Barbara Alfaro

First Kiss

2012-02-02T20:06:00.001-08:00

"First Kiss" is a collection of poems of love and loss softened by humor. A summer carnival, a stranger on a bus, a child ghost, and other sculpted memories are told with tenderness and honesty. In the prose introduction to this chapbook, I recall how even as a child, poetry owned my heart. It still does.

Copies of "First Kiss" are available at Amazon.

Romance is in the Air and Online!

2012-02-01T09:07:00.000-08:00

For the month of February, the online magazine Lost in Fiction is publishing interviews with bestselling authors, special guest blogs, and sponsoring a Kindle Fire give away as part of their "Lost in Romance" event.

I'm delighted that my poems "First Kiss" and "In the Poem" are published in today's edition. Visit Lost in Fiction to read the poems and to read an interview with bestselling author Catherine Dunne.

And Happy Valentine's month!

Downton Abbey

2012-01-15T17:47:00.000-08:00

Like the scene in Jezebel when all the slaves surrounding the Louisiana belle Bette Davis are singing ever so happily and merrily away, Downton Abbey's inference that a life of being "in service" can be a happy one is a hard sell. The show's equally questionable premise that some servants are so loyal they willingly sacrifice their personal lives for the good of the family they serve is also a humdinger when it comes to belief. When Mrs. Hughes (Phyliss Logan) chooses remaining a housekeeper instead of marrying a loving man and the valet Mr. Bates (Brendan Coyle) goes back to his blackmailing witch-wife rather than allowing disgrace for the rich folk, I can't be the only one who thought "Are you daft?" Still, the viewer response to this obvious knockoff of the older and hugely successful PBS program Upstairs, Downstairs is enormous and enthusiastic.

The Dowager Countess, as played by the indomitable Maggie Smith is crisp and wonderful. Unfortunately, the lady of house, Cora Crawley, Countess of Grantham (Elizabeth McGovern) seems a pretty marionette manipulated by her lady's maid, that meanie O'Brien (Siobhan Finneran). Lady Mary is portrayed by Michelle Dockery, an actress who knows it is more interesting to watch someone fighting an emotion than giving in to it and the most affecting and tender scenes belong to her. As for the men, the older gents often seem sexier than the young chaps. Robert Crawley, the Earl of Grantham (Hugh Bonneville), Mr. Carson (Jim Carter), and Mr. Bates (Brendan Coyle) are all pompous and overbearing but they are also stalwart and touchingly honest. The younger men, Matthew Crawley (Dan Stevens), William (Thomas Howes), and Thomas (Rob James-Collier) too often seem pouty and self-pitying but occasionally have moments of genuine charm. I feel I've seen most of these characters before because I have, in other PBS shows and films. A PBS favorite is the recurring stereotype of the Irish maid with the I.Q. of a shamrock.

Downton Abbey creator-writer Julian Fellowes is comfy "borrowing" from others as evidenced by his lifting the flower show competition scene from the 1942 classic film Mrs. Miniver -- the powerful old woman who wins unfairly each year finally allows the humble gardener with the superior rose to receive the honor he merits. Tricky, this fine line between paying homage and downright stealing.

Admittedly, it can be a bunch of fun to sit in one's flannel jammies and watch the wealthies in their silks and satins as they say goofy things like "How can we manage a house party without a single footman?" But suggesting being the maid that the mistress of the mansion confides in is almost as much fun as being the mistress of the mansion is asking way too much of viewers on both sides of the pond. Having spent most of my life in a gentler but still demoralizing form of servitude known as the office environment, my feelings on this subject are best expressed by Mac-the-Knife in Bertolt Brecht's The Threepenny Opera -- "What's murdering a man compared to hiring him?"

I watch a great deal of PBS for the same reason many do -- elegance. Any episode of Poirot is a perfect example. And shows like Downton Abbey go into elegance-overkill. To viewers in England and here in the states, weary of decade long wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, and an ongoing worldwide recession, these shows offer the same easy and pleasing escape as the extravagant movie musicals of the 30's when Ginger Rogers in a gorgeous gown and Fred Astaire in a perfectly tailored tux danced in a Depression-free unreality. Perhaps it is a given that all soap operas have an impressive amount of hooey in them. What makes Downton Abbey so appealing is it also has an impressive amount of truth in it, especially in matters of the heart, and that truth keeps viewers caring and watching.

I'd like to continue writing this blog post but it's almost nine o'clock on Sunday night and ...

Isabel Allende Interview

2012-01-05T07:25:00.000-08:00

From time to time I will be posting interviews that appear in the online magazine Lost in Fiction. The following Isabel Allende interview by Lucy Hannau is the first of these interviews.

Isabel Allende
Interview by Lucy Hannau, Lost in Fiction Editor

19 books, translated into 35 languages. More than 57 million copies sold. 12 international honorary doctorates, 50 awards in more than 15 countries and 2 international movies, Isabel Allende's next book, Maya's Note Book, is available at Amazon.

Isabel Allende Llona (born in Lima, Peru on 2 August 1942) is a Chilean writer with American citizenship. Allende, whose works sometimes contain aspects of the "magic realist" tradition, is famous for novels such as The House of the Spirits (La casa de los espiritus, 1982) and City of the Beasts (La ciudad de las bestias, 2002), which have been commercially successful. Allende has been called "the world's most widely read Spanish-language author". In 2004, Allende was inducted into the American Academy of Arts and Letters, and in 2010, she received Chile's National Literature Prize.

