copy of Shakespeare's plays, which I read but didn't understand. Aside from the classics, though, my father loved Leslie Thomas and John Clancy (Leslie Thomas was far too sophisticated for me but I read him anyway) and my mother introduced me to my favourite writer, the great Sidney Sheldon. My tastes always varied, from my earliest days. I read everything from Laura Ingalls Wilder ( I did, truly) Alan Dean Foster, from Elizabeth Goudge to Oscar Wilde. I remember 6th grade and being obsessed with THE OUTSIDERS, 7th grade and being obsessed with Arthur Hailey's HOTEL. I remember the 8th grade and reading, over and over, WHO STOLE SASSI MANOON and the 9th grade, when I discovered a book written for young girls called UP A ROAD SLOWLY. I spent hour after hour pouring over that wonderful artform, the movie tie-in novelization, reading the film versions of movies I was too young to see ( until, finally, I was the appropriate age for admittance ). There were the book versions of Star Wars, For Pete's Sake, The Sting (a particularly good novelization), Lucky Lady, Heaven Can Wait... and even better, the books upon which my favourite movies were based, like The Film of Memory by Maurice Druon, which was turned into the terrible film A Matter of Time. Whether I was a pre-teen or a teenager proper, I always loved children's series like the HALF-MAGIC books by Edward Eager or THE TALKING PARCEL by Gerald Durrell. I loved the books of Beverly Cleary and Judy Blume (TALES OF A FOURTH GRADE NOTHING and ELLEN TEBBITS remain books that I re- read, to this day). Nothing was too childish, nothing was too lofty, nothing was too advanced and nothing was off limits.

Hello, my name is Stephen Mosher and I am a bibliophile.

I love books. I love the written word but I also love picture books. I love to hold them in my hand and feel their binding, the embossing of the words on hardcovers, the slick dust jackets, the raised letters on the page. I love to open them as though I am opening the wardrobe door into C.S. Lewis' world and walk right in, smelling the new (or, even better, old) paper. I love to see the notes someone else has made in their copy of THE MOVIE LOVER before putting it on the table at their garage sale. I love the history of every book I might acquire at a flea market or swap meet. I am in love with the written word, in love with the publishing world, in love with the book.

THE. BOOK.

Recently, I revisited an old cinematic friend. Sparked by a conversation Pat and I had about Sararh McLachlan, I climbed up on the banquet in my living room and pulled down the dvd of THE END OF THE AFFAIR. I watched it, from beginning to end, over three days time; and then I got down my copy of the novel by Graham Greene. It is not my most marked up book; but it is marked. There, sporadically, are words scribbled like "good page"; and that is all. Not many notes herein...instead there are sentences, underlined, passages, boxed. It is more interesting than my copy of THE GREAT GATSBY (my favourite book), which seems to be nothing but underlines and margin notes. This book is more an exercise of restraint, giving way to what is important by showing what really jumped out at me...

---the last word is written before the first word appears on paper.
---a handsome actor's face - a face that looked at itself too often in mirrors...
---I've caught belief like a disease.

This is my pattern; to draw attention to the poetry that, most, struck in me a chord. I think I highlight them so that, from time to time, I can revisit these old sentences, quickly, without having to go through an entire volume to find them. I do read books over and over; but sometimes, in this world, there simply isn't enough time. There are just too many new books and not enough luxury time. The words, though, the sentences, the themes, the poetry, stays inside of me. Days, I find myself thinking of a sentence, a passage, a thought, an emotion, and praising (in both my head and my heart) the author of that sentence, passage, thought, emotion. What better praise than to pull down that book and touch the words?

---Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter - tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther... And one fine morning -So we beat on, boats against the current, bourne back ceaselessly into the past.

