stop making sense

yesterday...a lovely afternoon with my cousin, Nadine...lunch and then "War Paint"...a new musical, and dueling diva throw down...Patti Lupone and Christine Ebersole showing the young Broadway ingenues how it's done...and then I read of the passing of Jonathan Demme...a pause...long pause...although in this life during wartime (Mr. Byrne) a pause is all we can afford...my brain is on overload these days...and not just for the minutia...and not so minutia...that is my life...but for the relentless affront that is this world...and so I pushed this news to the back...and let the true magic that is live theater drown me...I watched a story about amazing trailblazers...Helena Rubenstein and Elizabeth Arden...their incredible achievements diminished by views of a woman's place...I sighed...has it changed?...my inner thoughts irritated by a group of women...their places...the seats behind us...a large group of matinee yentas...talking...debating...discussing...throughout Act I...then Act II...I caught Nadine's eye...we shook our heads...laughing on the way out...that will never be us...but as you are thrust into the daylight, life returns so quickly...the thunderous applause fades...and rush hour traffic roars...as I walked, I remembered the news about Jonathan Demme...documentary visionary...and oh, yes, a film director who did well by the actresses who entrusted him with their careers...Pfeiffer, Foster, Hathaway...these came to mind...but then some guy to my right was steering his pushcart into my right hip...I bolted across West 37th...wearing my war paint...a sigh, thinking about a nice Chianti...rest easy Mr. Demme...

the rack

boobs...knockers...tits...ah, yes...the yearly mammogram...a time of year when as your breasts are poured on that cool plate...then unceremoniously squished for what feels like a lifetime...you have those seconds to think...while on that rack...about your rack...too small...too big...sagging...uneven...and for those brief moments...precious...it is the equalizer, that machine...because for those seconds everyone is the same...each mind awash in memory...of all the women you loved who lost the battle...of dear ones who won...but at a cost...and that silent prayer for yourself...that you don't get that call...you try to read the technician's face...but she carefully avoids your eyes...because if she looked into yours and she knew, then would her eyes betray her...and so you go on about your business...aching chest...and hope the minutia of life keeps you from looking at the phone...hoping that when you log onto a portal...or speak to your doctor...or get that letter...that it is a mundane "see you next year"...another 365 days until you are stretched on the rack...thinking silently...who the fuck invented this machine?...and praying someone comes up with something better...for all the boobs