Allende's novels are often based upon her personal experience and pay homage to the lives of women, while weaving together elements of myth and realism. She has lectured and toured many American colleges to teach literature. Fluent in English as a second language, Allende was granted American citizenship in 2003, having lived in California with her American husband since 1989. In 1996, she founded the Isabel Allende Foundation, in honour of her daughter Paula, who passed away when she was only 28. The foundation's goal is to empower women and girls worldwide.

Which of your characters do you feel more connected to? Why?

I heard once that the author is in every character and that every character represents an aspect of the author. I don't identify with one character in particular but in most of my books the main female protagonist is a strong-willed, independent and rebellious woman who struggles to beat the odds against her. She is also sentimental and passionate. I feel very connected to those protagonists.

What does "writing" mean to you?

Life. Telling stories is the only thing I want to do. Writing is like breathing. Literature has given me a voice, has given sense to my life and it has connected me with millions of readers worldwide.

Getting published is always hard, how did you find Carmen Balcells?

My first novel, The House of the Spirits, was rejected by several publishing houses. One day the receptionist in one of those publishing houses told me that there was no hope of being published without a good agent and she mentioned Carmen Balcells. Later, Tomas Eloy Martinez, an Argentinian writer, gave me the address of Carmen Balcells in Spain and recommended her as the best agent for Latin American literature.

In one of your interviews you said you have a cinematographic vision when you write. New technologies are changing our lives today, almost everybody is on Facebook or tweets daily and then there is the e-book revolution: how do you relate to them both as an author and as a person? What do you think about e-books?

I don't have Facebook and I don't tweet because I have no time: I am too busy writing. Usually I have a pile of books on my night table waiting their turn to be read. I like to touch and smell books, but I prefer e-books when I travel because I can carry as many as I want in my iPad. I think that in the near future books will be rare items for collectors and libraries and we will be reading everything on a screen.

It's been many years you have been living in California where your "tribe" lives too. How do you keep your written Spanish so "polished," without even a minimal English interference in the vocabulary or in the syntax?

Oh! I wish that was true! My Spanish has deteriorated gravely. Willie, my American husband, thinks he speaks Spanish but his syntax sounds like Polish and when he doesn't know a word, he makes it up. After 25 years in his company I am writing the way he speaks. A young man in Spain, Jorge Manzanilla, corrects my manuscripts to eliminate Willie's pernicious influence.

Lucy Hannau is an editor at Lost in Fiction, where this interview first appeared. Lost in Fiction is an online magazine as well as a community of professional freelancers who offer services that include editing, editorial PR, multilingual translations, website creation and online promotion through social media.

What Time Is It?

2011-11-19T10:55:00.000-08:00

I refused to wear a wristwatch when I was young. I had a delicate gold watch I kept in a drawer. It was my token way of being a free spirit. Let my department heads look at their watches and narrow their eyes when I arrived several minutes late for work. It seemed enough that so much of my life was gobbled by dead-end office jobs, I didn't have to be punctual about it. My watchlessness was inconvenient when meeting friends or keeping appointments. I had to keep checking store clocks or asking passersby the time but not wearing a watch was something I could do, like not eating meat, something that made me feel good. I kept only one clock in my studio apartment. I found even beautiful clocks noisy and intrusive. Knowing the time didn't really change a thing, especially time itself. I was indifferent to time in a way only those in their twenties can be.

My elderly mother-in-law frequently asked "Que hora es?" I wonder if she thought knowing the time might extend it. "Where did the time go?" People say this as if time is on holiday at some far away resort. "Time heals all wounds" is another favorite saying. I'm not so sure about this one, especially if I check with our war veterans. We are supposed to behave "appropriately" for our age. I remember the eighty-five year old nun who was outraged because the police refused to put her in jail with the other protestors during a political demonstration. Clearly, she hadn't received the memo about afghans and tea only. Personal courage is not age-sensitive.

There is a story about my grandmother Anna Langan Brautigan. Ill for a very long time, she wanted to attend a wedding celebration. She asked her doctor if doing so would be all right and he advised against it but she attended the wedding and reception anyway. She died later that evening and, according to my cousin's account, the living room clock stopped when my grandmother died. I believe Time would honor my gentle grandmother in this way and I like believing she had a wonderful day before her final night.

I stiIl don't wear a watch but I'm no longer indifferent to the passage of time. I wonder when I got so gray and when my hands stopped looking young. This morning, the view of the river seems more calming than usual. The coffee, a special blend my husband Victor puts together, tastes so good. My crazy little dog is plopped beside me. There is music in another room and I know exactly what time it is -- time to give thanks.

The Latest in Sub-Woofers - A response to my Sept. 24 post "The Napkin Eater"

2011-11-15T08:45:00.000-08:00

From Russia With Love

2011-11-12T09:19:00.000-08:00

Bloggers can track the location of their readers and I am surprised and delighted to find I have a very small but apparently loyal readership in Russia. Hello Russia! I don't know who you are, but thanks!

P.S. I should have posted this yesterday, Dostoevsky's birthday.

