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Giselle Minoli
Works at Christie's New York
Attended St. John's College, Santa Fe, New Mexico
Lives in New York City
37,680 followers|1,440,694 views


My favorite writer has died. I remember reading One Hundred Years of Solitude in a state of wonderment. It was pure joy to read one of his sentences, some of which marched on defiantly for pages. Marquez's exuberance of expression, his refusal to bow to any of the many rules so many would impose on writers - be brief, pare down, trim, don't decorate or embellish, be clear, make it easy, keep your characters to a minimum - felt like being let out of prison. Like flying. I could taste his words. Smell them. Feel them. Hear them. See the pictures they painted, the characters he described.

I thought, 'This is writing. It is cooking, painting, composing, gardening, architecting, weaving and sculpting all at once. It is the Big Bang. Except that you don't have to wait millions of years for the light to reach you. It is immediate. Visceral. Delicious. Unforgettable.

But it was Marquez's books about love that had the biggest impact on me. Love in the Time of Cholera, a story about an aging man's lifelong love for a woman who had rejected him when he was young, told of a kind of love rarely read (or written) about anymore. Romantic. Sentimental, oozing with joy, sorrow, pain...with, well, love!

And Memories of My Melancholy Whores, about another old man's late life yearnings, peeled away the sorrows, joys, pleasures and sadnesses of aging - the skin and body crumbling, but desire and imagination living until one's last breadth.

Marquez was called a Magic Realist. Yes. Like life. Real. And magical. It is not possible to write like he did without having had the capacity to live it fully.

How cruel that he had developed dementia. My mother had Alzheimer's and there were many times when I thought that she was simply living in her own world, one that I had been excluded from entirely.

Not so dissimilar from what it feels like to me to read Marquez. Lost within my own little world, a whirlwind of expression, free-flowing, emotional, imaginative, free-spirited and free-associative. A world of real magic.

Hard to believe there won't be another gem of a book from this brilliant man. I can only hope that wherever his soul has been spirited off to, that world is as magical as the one he has given us.

RIP Gabriel Garcia Marquez. 

#GabrielGarciaMarquez   #LoveIntheTimeofCholera   #OneHundredYearsofSolitude   #MemoriesofMyMelancholyWhores  
Mr. García Márquez, a Colombian who received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1982, wrote fiction rooted in a mythical Latin American landscape of his own creation.
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Hi, +Nancy H many of the questions you have asked are things I am addressing in various essays I am currently writing, as well as the subject(s) of a book I am working on. So you will forgive me if I answer them cursorily rather than in depth. (But you can always PM me....).

No, my mother was no my only major influence. She was but not in the way that is typically expected when one refers to a "major influence." I had the benefit of knowing many talented women (my mother's friends) when I was growing up, so there were several, most of them artists.

As for stability, I would say that I am not sure there really is any such thing. We strive for it, that's for sure, but often once we get it, it slips through our fingers and becomes something else. But I can say I never did anything in my life in order that it should be the opposite of my mother. Rather, I always strived to discover who I was.

Just to get back to the story of Gabriel Garcia-Marquez for a moment...while there were many writers he admired, he tried not to be like anyone else. He tried to find his own road and to commit to it. I can relate to that completely.

As for philosophy, I can speak to that more just seemed to me that everyone really needs to be one in order to get through life. That and a psychologist. Okay...and maybe know more than a little something about the law. I think life IS philosophical. In every conceivable way.

And what it adds to life is a life long love of asking questions, which many professions teach their practitioners not to do. Much of adult life is about professing to have all the answers all the time. Sort of stops growth, IMHO...and contributes in great part to control issues. Not life prolonging if you ask me.

As for philosophical sect that represents my life? None. Absolutely none. I'm more than a little anti-sect. More than a little anti-group thought. The history of philosophy itself is fascinating...watching all these great thinkers figure things out and ask questions era by era, century by century, culture by culture, country by country. But cleaving unto any one is sort of like being put in thought prison...