Those are the extraordinary final words of what some call (and some of us agree) the greatest American novel ever written. I was a boy in high school when, first, I read THE GREAT GATSBY and I didn't get it. Not until my adulthood did I discover the great poetry of the novel; and even now I know that there are aspects of it that I don't, fully, understand. Yet that is the joy of having it as my favourite - like every time I learn something new about my best friend, even after all these years; Gatsby never stops surprising or nurturing me - our relationship never stops growing.

Interestingly, it is these final words of Gatsby that speak to me the most, while, usually, I pay more attention to that all important opening sentence. I believe (and have for some time) that the first line of the book is the most important. It is where we are captured. It is our first impression, our introduction to the world, to the author, to the characters, to the journey. I do love the opening of THE GREAT GATSBY; but not the way I love the closing.

---In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.

It's a good opening, it truly is. BUT. That final passage..

What of the opening sentence of THE END OF THE AFFAIR?

---A story has no beginning or end: arbitrarily one chooses that moment of experience from which to look back or from which to look ahead.

Good stuff.

Now look at the closing.

---O God, You've done enough, You've robbed me of enough, I'm too tired and old to learn to love, leave me alone forever.

Damn. Powerful goods, man.

I don't read enough. I'm too busy living. I'm too busy working out, writing, cooking, cleaning, tending my garden... my garden of personal relationships. It has, though, come to my attention that I have neglected, badly, one of my most treasured personal relationships - one that is as old as I am. It is my relationship with the written word, my relationship with the story, my relationship with the opening line.I intend to correct this mistake and begin working, once more, on that relationship today. There is no excuse for having ignored it for so long. Artists create these beautiful works and somebody needs to pay attention to them. I know that there are others who find, no - make, the time to pay attention to them. Today, I rejoin their ranks. I have started by pulling down some of my favourites, to remind myself of how much a part of my personal history The Book is.

Often, I ask people to tell me their favourite first line of a book or story. I hope some of the people who read this will share theirs with me because, true to form, I intend to share some of mine with them. I think it says something about a person, about their "interesting" factor, about their intellect, about their character,; a storyteller, I am all about the character....

"When was it that first I heard of the grass harp?" Truman Capote, THE GRASS HARP

"Several years ago, during the spring semester of my junior year in college, as an alternative to either deserting or marrying a gril, I signed a suicide pact with her." John Nichols, THE STERILE CUCKOO

"The panther glove lay on the lawyer's desk; a strange claw with its palm of black velvet, so old that it looked as if the lines of fate had left their imprint on the material." Maurice Druon, THE FILM OF MEMORY

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife." Jane Austen, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

"She hurries from the house, wearing a coat too heavy for the weather." Michael Cunningham, THE HOURS

"All children, except one, grow up." J.M. Barrie, PETER PAN

"Last night, I dreamt I went to Manderlay again." Daphne Du Maurier, REBECCA

"When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow." Harper Lee, TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD

"I guess I am just a plain dumbkopf, as my former friend N.B. would say." Bernard Glemser, THE FLY GIRLS

( Just get down and read the first line of CATCHER IN THE RYE. It's brilliant but too long to type here)

"Ellen Tebbits was in a hurry." Beverly Cleary, ELLEN TEBBITS

"There was this sweater..."

My favourite, my very favourite opening line of all time comes from a short story written by one of my very favourite writers, Faye Lane. I never actually read the story. I only know about the opening line because, once, while discussing our mutual projects, she told it to me. From the moment I heard it, it has held the top spot:

"Someone's head was sweating on my black velvet skirt and it wasn't my husband's."

Fear and Loving in Hell's Kitchen

As a child, I was afraid of monsters… all different kinds of monsters It wasn’t Frankenstein’s Monster or vampires or any of the monsters in the movies… it was the kind your mind creates. .The ones that frightened me the most were demons. If you were a child and saw the movie DON’T BE AFRAID OF THE DARK on tv, you probably would have felt the same way.

I grew. I developed different fears. For a period of time I was afraid of injections, having blood drawn, any kind of medical needle activity. I came to understand that this fear was based on a story I had heard about someone clenching their glute while getting a shot and having the needle snap off in the muscle.

