Excerpts

“HELEN LAWSON OPENING NEW HAVEN
IN ‘HIT THE SKY’” is the Variety
headline. Frank O. and I sit next to the blonde-bun

woman, a few rows behind Anne and Lyon. We
are here to witness this out-of-town opening
of Miss Lawson’s newest. What could be

more thrilling? I’m a little worried—the thing
is, Frank’s been squirmy since we entered the theater,
has been surveying the hall, mumbling

something about three furies. The orchestra
starts with a riveting number, lights pop—
an enormous Alexander Calder

mobile dangles on stage, and we sit in shock
as Helen Lawson belts out, in Merman-esque
style, a razzle-dazzle anthem of schlock,

a song of personal autonomy, best
performed in the psychedelic shadows
of the whirling Calderian mobile. Lighting effects

give the whole ensemble a wild “wow-
factor,” the aesthetic charge of disco
illumination avant la lettre. Lawson is now

the tree trunk, and the Calder thing is so
the leaves and branches. “I’ll plant my own tree,
and I’ll make it grow.” Consider “Poem

to Alexander Calder and Louise” by Henri
Pichette (1954): “My ancestor, the mobile
said, is the Tree Moved by the Wind.” We

are witnessing the transition from Calder’s artful
aesthetic movement (under the influence of
Jean Arp, Joan Miro, Yves Tanguy, etc.) to the fitful

threshold of ‘60s psychedelia, the drama of
Helen Lawson’s Broadway ancestry butting
heads with the au courant world of

our soon-to-be Gillian “It Girl,” unknowing
Anne Welles. Lyon comments about Helen:
“Offstage I hate her, but onstage,” he says whispering,

“I’m madly in love with her.” Seemingly perplexed, Anne
puts her eyes back on the star, studies her,
tries to piece together Lyon’s admiration.

She recalls meeting Lyon for the first time; they concurred
that Helen Lawson was despicable. “For every Helen Lawson
there’s always a Helen Hayes or a Mary Martin,” he’d said to her

in Mr. Bellamy’s office. “Frank,” I say, getting his attention
(he’s still very distracted), “Lyon’s remark
reminds me of that line in Showgirls when

the powers-that-be at the Stardust Hotel embark
on trying to replace Cristal Connors in the show ‘Goddess’
and mention Janet Jackson and Paula Abdul.” “This stark

comparison will probably undo me, but I’ll ask
anyway,” says Frank, “so give it to me: why
does Lyon’s comment remind you of Showgirls?” “It unmasks

the narrative of the film, rendering it fictional. We rely
on things being as they are in both films, but suddenly,
when Lyon mentions Helen Hayes and Mary Martin (high-

profile stage stars), and the ‘Goddess’ producers seriously
float the names of pop stars Jackson and Abdul, we, the viewers,
are jarred: these references upset the film, imposing mighty

extradiegetics signified, which, as I mentioned, forces
each of these film narratives to surrender their heretofore
‘realities.’” “I think,” says Frank after a restless

pause, “you are still suffering jet-laggage from your
return trip from Madrid.” “Maybe,” I concede, “but
I’m well-enough to report that I couldn’t find my most adored

films on DVD in Spain (I wanted to get
real Spanish versions of V.O.D. and Showgirls). In one store,
when Wally asked for me, the guy said, ‘No. And what

a pity,’ in perfect English!” “Shsss!” a sore
theater-goer hisses at Frank and me. In deference
to Saint Helen (who’s about to blow), we end our rancor,

turn our eyes back to the stage, to the semblance
of star and molecule-looking danglies (think
Monsanto’s Adventure Thru Inner Space

ride at Disneyland: humans shrink
to a size smaller than an atom; water crystals
become giant, and hydrogen atoms slink

about, hanging from the ceiling, panels
as large as the red and blue ones swirling
around Helen’s head on stage). And we, mere mortals,

are in turn seduced by the magic of Miss Lawson, swooning,
madly in love,
watch the old battle-axe confidently crooning.
(JC)

 

“It’s all well and good,” declares Sharon, “about your push-card prizes
But while you three are sitting around on your asses ‘writing’ all day
Neely and I are in training for a race against our god-given sizes