A Touch of Comedy

2011-11-10T15:20:00.000-08:00

I'm re-posting this short video (originally posted in April) because I had insomnia last night and because I like it. I intend to post two other short comedies on my blog but first I have to figure out the mysteries of transferring VCRs to DVDs. I hope you enjoy meeting a sleepy playwright and his muse. The video is called "Jack and Thalia" and is is an excerpt from my collection of ten-minute plays "The Sirius Interview & Other Short Plays" available at Amazon.

Before Dark

2011-11-10T12:11:00.000-08:00

“Home before dark,” our mother’s voice

trails after my brother and me like a kite tail

as we scamper to stickball. Sundown
happens too soon so we run to the blue
house as if our lives depend on time.
After supper, in the hallway, I hear
“She’s got to stop following me around”
and imagine his pals poking fun at
a skinny kid sister tagging along.

Today, I can’t help it; I’m happy.
God knows why.
I’m holding on to heaven.
If I let go, what’s there? Nothing
but memory and pain.
I confess I’ve been unfaithful
to my dreams and my stories,
leaving them alone and unwritten
in the distant shimmering house,
the house they burst forward from,
rushing and true. I have to keep writing.
That’s how it is, before dark…

Copyright 2011 Barbara Alfaro

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Funny, Sexy, and Splendid - Three Poems I Love

2011-10-20T08:30:00.000-07:00

I remember a nun in grammar school saying, "You can't love a thing. You can only love a person. And you cannot adore a person; you can only adore God." Sister may have been right when it comes to theology but not poetry. You can love a poem especially if it is funny or sexy or splendid. Three poems I love are "Emily Dickinson and Elvis Presley in Heaven" by Hans Ostrom, "When Sue Wears Red" by Langston Hughes, and "When I Have Fears" by John Keats.

Emily Dickinson and Elvis Presley in Heaven *

They call each other "E." Elvis picks
wildflowers near the river and brings
them to Emily. She explains half-rhymes to him.

In heaven Emily wears her hair long, sports
Levis and western blouses with rhinestones.
Elvis is lean again, wears baggy trousers

and T-shirts, a letterman's jacket from Tupelo High.
They take long walks and often hold hands.
She prefers they remain just friends. Forever.

Emily's poems now contain naugahyde, Cadillacs,
Electricity, jets, TV, Little Richard and Richard
Nixon. The rock-a-billy rhythm makes her smile.

Elvis likes himself with style. This afternoon
he will play guitar and sing "I Taste A Liquor
Never Brewed" to the tune of "Love Me Tender."

Emily will clap and harmonize. Alone
in their cabins later, they'll listen to the river
and nap. They will not think of Amherst

or Las Vegas. They know why God made them
roommates. It's because America
was their hometown. It's because

God is a thing without
feathers. It's because
God wears blue suede shoes.

~ Hans Ostrom

Here is a film version of "Emily Dickinson and Elvis Presley in Heaven."

When Sue Wears Red

When Susanna Jones wears red
her face is like an ancient cameo
Turned brown by the ages.
Come with a blast of trumphets, Jesus!

When Susanna Jones wears red
A queen from some time-dead Egyptian night
Walks once again.
Blow trumphets, Jesus!

And the beauty of Susanna Jones in red
Burns in my heart a love-fire sharp like a pain.
Sweet silver trumphets, Jesus!

~ Langston Hughes

When I Have Fears

When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,
Before high-piled books, in charact'ry,
Hold like rich garners the full-ripened grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starred face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour!
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the fairy power
Of unreflecting love!-then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

~ John Keats

*Hans Ostrom, "Emily Dickinson and Elvis Presley in Heaven." Reprinted by permission of the author.

The Napkin Eater

2011-09-24T08:57:00.000-07:00

Pip a/k/a The Napkin Eater

Today, I was more than a tad depressed when I crawled under the dining table to retrieve a half-eaten paper napkin. To give you a glimpse of how depressed I was - I had been watching a war movie with subtitles. I never watch war movies and as I am legally blind, I can't read subtitles unless I'm two and a half feet from the television screen. Under the table, I started giggling a goofy happy giggle. There is nothing like crawling on all fours to pick up salivary, dog-chewed paper to set your psyche straight. How often I'd been in this same position because my miniature poodle mix Pip, having gotten hold of a paper napkin, ran under the dining table, shredded, chewed, and digested away. To get Pip away from the napkin, I bring out the big guns - chunks of hot dog. I let him see the hot dog in my hand and lure him to the study where I leave him, quickly closing the door behind me. I go to the dining table and, when I complete the cleanup, return to the study and release the Kracken.

Pip does what is called "object guarding. " I learned about object guarding in the first of three dog obedience classes Pip and I attended. How it is supposed to go when Pip has something he should not have is that I say "Give" and he drops whatever it is. Only Pip never quite got the give concept. He got stuck in the run away with whatever it is mode, wrap your little doggie legs around it, growl, bare your teeth, and threaten anyone - even the nice lady who feeds you, walks you, pets you, scratches you behind your ears, and attends three dog obedience classes with you.

Though paper napkins are Pip's chew of choice, he also enjoys paper towels, bathroom tissue, stationery, post notes, grocery lists, and somewhat distressingly, lottery tickets. Nor does he limit his taste to paper - an occasional cotton sock is apparently a grand thing. When a puppy, he set his all time record for object guarding - seventeen hours! Seventeen hours of sitting on his favorite chair with his front legs circling a sock and growling Cujo-style if I came within a radius of five socks. When overcome with the need for sleep, he would plop his body on top of the sock. Admittedly, it was in his puppyhood, but good grief, he went all those hours without, not to be indelicate, relieving himself. He's matured now and mellowed quite a bit - no more threatening growls, just dead center under the dining table with his trophy.