Well into my adulthood I realized that I wasn’t really afraid of anything. I had no fear of spiders, snakes, rats; not needles, heights or water. I wasn’t afraid of clowns. I wasn’t afraid of anything rational. I had one or two irrational fears… being buried alive (I mean, really, what are the chances?) or dying in a plane crash without having cleaned my house… these are irrational fears. My friend has an irrational fear of midgets (his word, not mine) and of rain. I’ve heard people speak of their fears, both rational and irrational; and I have managed to dispel many of my own. Why, only recently, I came to the realization that I am afraid of gay men and their superficial judgments and malevolence and that the origin of this fear is the mistreatment to which I was subjected by my first love, a 30 year old ballet dancer who picked me up the year I transitioned from 16 to 17, befriended me and taught me what it was like to be in a gay relationship: demeaning, diminishing and demoralizing. Having, only this last month, come to that realization, I’ve been able to (gradually) begin to confront my fear of the wicked stepsisters known as my gay brethren. One day, that fear will be completely gone. That project begun, I have made a list of things of which I am afraid and determined to tackle them this year:

--I am going to have Michael Buchanan take me to a karaoke bar, where I will sing in public.
--I am going to have Jason Zimmerman take me to Fire Island and I am going to have a good time, rather than be miserable and scared of the life-threatening gorgeous and hypercritical gay men who inhabit the island.
--I am going to have Hunter find me an appropriate occasion and I’m going to do drag (Jen Houston will be styling me for the event; and isn’t she thrilled!).
--I am going to go to a gay bar, club, disco or other gathering place, find the most attractive man in the place and engage him in conversation for at least four minutes.

This list is an ongoing process on which I am working, in an effort to combat my fears. I think about fear.. not a lot; but I do. We humans do seem to be controlled by fear, don’t we? Fear might be the most powerful emotion that we have – it leads us to so many of our actions and those to which it doesn’t lead, it keeps us away from attempting. I think it might be fair to say that fear can be a stronger emotional motivator than love…maybe even greed. Isn’t it fear of being powerless that leads people to selfish acts, to acts of hatred, acts of war? Don’t we self-protect out of fear of being hurt? I’ve missed a lot of opportunities in this life because of fear. Fortunately, I am fearless about some things, fearless in certain situations – so it hasn’t hindered my life as much as it COULD have.

Having said, for years, that my biggest fear (outside of the death of a loved one, particularly my husband) is being judged, I’m on my way to exorcising that fear from my being. Also, I have to admit that I have a fear of losing my legs; also a fear of a longterm debilitating illness; I do not, though, consider these to be irrational fears. I live in New York – an Apple Tours bus could run me down any day and I might lose my legs. This is 2010 – you can contract an incurable disease by sitting too close to the aviary at the zoo; illness is airborn. These are not irrational fears; everybody has them. We are all afraid of the death of a loved one, a debilitation of any kind – particularly one that leads to our demise, though some of us aren’t afraid to die. I’m not. I’m not ready to go. I have a great life and I’m having a good time; I have more to do, more to say, more to learn and more to teach – natch, I am not ready to go. When I do, though, I won’t be afraid. I hope.

In one of the Harry Potter stories, we are introduced to an process of ridding oneself of a magical creature – a process which involves focusing on one’s greatest fear. I have only read the first two Harry Potter novels, so my exposure to this concept is limited to the films. I recall one child focusing on a Jack In The Box, one uses a snake, one uses a teacher that terrifies him. Harry Potter is afraid of Dementors and Professor Lupin, of the moon. I allowed myself to get lost in the fantasy world of the film and wondered what my focus would be on.. what is, truly, my biggest fear?

Last night, I turned to Pat and told him:

“I’ve got it. I know what my greatest fear is.”