And it’s not just ‘those five pounds’ that makes ‘the suits’ queasy, a sashay
With just one extra pound is like attaching two servings of ground sirloin
Onto your ‘trouble spots’ that no girdle, cream or pill (see below) can melt away”

A moment on the lips, a year on the hips was what my mother used to say
“Well, least your mother was slim, Gillian, so it was not quite so unnerving
To watch her eat a sliver of something, or a small serving, or push her plate away

With my mother the contradictions were never-ending
She talked the talk but didn’t walk the walk, her fingers always straying
Toward the smorgasbord of sweets that she was constantly tending

Brownies, gingersnaps, seven layer anything, daily baking
To satisfy my father’s ‘wooden leg’ and of course my younger sisters
Who hadn’t yet hit puberty, so they hadn’t experienced the berating

That came from having taken after our mother, who would whisper
To the Col. Such a gorgeous face but she’s got to gain control of her figure
If she wants to start auditioning we’d be horrible to tease her

By encouraging those dreams that visualize a future
Of film sets and leading men and mansions in the canyons
Success takes sacrifice, is that not what we have taught her?

How could I have known that Sharon’s conception
Would force my thyroid into retirement, and create a ravenous
Hunger that made it impossible to resist the temptation

Of consuming an entire pan of fudge, but so what I was talentless
My husband was attractive, but always away on assignment
So I put all my hopes and dreams into this thing in my abdomen

Which once born, felt like she was bought on consignment
People looked at me strangely, like she MUST be adopted
Which inspired a depression that sucked my serotonin

For even though her birth had been hell, I had spawned an angel
Who demanded all of my time, and a wide variety of jobs, I adapted
To all the cleaning, cooing, cooking and colic, trying not to strangle

This miracle, this blessing from God that wasn’t made of chocolate
The Col. made no comment, but glared at my hair that was always tangled
And the sixty extra pounds that didn’t just “fall off” despite the fat

Dissolving promises (see below) that all the magazines suggested
My body grew more and more stubborn, prayers, pills; all a bunch of crap
Until even my preacher agreed perhaps it was time to start a diet

I began with grapefruit and coffee, then experimented with concoctions
Like lemon juice in chicken broth topped with cayenne, I don’t suggest you try it
And how was I to know that this extreme dieting would spark off a combustion

Triggering a sluggish metabolism that had always cursed the Willet
Side of the family​Now I’m obese, and I barely eat, and forgive my assumption
That you’re dumb enough to believe these ads, but please, put away your wallet!

The amazing Models Method is not going to try
and reform you. You can still eat your favorite
foods, your deserts and even drink beer and
still lose, lose, lose, all that ugly fat fast. You
will be as trim and slim as a New York model,
without exercise or pills of any kind. only $1.00
(GM)

 

My alarm went off at 8:00 a.m.
I intended to get up and write, yet here it is four and a half hours later.
Time lost on the cutting room floor.

I have to write today, as my lines are due by August 31st.
We have a new rule.
JC and I came up with it when he was here for our D.O.D. summit.

Once it’s our turn, we (me, JC, Gillian) have to write our lines within two weeks.
Gillian sent her new lines on August 17th, so I have until August 31st to write
​mine.
Today is Sunday, August 29th.

Neely’s wind-up alarm clock is ticking.
I guess this new pace is perfect for her Career Montage.
No more lollygagging—nearly a year for one canto!

“A FAST AND FURIOUS PICTORIAL”: that’s what the V.O.D. script calls for.
An alarm jangles imperatively offscene.
Camera pulls back as she sits bolt upright, grabs the alarm, turns it off, jumps out of bed.

Trouble is, I’m exhausted by Neely’s frenzied self-improvement program.
So desperate to get in shape for her breakout nightclub act.
Being a certain age, and feeling several lifetimes away from such industrious
​career striving, I want to tell Neely to slow down.

Like Mel, cautioning from the sidelines.
Take it easy, girl, you’ll get where you’re supposed to go.
Oh, why does everyone want to be famous?