I can't help noticing how forgiving pet owners are when it comes to unacceptable behavior on the part of their pets. I'm amazed at how many people have volunteered that their dog piddles inside the house on a regular basis. This is something Pip never does. He seems to sense instinctively that is something the nice lady would never tolerate. I believe I'm so forgiving about Pip's misconduct because I recognize members of my species often exhibit odd behaviors. I include myself in this group as wanting to write more than I want to eat, sleep, or dance seems somewhat peculiar even to me. As another example, I cite my husband Victor's object collecting, specifically two sub-woofers (whatever on earth a sub-woofer is) and twenty-seven stereo speakers. He has informed me that he is considering purchasing a twenty-eighth speaker, news that is a bone of contention between us. That's my voice growling softly (after all I am a lady), "Don't speak another word to me about speakers!" I don't pretend to understand this compunction to purchase objects that transmit music and I am apparently not the only wife who feels this way as some speakers are advertised as having a high "WAF" or "wife acceptance factor." It's certainly not as if Victor is throwing money around. He's been wearing the same sweatshirts for almost twenty years and if I so much as suggest buying several new ones, he growls softly (after all he is a gentleman), "Who needs a new sweatshirt!" I don't mean to suggest that men collecting stereo speakers is in any way similar to dogs hoarding socks but I do think it is definitely "a male thing." I live in a small but attractive house with, save one, attractive rooms. I like attractive; it's "a female thing." The save one you've probably guessed is my husband's study that looks very like a small warehouse for stereo equipment.

I am wondering why some of us are so understanding when it comes to the behavior of the canine community but find it difficult to tolerate the idiosyncrasies of those we love. Pip posed for the cover of my eBook called The Sirius Interview & Other Short Plays. Consider buying a copy, it will help pay for that 28th speaker.

The Sirius Interview is available at Amazon

The Niche

2011-07-22T12:17:00.000-07:00

I just finished reading a how to increase the sales of ebooks book and it turns out one of the most important keys to success for an author is finding her niche, her specific audience, her target market. And that's just what I intend to do for my memoir called Mirror Talk about a Catholic girlhood and working in theatre. Without revealing too much about myself, my target market is older Catholic women inordinately fond of vodka, dark chocolate, cats, and movies without gunfire. I certainly don't intend to deliberately exclude young non-Catholic women, men of any age, and sullen scotch drinkers from my readership but I do want to be realistic about who will buy my book.

The how to book also says instead of trying to widen one's target group, an author should narrow it down, appeal to a smaller group, one she has a great deal in common with, as this actually increases her chances of sales. Going along with this thinking, my target audience would now become older Catholic women inordinately fond of vodka, dark chocolate, cats, movies without gunfire, poetry, and men with curly hair. And if I can just get these women to put the vodka tonic and box of chocolates down for a minute and click on this link Kindle "Mirror Talk" to buy the book, my cat Byron and I can go back to watching "Pride and Prejudice."

Byron and Bugs Bunny

2011-07-17T12:02:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning thinking more about humor. I suppose this is Part II of "What's So Funny," only it's "Why do some things stay funny?" Chaplin's swallowing the whistle scene in his 1931 comedy "City Lights" is hilarious now - eighty years later. I grew up watching the Looney Tunes super star with the Brooklyn accent, Bugs Bunny, and when it comes to comedy, I too am asking, "What's up doc?" Although the wise-cracking, carrot-chomping Bugs never stole my heart, I remember him and his cartoon cronies Daffy Duck, Porky Pig, Elmer Fudd, Sylvester, and Tweety Bird. Tweety did steal my child heart - something about the little canary with the big eyes who was occasionally a meanie but always a smartie I liked.

To go from the ridiculous rabbit to sublime wit, I reread Byron's long poem called "The Vision of Judgment" satirizing Robert Southey's poem "Vision of Judgment" and Southey's turncoat politics. But it wasn't the political satire I remembered after decades, it was the two devastatingly attractive angelic aristocrats, Saint Michael and Satan; Saint Peter's keys being rusty because it had been so long since they were used to open the gates of heaven; and, the over-burdened recording angel who keeps track of mankind's sins, needing additional support staff to stay current with the workload. I suspect comedy that lasts, really lasts, is about the human condition not a political environment. I also suspect satire, especially political satire, doesn't last as long as pure comedy because political agendas are often short-lived.

Shakespeare addresses the human condition and politics with ease, wit, and ineffable skill. Vain and pompous Malvolio is remembered not because of his politics but because he is comical. "Bedazzled," the 1967 comedy written by and starring Peter Cook and Dudley Moore, is hilarious now not because of the swipes it takes at British politics but because it is the age old story of the lovable schlemiel fumbling at love. The satire in Tina Fey's television show "30 Rock," is incisive and funny but its large dose of politics limits its longevity. Comedy and satire are sometimes sidekicks but they are two different things. It seems to me comedy accepts human frailties but satire ridicules them. And in comedy, the guy is slipping on a banana peel not a Republican or Democratic ticket.