It is always an unspoken understanding that this is ASIDE from the fear I have of losing him – which is as it should be. That tacit exists, I am sure, between every great couple. So. My biggest fear…

I am afraid that my loved ones do not understand, do not feel the depth of my commitment to them.

I know that there are times when I hang up the telephone with a loved one without saying “I love you”; I also know that these times are, severely, outweighed by the number of times when I hang up with the phrase. Leaving a friend on the corner of 50th and 9th last night, our parting was a simple kiss on the cheek and those words. I love you. The thing about words, though, is that they become just words. We hear the word table so often that, sometimes, it takes a little focus, a little visualization, to remember what a table is. The person talking to you says a sentence using words we hear every day. Table. Fork. Dog. And in my head I have to do a kind of Sesame Street flash card game and focus on the image of what that is… oh.. got it. That’s a table. That’s a fork. That’s a dog. If simple one syllable nouns become a tangible item that a person has to focus on, just to make the meaning of a sentence take root, imagine the more complex meaning of other one syllable words and how the repeated hearings of those words turn that all important sentence into just blah de blah. I love you. I need you. I like you. You’re neat. You’re special. So what? You hear these sentences over and over and, eventually, they just become ‘how are you’, ‘I’m fine’, ‘have a nice day’. We must never let the importance of certain words, certain sentences, certain themes, certain guarantees in our life, in our relationships, our collective existences become by rote. Yet we do. We are insular. We are overloaded. We are inundated. And the important moments of each day fall away, like so much ivy, dying on the vine.

I don’t care if the laundry doesn’t get done today.

I don’t care if the mail doesn’t go to the post office today.

I don’t care if I have to miss Survivor tonight.

I have the opportunity to have a birthday breakfast with Ken this morning, to celebrate his being here. I have the opportunity to create prosperity for Jason this afternoon, to help him pay for his upcoming trip home. I have the opportunity to support Donna’s artistry tonight AND sit in a darkened theater with Pat on one side of me and Brady on the other. All of these things will nurture my entire being; but, more to the point, the fact that I have taken time out of (what all my loved ones know is) a hectic schedule in which I am (constantly) being pulled in many directions, including that of my own work, will show my loved ones that being with them is more important than anything. It has been (often, in my adult life) my practice to drop everything and go to these precious treasures when they need me. I admit it: certain times I have been in a black ‘me’ place and unable to dig myself out long enough to go when called, certain times I have had to be incognito – but the core of this body, this mind, this soul is (and always has been) to go when called because this wordsmith who ends every call, every visit, every email with “I love you” fears the growing lack of power in that beautiful entity, the word, and knows that the adage “actions speak louder” is true. I learned this in college when Marsha Waldie actually told me that people believed me to be insincere because of all the compliments I paid everyone. I protested, on that day, that I happen to look for the good and, upon finding it, draw attention to it. Attention must be paid. Once that threat of being believed disingenuous had been instilled in my mind, once that seed had been planted, I became acutely aware, almost innately, of always looking people in the eye, indeed, of saying “look me in the eye so I know you hear what I’m saying” before telling people “you can depend on me”, “I will always be here for you”, “you’re not alone”.

People toss this word love around like a football and, because of it, some don’t believe in it, some don’t even remember what it is, what it feels like to receive love – oh everybody feels it, everybody gives, but do people actually know how to accept it? Like a compliment that you pay a person who throws it back in your face because they don’t know how to hear the words and trust that you mean them and say “THANK you”, people don’t know how to stand, arms wide open, and say “love me”, then accept it. They think you want something back.

I’m in love with a man who is not my husband. It doesn’t take anything away from Pat because that well is infinite. I am happy, no, elated, to be blessed with a heart that is so bountiful that each drop of love that lies therein gives birth to more. The more I love, the more there is. So I can love as many people as I can meet. So I’m in love. I ask nothing in return. I need nothing in return. I don’t need to be loved back, I don’t need to be made love to, I don’t need for him to even know that I am in love with him. I only need, wish, for him to accept this love. I do think that he should know that he is loved so deeply because knowing that you are so loved can only serve to validate a person.