I remember how appalled I was when I heard Madonna (I think it was in Truth or
     ​Dare) say, “Who doesn’t want to be famous?”
Meaning everyone on the planet wants what she has.
And will rise at 7:30 every morning, lift weights, do cartwheels, and jump up and
​     down on a trampoline to get it.

Neely wants, I want.
My guide, too, has finally gotten out of bed.
Her wind-up alarm clock had an electric seizure at 2:00 p.m. (3:00 p.m. Boston
​time.)

Voice raspier than usual.
She was up till all hours smoking cigarettes, fussing with her immortality box,
​grappling with her ambition bird.
I address her plaintively.

“Dear Guide, who at the height of her popularity understood the folly of fame,
​     wouldn’t it be good enough to just drink cocoa?”
David, David, David.
Anne is in her study, leaning back in her chair, feet propped against the wall like
​in that early photo by Rollie McKenna.

First of all, a truly good cup of cocoa, with a generous glob of real whipped cream, would
     ​cost you far too many Weight Watchers points; you wouldn’t be happy.
Better to stick with those Skinny Cows.
Second, yes, I did understand the folly of fame, the freak show known as contemporary
     ​American poetry, but I never achieved sufficient distance, while alive, to free myself
     ​from it.

It would have helped if I’d believed in God, had had some sort of spiritual belief system,
​     but that was karma specific to that particular lifetime, and that particular generation.
It was an existential era.
It made more sense not to believe, having come through the nightmare of World War II,
     ​having witnessed that particular set of horrors.

Sylvia really made the most of that, didn’t she—she of the Nazi trope.
When I transitioned, on November 4, 1974, I rose nude from my mother’s fur coat, from
     ​the idling car, from the gas oven garage; rose above the Greater Boston area, mouth
     ​open in gratitude, wide as a milk cup (here I paraphrase one of my best poems), and
     ​arrived at the edge of paradise, which was gauzy as a old ballroom gown.
Thus I moored my rowboat at the dock of the island called God.

Sylvia was there to greet me, and my Nana, and many others, all my pretty ones, and I
     ​very quickly let go of the limitations of that incarnation—famous promiscuous pill-
     ​and-alcohol-addicted suburban housewife Confessional poet.
And then I knew.
Believe me, God is not some poker-playing graybeard.

Think more along the lines of boundless energy, light, totally impersonal.
(We get to do with it as we like.)
Third, you, David, more than just about anyone, should understand the pressure I was
     ​under.

It may look like I simply wanted to produce, produce, produce.
But it was really the need to experience, as often as possible, the miracle of the poem.
Poems, real poems, despite the proclamations of the intelligentsia, are miracles.

Poets no longer believe in the miracle.
That’s karma specific to your particular lifetime, my dear boy, and you have my
​     sympathy.
No more resources, inside or out.

They’re all used up.
But you still believe.
“Every poem is a miracle of faith.”

I was floating over your shoulder, invisible between strata of light, when you wrote that
     ​down yesterday.
And the nonsense shall pass . . . it always does.
All part and parcel of the business of words.

Lastly, surely you can empathize with those on the rise.
It wasn’t that long ago that you were concerned about “making it.”
How many years did you fret about productivity, only to see, later in life, concrete
     ​evidence that you have written enough.

And there were periods of not writing, weren’t there (remember how depressed you were
     ​in New York), or not writing much.
But over the long haul, those fallow times don’t show.
James Schuyler (who says hello, and wants you to know it’s a pink ball gown) once told
     ​you to relax, he was confident you’d be prolific.

But you had trouble believing it for yourself.
How do you tell a young poet to relax?
Writing poetry is hardly a laid-back endeavor!

Then I laugh, my wise ghost-guide laughs, the Unbelief laughs.
Even fame-driven Neely laughs as she exercises herself in two.
And I knew that she knew that I knew.
​​​ (DT)

The Authors

The Authors

L to R: David Trinidad, Jeffery Conway, Gillian McCain

Upcoming Events
As part of Guild Hall’s 2017 JDT Lab Series, a reading of Descent of the Dolls with Jeffery Conway, Gillian McCain, and David Trinidad will be held on Tuesday, September 12, 2017 at 7:30pm at Guild Hall, 158 Main Street, East Hampton, NY