A television comedy that is totally original and funny is "Raising Hope" created by Greg Garcia. It's about struggle, survival, love, fear, and hope - ye 'ole human condition. It does not suggest who we ought to vote for in the coming political election. I find some of it offensive -- ridiculing the great grandmother's dementia -- but most of the humor is splendid. Splendid seems like an odd word applied to a sit-com about a cynical cleaning woman, her not terribly bright handyman husband, and their naive son who had a one-night stand with a serial-killer that resulted in the birth of his daughter named Hope. Without any political banners, this show has plenty to say about social justice and the lack of it. And maybe that's its secret, social relevance with a touch so light it's hardly noticeable but definitely there.

I think one of the reasons I'm diving into all this what makes something funny and what keeps it so is that right now I'm turning a one-one-act comedy of mine into a full-length play. I imagine if I could master the mysteries of a screenplay format, I'd be turning into a screenplay. I wrote a serious full-length play that is chuck full of social justice concerns but my comedy hasn't an ounce of politics and, after writing this blog post, I'm starting to think that's okay.

What's So Funny?

2011-07-01T09:00:00.000-07:00

In a movie trailer for "Bad Teacher," a beautiful and talented American actress throws a basketball at a boy's groin. In a recent remake of the movie "Arthur," a respected English actress says to the actor playing her son Arthur, "Wash your winky." A television commercial has two women eating yogurt and trashing marriage. In another TV ad, a man sitting behind the wheel of a new minivan in a car dealership, makes a crack about the van being so good it almost makes you want to have children; young children play and shout in the background and the man, sneering slightly, repeats "Almost." In these failed attempts at humor there is a strong element of mean-spiritedness, notably toward children. I am not talking about satire. Satire needs to be unkind. Moliere pokes fun at hypocrites unkindly and hilariously. Insinuating an automobile is more rewarding than parenthood isn't satire; it is a mean and rather vapid comment.

A former television comic amasses a fortune by cranking out movies apparently targeted to twelve year olds crazy about bodily function jokes. Proving greed is not limited to corporate executives, extremely gifted actors opt for yet another comic book movie franchise. Apparently, it really is "all about the money." If only it were about the craft -- whether writing or acting -- once again. A television commercial from years ago that was funny had an elderly woman in a fast food restaurant open her hamburger bun, look inside and ask, "Where's the beef?" In today's comedy, where is the wit? Where are the sight gags? Where are the puns?

Comedy is more difficult than tragedy as it is easier to be weepy than witty. But what makes a book, a play, or a movie funny? Why are fart jokes in "The Canterbury Tales" and "Blazing Saddles" so funny and so un-funny in contemporary sausage factory cinema? Why are Chaplin, Laurel and Hardy, the Three Stooges, the Marx brothers, Peter Sellers, Steve Martin, and Woody Allen always funny? What's so funny about them?

In her wonderful book "The Craft of Comedy," the late English comedienne Athene Seyler reveals three elements of comedy -- opposites, exaggeration, and surprise. Recall Oscar and Felix in Neil Simon's "The Odd Couple;" the song "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life" during the crucifixion scene in Monty Python's "Life of Brian;" Woody Allen's character in "Sleeper" cryogenically preserved for two hundred years, along with his horn rimmed glasses -- in Reynolds Wrap; and, any scene in the 1938 classic comedy "Bringing Up Baby." I don't want to sound like Deuteronomy in the musical "Cats," always pining for the old days, especially since "the old days" aren't even mine, they belong to my parents. But you only have to watch the old comedies of filmmakers Ernst Lubitsch and Preston Sturges to see what we are missing in the new ones. Paraphrasing H.L. Mencken's "One horse-laugh is worth ten thousand syllogisms," one horse laugh is worth ten thousand mean-spirited and failed attempts at humor.

The Golden Pompous

2011-05-19T08:52:00.000-07:00

I watched two silly movies yesterday, the delightful 1937 soap opera extraordinaire titled "Between Two Women" and the visually stunning 2007 valentine to anti-Christian sentiment, "The Golden Compass."

In "Between Two Women," Franchot Tone plays Dr. Allan Demarest Meighan. The women he loves and is loved by are the angelic nurse Claire Donahue played by Maureen O'Sullivan and beautiful but too party-loving socialite Patricia Sloan, played by Virginia Bruce. Nurse Donahue is married to an alcoholic lunkhead who hits her and wealthy Patricia loves Dr. Meighan but loathes his work and she's not too crazy about Nurse D either. The doc and the socialite will later marry. When I say soap opera, I am sincere -- the inconvenient hubby dies on the operating table; the inconvenient wife is facially disfigured in a train wreck -- the works! The atmosphere at General Hospital is somewhat unorthodox. Dr. Meighan and socialite Pat smooch, drink champagne, and smoke cigarettes in Pat's hospital room, all while she is wearing a fab low-cut negligee. In another scene, her maid (yes, wearing a maid uniform, tends to her). Later, the doc and nurse eat sandwiches and drink alcohol in another room. Wow! This is the kind of hospital even a patient could love -- but maybe not for surgery. And this is the kind of movie that is such fun to smile and just plain laugh out loud through, it is not possible to feel guilty about undone housework and an unfinished novel. Erich von Stroheim wrote this story. Who knew Erich von Stroheim had a sense of humor? My favorite moment in this adorable nonsense film is when Dr. Meighan says "I've had five surgeries today" and this was after the champagne. So, would that be approximately one surgery per hour? I don't know, I'm not a member of the medical profession or a 1930's screenwriter.