Don’t you wish you knew, truly, how deeply you are loved? Wouldn’t it boost your self esteem today?

And so, comes the calm and peaceful, unholy revelation of what is my biggest fear: loving. Loving and not being believed. Loving and not having the wonderful, unique, special, absolutely irreplaceable objects of my affection pay attention, not to me, but to themselves. I use the phrase ‘attention must be paid’, and often, because I believe, no – I know, that people must be validated. What better validation, than being loved? Attention should be paid to the love that is bestowed upon them. If these flowers in my garden knew the depth of my devotion to them, they would, surely, have fewer low self image days; they would, surely, love themselves a little more.

And it is not being loved that causes us to grow; it is loving.

That is so much more important.

The Learning Point

It's actually pretty rare that I can be heard to complain about physical ailment. I don't really see the point. The body is a living, breathing, organism and, like the mind or our emotions, it has good days and bad days. I use my body hard - always have - and with that comes pain and suffering. That is why I adopted, years ago, the saying "Pain is weakness leaving the body", which I saw on a billboard for (I think) The Marines (maybe it was the Army). Nevertheless, there's no point in complaining... it is the way of the world.

One year after the attacks on the World Trade Center, exactly, Pat and I went away with our friends, AJ and Rob. There was a lot of falderal in NYC regarding the one year anniversary of September 11th (I have never approved of the use of the word anniversary regarding 911 - anniversaries are to celebrate happy occasions -- I believe a different word is in order) and we wanted to get out of town. AJ arranged a week in Cape May for us. It was one of the most fun, one of the happiest weeks of our adulthood. The four of us loved each other, deeply, and had a wonderful time together. Almost every day, I would suit up and run down to the beach; there, I ran to the lighthouse, stopped to pray and ran back. My chosen form of prayer is Buddhist chant; my routine was to chant until I received a message from on high and, after, resume my exercise. One day, after I returned from my run, AJ asked me how I could run every day, when I was in such pain?

You see, I had chronic, permanent back pain. I walked with a hunch. The only thing that made it better was whiskey - the only problem was that it also made everything else worse. Eventually, I would stop drinking altogether...

sidebar: in writing this story, i have had to confront some unbelievable truths regarding the timeline of my life. if i was still drinking in September, 2002, then i must have stopped drinking shortly after this trip because it was in October, 2002 that i met Steve Spraragen - and, by that time, i had stopped drinking. that means i have only known Steve just under 8 years and only been sober the same amount of time. i had it, firmly, in my head, that i have been sober over a decade and known Steve longer. well... i have, many times, said i don't have a good head for the passage of time..

When AJ asked me how I could run every day, in such pain, I replied without taking even a moment to consider it - the answer lies that close to my surface.

"If I let the pain stop me, it wins."

On the fourth day of our trip, I suited up; I ran to the beach, I ran to the lighthouse, I sat in the sand, I began to chant. I cannot say that I get an actual verbal message every single time I chant; though it does happen - especially in those days, as I was on a major spiritual path and needed a lot of guidance. On this day, I got a real, a sound, a tangible verbal message from the God in which I place my faith. The first part of the message was about my pain; the second was about a conflict I was having with two men who (I perceived) had wronged me. The message went like this:

"It's just pain. You have four working limbs and a body that does what you tell it to do. There's some pain in your spine and that's it. You can deal with it. As far as David and Tim go... I have no answers for you: you will be stronger if you figure this one out on your own."

I rose from the sand, ran back to the house and got on with my life.

Within the next few months I quit drinking, two doctors told me I had arthritis in my spine, I lost a lot of weight and the pain eased up on me, a lot. Life went on.

In the years since then, I have continued to use my body to the extreme. When I have injuries or pain, I see one of my healers (there are a lot of them, let me tell you), I confront it, I accept it, I battle it, I keep going. If the pain wins, I lose.