"The Golden Compass," the film adaptation of the first story in Philip Pullman's fantasy series titled "His Dark Materials Trilogy (The Golden Compass; The Subtle Knife; The Amber Spyglass") very deservedly received the 2008 Oscar for Best Achievement in Visual Effects. Settling comfy on the sofa, almost in disbelief that my cable company was actually showing a movie other than "Sleepless in Seattle" or "The Taking of Pelham One Two Three," I was ready to enjoy this film starring Nicole Kidman as Marisa Coulter, Daniel Craig as Lord Asriel, and Dakota Blue Richards as the heroine Lyra Belacqua. I recalled all the hoopla when this film was released in 2007, much of it about the presence of demons which, in my view, turned out to be simply a variation of the "shadow" or dark side Carl Jung believed each of us has. Because the film is so beautiful to watch, at first, it's easy to disregard the obvious hatred of organized religion -- you'd have to have a tangerine for a brain to not recognize the "Magisterium" as Catholic, Episcopal or other Christian churches. No matter how erudite this work seems (the book title "His Dark Materials" is from John Milton's "Paradise Lost") or imaginative it is -- polar bears duking it out and magic dust the color of rainbows, all in a parallel universe, its central premise is that witchcraft is good and Christianity, foolishness.

What possible link can there be between these two very different movies separated by almost eight decades of thought and technology? Stereotypes. "Between Two Women" has the ever popular noble physician and the fun shallow wealthy woman. I've known unethical doctors and generous and caring wealthy ladies. "The Golden Compass" is peopled with more stereotypes -- the usual good guy, a saint-like scientist and the always favorite Hollywood villains, an evil church hierarchy. What about St. Francis of Assisi, Mother Teresa, and the thousands of social workers, lay and religious, Catholic and Protestant, who devote their lives to improving the lives of the poor and injured in this country and in developing nations? The problem with Christianophobia is its smugness and pomposity in doing the very thing it accuses church leaders of doing -- telling others what to think.

I live in a time of extraordinary sensitivity to the feelings of non-Christians and this is certainly as it should be since hopefully, all thinking people desire fair thought. Ideally, this intellectual courtesy would also extend to Christians. I recall a friend who is an atheist confiding that she cringed every time someone said "God bless you" when she sneezed. Apparently, she had forgotten I'd been God blessing her for years. And there is the member of the book club who, no matter what book is being discussed, always manages to bring up the Spanish Inquisition as if it happened yesterday. One would think he was personally and continually tortured by ghost Inquisitors. To my credit, I have not handed him a copy of "The New Anti-Catholicism" by scholar Philip Jenkins (with pages 185-187 dog-eared).

In "The Golden Compass," the magical compass always shows the truth. I imagine the young heroine Lyra flipping it open like a starlet with a shiny compact and seeing"The Chronicles of Narnia" by C. S. Lewis is eons better, in this universe or any parallel ones!"

Sidekick

2011-05-03T09:34:00.000-07:00

The little girl lying face up on the living room floor is me. My mother is lying beside me and we are both pedaling away on invisible bicycle wheels.The radio is on and I must like the song cause I'm smiling. Later on we'll bake blueberry pies; my mother's normal size and mine a miniature. When Aunt Winnie, Uncle Fred, and their son visit, I beat up my cousin Donnie because he called my mother "fat." Afterwards, my mother kept asking, "Why? Why were you hitting Donnie?" I wouldn't tell and was sent to my room.

Snow days my brother Bobby and I skated on Alley Pond in Queens, New York, and came home to hot chocolate with marshmallows, and our mother rubbing our feet to warm them. Spring and summer days were spent in our own private recreational park designed by my father -- basketball court, swing set, and croquet field. As Bobby was older than me, he started school before I did. This was the time my mother and I were sidekicks of a stellar sort, listening to radio shows, playing goofy kid games, baking, shopping together. Sad things happen later on but they are eclipsed by these pastel memories of long ago. Once school started for me, Bobby and I used to jump into my parents' bed after my father left for the office and plead to stay home. It was raining or snowing and couldn't we "Please, please stay home!" We didn't have to beg long; my mother was a pushover when it came to being a truant accomplice. She wrote fraudulent notes to my teacher the next day that always said exactly the same thing, "Dear Sister, Please forgive Barbara's absence from school yesterday. She was not feeling well. Sincerely, Irene M. Smith." Once, she forgot to date a note and the nun forgot to ask for it. I kept this backup note as a secret treasure in case I needed it one day though where I was planning on going on my own at seven years old I can't exactly say.

The youngest of three sisters, Irene Monica Smith, a true New Yorker, was born in a house on East 77th Street in Manhattan. Her father Henry Brautigan was of German descent and somewhat stern. Anna Langan, her mother, was gentle and dear in a way Irish women often are.

My mother sang at family gatherings in her beautiful, confident voice. "Melancholy Baby," "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling," and "My Buddy" were special favorites. I think of her whenever I see lilacs because she loved them so or oddly, when folding laundry. "Barbara, you fold those towels so perfectly." And I hear her teasing me when I took a long time to slice a piece of cake because I always wanted everyone's share so same and fair. "Honey, just cut the cake, people can always come back for more." These are the memories that echo Mother's Day 2011, gentle and comforting, and like daughters everywhere, I know I can always come back for more.

Happy Mother's Day!

Sleepless in Maryland

2011-04-12T07:47:00.000-07:00

I haven't had a good night's sleep in almost twenty years. My husband Victor snores loudly -- very loudly. I've often thought of forming a support group called S.O.S. for spouses of snorers. We'd all meet at a lovely hotel but we wouldn't have an affair, we'd just sleep through the night. Except for several business trips of Victor's and my traveling on my own to Italy and Ireland (terribly expensive to fly to another country in order to sleep through the night), I'm the most sleep-deprived person I know. It's a wonder that from sheer lack of "beauty rest" I don't look like that annoying little gecko always hawking car insurance on TV. Am I the only one who would like to stick the Geico gecko in a shoebox? I'd poke holes in it (the shoebox) the way we did for the fireflies in the mayonnaise jar and leave him somewhere in the attic. Every night, once what I call "the great snore" begins, I tiptoe from our bedroom to the guest room, carefully closing both doors. The guest room doubles as my study and this is a good thing in case my muses amuse themselves during the night.

There are two kinds of interrupted sleep -- the horrid, and the the heavenly. Most of us are too familiar with the former, lying there worrying about bills, health, past mistakes, future endeavors. As Yul Brynner says in The King and I, "Etc.etc.etc." I rarely take advice so I rarely give any but if I were to suggest one thing to fellow and sister insomniacs it would be, "Do not, under any circumstances, review your life at three in the morning!" The exception to this guideline would be those of you who are perfect and have led perfect lives filled with perfect choices -- all two of you. For me, the heavenly fractured sleep is when lines for a poem or story gently nudge me awake and insist on being written or at the very least, remembered. This seems the best writing as it isn't competing with nonsensical but necessary thoughts like should I vacuum today? In the middle of the night, creativity has center stage in my soul.

Sunrise finds me staring at the ceiling fan -- round base, five paddles, three light bulb fixtures, two chains, some dust -- and listening to whiny owls, whistley birds, and neighborhood dogs with a rooster complex. It's odd, but I grew up in Manhattan and I sometimes wonder if I'd sleep better to the city sounds of sirens and taxi cabs. Often, I haven't even gotten out of bed yet and I'm looking forward to an afternoon nap. Napping is one of the great benefits of being retired but one gets so little writing done when asleep.

A while ago, I put together a short comedy (three minutes, like a boiled egg) about writing and insomnia. In it, I cleverly disguise some of myself as a playwright named Jack. A friend who is a nurse informed me I have the same muscle condition (it's called pain) that JFK had. I'm honored, but have no intention of running for political office. I hope you enjoy the video -- and a good night's sleep.

Letting Go of Perfect

2011-04-05T14:31:00.000-07:00

I realize to stay enthusiastic about this blog, I need to let go of what can I call it, chronic editing? I've already rewritten the first sentence of this post -- twice. It's slow going for perfectionists and life doesn't wait on the precise placement of a semi-colon. Flaubert sometimes took a week to write one page. I'm not favoring careless writing. One of my favorite quotes will always be Mark Twain's "The difference between the almost right word & the right word is really a large matter -- it's the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning." I am talking about things like the fact that when I learned how to type I was taught to put two spaces between sentences. Now, one space is the acceptable format. For a while I actually "corrected" the spacing in some of my documents. The time this took tacked on to my compulsive edit-as-you-write syndrome was preventing me from -- yes, actually finishing a writing project. What I wrote was shiny and almost perfect but almost never complete. I've got some killer first paragraphs just sort of hanging there on the page, looking lovely but rather lonely.

I debated for a long while about even beginning a blog. Would it interfere with my writing or would it nudge me into writing? The jury is still out on this one. Google makes blogging so user-friendly and easy I decided not to resist. The best piece of advice I read was to make my blog what I wanted it to be not be ruled by what I thought it "ought" to be. In spite of quite a few years of affirmation as a writer and warm support from members of Scribd, the social network for writers, I still get what seems like an odd form of author stage fright when I write and publish something new. I am fairly confident when it comes to my writing but still there is that edge of doubt with new writing that translates something like "Is this really good or am I kidding myself?" A poem I wrote yesterday is a good example of my page fright as I only edited two of the original lines and posted it almost immediately after I'd written it. This is sort of like an alcoholic drinking only lemonade for a year or a food addict eating just carrots for two years. I'll always be caring and meticulous about what I write but if I can stop editing a sentence before I've finished writing it I'll get more work completed.

THAT DAY

I could not know would be

the last time tight in the saddle

my legs hugging the horse

my heart jumping with joy

the guide tapping his cowboy hat

(that ought to have been

a safety helmet but wasn’t)

I was nowhere near

an accomplished enough rider

for a full gallop and I am glad

because that’s me chanting

over and over and over “Oh

my God Oh my God oh my…”

in the shade of the mountains

and divine amusement.

Perchance to Dream

2011-03-17T12:26:00.000-07:00

Imagine my surprise when I was informed by the admistrators of an online social network for writers that I was not an author. How odd that even though my poems and essays have been published in literary journals and I'm the recipient of several writing scholarships and awards, I'm not considered by, let's call the network Blue Room -- an author. I was acceptable as a "member" and could possibly be upgraded at a later time to an "author." Upgraded? Like Internet Explorer? Having studied the Stanislavski technique, I can sense subtext before a sentence is even completed. I suspect Blue Room was really saying no dice because I self-published both my books. As a self-published author, I'm in some pretty majestic company that includes Mark Twain, Walt Whitman, and Ernest Hemingway. Would Blue Room have told the young Hemingway he could only join as a member but might be upgraded at some future point, maybe after "For Whom the Bell Tolls?"