The pain never wins.

Last week, the pain won.

I hurt myself at the gym on Monday. I wasn't even lifting weight at the time. Hunter and I were doing crunches on the Swiss Ball and on the second set I said "ouch" and cradled the back of my head. Something in my neck had pinched. That night I ran to my best friend and massage therapist ( I am lucky to have a handful of best friends, all of whom are there to save me when I need saving ), Jason, and he gave me a quick neck and trapezoid tune up. Two days later, though, I was locked. The left side of my body was, essentially, paralyzed and I could not move my head. Thursday I saw my chiropractor, Dr Piken, and my accupuncturist, Dr Lee. They both worked on me, hard, and sent me home, where I had no choice but to lie still, watching tv and sleeping. Friday, I saw them again. What I learned from these visits is this: I have a herniated disc in my upper back, where the neck meets the traps (this came from an x-ray done by Doctor Piken) and that my chi on the left side of my body is defunct (Dr Lee did some hardcore accupuncture to move some of the chi from the right side to the left). By Saturday night, I had some pretty good range of motion again! (though the problem has not gone away, altogether). I can't work out. Too bad. I am in some pain. Too bad. Life goes on.

Here is where the true pain of this story and the true lesson of the story comes about...

About 8 months ago because of a spasm in the left side of my neck, my GP prescribed muscle relaxers. I have some left over. I've been using them during this rough time. I have been Nurse Jackie-ing two a day ( to Nurse Jackie a pill is to either crush it or chew it so the drug gets into your system faster ). I also asked a friend who suffers from bad migraines if he could spare a couple of vicodin. He obliged and I Nurse Jackied those, too. I also accepted a Lidocaine Patch from a friend. (Perhaps, at this juncture, I should mention that I don't use drugs - not even Aspirin - because I prefer to fight off things naturally; that is why I still had those old muscle relaxers -- I really only use pharmaceuticals in dire emergencies). In one day, I Nurse Jackie'd two muscle relaxers, one vicodin and used a Lidocaine Patch. ( I also ate three cupcakes, a bowl of popcorn, some Reese's peanut butter Easter eggs and a few chocolate cookies - because I am a closet emotion eater and these things were right in front of me; and misery loves emotion food). So in that one day, I filled my body with drugs (which it is not used to) and foods (the type of which it rarely gets).

I awoke yesterday, unable to move. Every joint in my body was swollen. I could not bend my ankles, my knees, my elbows, my fingers, my wrists, indeed, even my toes. There was no flexibility anywhere. I spent most of the day either lying still or doing work that could be done sitting down at a table. The pain and immobility was so bad that, finally, at 9:30, I went to bed.

This morning, I awoke, still swollen, still in pain. After thinking a bit about my situation, I went to my computer and searched "SIDE EFFECTS - VICODIN"

Joint swelling.

I searched "SIDE EFFECTS - LIDOCAINE PATCH"

Swelling.

I have said that a boy becomes a man (and in a world of equality, a girl becomes a woman) when he ( or she ) is able to accept accountability.

I did this. I took drugs that were not prescribed to me. I put phrama in a body that is not used to them. I ingested refined sugar and wheat, dairy, sodium into a digestive system that is usually fed more healthy fuel. I did it. I accept my responsibility and my punishment. Now I share my lesson.

Don't take drugs that are not prescribed to you by a doctor that you know and trust.

Got it?

I told Jason that I have realized that one of the reasons I was born, one of the purposes of my life, is to see how clean I can get myself. I am here to see how far I can take my evolution. I have learned a lesson here that will help me stay on this track -- I have removed alcohol and tabacco from my system, as well as a lot of food product in which I do not believe. It is time to take it to the next level .. oh I won't take it as far as some fanatical people I have encountered; but I have learned my lesson, here.

My body is a temple.

I will not pollute it.