I know I'm a writer because it's 3 a.m. as I'm writing this. Like bakers, writers work through the night, preparing another kind of nourishment. How different my experience with the social network Scribd is from the Blue Room elitist nonsense. Two years ago when I joined Scribd, I was a novice at online publishing who thought upload was something heavy inside big trucks. Thanks to the Scribd Support team, I've learned how to format a document, design a cover and yes, upload it. Thanks to Scribd, I enjoy a very real sense of community with journalists, novelists, poets and essayists, both beginning writers and best-selling authors. We are after all, all in this thing called writing together.

A second surprise in my efforts to promote and market my books was learning reviewers charge from $100 to $400 to review self-published books. Perhaps they thought $500 might seem excessive. There's a real disconnect going on here. As Captain says to Cool Hand Luke, "What we have here is a failure to communicate." I'm trying to supplement my income with royalties from my books, not pudge up a book reviewer's bank account.

My dream isn't being interviewed by Oprah Winfrey or Charlie Rose. I'd be too nervous and say something goofy or politically incorrect like how everyone knows cats are way smarter than dogs. My dream is simply to write as often and as well as I can. Does that sound like an author to you?

Warmly,
Barbara

You can read essays, poems, and stories of mine at http://Scribd.com/BarbaraAlfaro/documents

The Reading

2011-03-12T12:09:00.000-08:00

Mirror Talk Reading, Worcester County Library

Except for an informal reading at a friend's book club, I hadn't done a public reading in a very long time and they were usually poetry readings not prose. The night before the reading I had one of those 3 am wake up calls from my unconscious, the ones where I either write or worry. This was the latter. I worried about the forecast for rain affecting how many people would show up for the reading. It never rains in Southern California but it rains a lot in Maryland. Would attendance at the reading be limited to the woman introducing me, two rain-coated strangers in the audience, and me? I worried I would tremble because the medication I'm taking sometimes causes uncontrollable trembling, especially my hands. If this happened during the reading, the audience would think I was a big scaredy-cat. Would it be awkward if I said, "I'm not nervous, just heavily medicated?" I worried about health, bills. I worried about those children I see on the evening news broadcasts from countries with maniacs for leaders. I worried that if I didn't get to sleep soon, I'd look like Bette Davis and Joan Crawford in "What Ever Happened to Baby Jane."

Suddenly, I stopped worrying. A gentle quiet came to me, a sweet kind of knowing. I believe I know the source of this inner joy but as I'm not a theologian, I'll be still. Comforted and confident, I slept easily and well. In the morning, this ineffable sense of well-being was still there. I did everything I could to guard it though I felt this gentle force was guarding me. I ate a healthy breakfast, I meditated, I prayed. And most of all, I avoided CNN. The sweet calmness was still there when I showed up early for the Mirror Talk reading. I met Lisa Stant, the lovely woman who arranges these events for the library and we both smiled as people and then more people showed up for the reading. Months earlier, over the phone, Lisa cautioned that turnout for things like line-dancing was excellent but not for what is known in library lingo as "literary events." The lectern looked like an upturned coffin but the mic was pitch-perfect and the room brightly lit.

A certain amount of stage fright before a public appearance is normal so the need to find time to relax before speaking is very real. I began to feel somewhat nervous as I greeted friends and answered their query, "Where's Victor?" My husband Victor is so empathetic, he gets nervous for me, so much so, he has never actually seen me perform when I acted before thousands in Shakespeare in the Park or gave a poetry reading to a small group. Quiet and handsome, he stares at his feet and listens instead of looks. As I didn't want to spend the morning calming him instead of calming me -- and I especially did not want to look into the audience and see him doing all that shoe-staring, we decided he would skip the reading.

I selected an essay from Mirror Talk called "Make Mine Cognac" to read as I wanted to keep it light. I really don't think people want to hear my views on capital punishment. This essay has been read in public three times, twice by me and once by another author. Each time it garnered laughs, lots of laughs. It's my security blanket, a crowd-pleaser, my ace-in-the-hole. But once well into the reading this day, I noticed no one was laughing, at least out loud. I did an audience check -- smiling faces, unsmiling faces, and faces that looked like their owners had indigestion but no laughing faces. I did a me check -- my voice was steady; my hands were steady. I was calm and oddly happy. It was perhaps the best reading I've ever given but where was the laughter? I was exhibiting my heart as if it were a big organizational chart at a staff meeting and the response was barely audible giggles. After the reading, during the Q & A, the members of the audience seemed warm. Lisa thought the reading went very well. When I brought up the no laughter issue, she said my voice was "so soothing" they may not have wanted to interrupt me. This raises an interesting point. Do you need to have a scratchy, annoying voice to be considered funny? I wondered if it was possible that they didn't like me. I ruled this out almost immediately. Who could not like me? I'm like kittens, afghans, and apricot jam -- I'm nice. There, I said it. I'm nice -- with or without the laughs.

Warmly,
Barbara

P.S. You can read an excerpt from "Make Mine Cognac" on this blog by clicking on Essays.