To get back to Garcia-Marquez...had he subscribed to (rather than created, really) a way of writing, he wouldn't have been the writer that he was. I think that artists, as opposed to philosophers, create anew. They are influenced by the past and by others, but the goal is always to create something new. So maybe I would say that while one has to be philosophical in life...approaching it from an artistic point of view is much more interesting to me.
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Dear Men of Google+:

I've been on G+ since the second week of its existence, and from the very beginning I've felt welcomed by men on this platform. This was eye-opening, because, as a writer of literary nonfiction, some of which explores social, cultural and political issues that affect the lives of women (in which I'm naturally interested given that my father died when I was young, and my mother became a working mom within 24 hours), I'd always been warned to stay away from anything on social media that could ignite the dreaded fear of feminism - you know, all that ooga booga booga about politics and religion at the dinner table.

Stay away, for instance, from raising the issue that it's 2014, but women still make, on average, only 77 cents for every dollar that a man earns.

But G+ is a long table at which interesting people talk about things that are important to them, and I have had the continual pleasure of meeting scores of men here who are just as concerned about and interested in issues that effect women as they are in issues that affect men...primarily, I assume, because they know that life cannot be harmonious, happy and healthy when major issues throw life out of serious balance for one of the two human genders walking Mother Earth.

These men have mothers, grandmothers, aunts, sisters and daughters about whom they care and their concern for their well being is evident when I post about how education, employment opportunities, healthcare, and religious and cultural beliefs that affect the women they love. Often the most interesting conversation comes from men who are concerned that women are still fighting for equality.

So...consider this my open letter to you men, some of whom are married to women in the work force, some of whom are fathers to daughters going through school and dreaming about what they want to be when they grow up, some of whom are brothers to women who have decided to take a risk and start their own businesses after years of working for someone else, some of whom may have been, like me, the child of a working mother and who watched her struggle to get a raise, who watched her have to pay higher interest rates for her mortgage, her car loan and her credit cards - because she was a credit risk - some of whom may witness on a day-to-day basis something that makes life less than equal for the women in your workplace.

You might be aware of a woman who is absolutely qualified for a promotion and she needs a champion. You could be that champion. You might be aware that a woman is not getting paid what she should be paid, and you could speak up on her behalf. You might work with a woman whose title does not befit her actual role, and you could help her shape her argument for one that does reflect her contribution. You may know a woman who could use a mentor in your organization. You could be that mentor.

When I was growing up I watched as my older brother was essentially surrounded by older male mentors, who brought him into their businesses, who mentored him, who coached him, who were there for him after our father died. This is often not the case for young women, because even though the work force is now growing with the talents of women, those women are still working in less skilled positions, rather than in high level management positions where they can act as mentors to emerging women.

I was captivated before the Winter Olympics by the story of Jessica Jerome, who told her father when she was in second grade that she wanted to be a ski jumper, and his initial reaction was that he didn't want his daughter getting hurt. But her ambition, her talent and her perseverance eventually won him over and her father, Peter, ultimately became her champion, spending ten years fighting for the right for women to compete as ski jumpers in the Olympics.

I was particularly interested in this story because Peter Jerome is a pilot for Delta, and aviation is yet another field where there are few women (only 6%). As a general aviation private pilot, every week I find myself asking, "Where are the women pilots?"

I don't blame Peter Jerome for not getting actively involved championing something that affects women until he was confronted with having to help his own daughter. I don't blame him because I think that Father/Son bond and mentorship is something that women have not had access to because not every mother works outside of the home, or wants to work outside of the home, and that is a choice I respect.

But...for the young woman who does need that mentorship, step out, won't you? And help us change the sad fact that in 2014 women still only make .77cents on each dollar that a man earns.

Think about what it would mean for the emotional and psychological health of boys and girls raised together if they knew their work "worth" were equally valued. If your daughters could dream as big as your sons. If the challenges that face your wives and daughters only relate to their willingness to roll up their sleeves and work hard, but not to some invisible ceiling above which they will never be allowed to climb, the stratosphere in which the pay is stellar.

Think about what our economy would be like if men and women worked toward the same goal of parity and mutual respect.

Think about the things that are hard to imagine: how such parity would affect peace, economic growth, our individual and collective physical health. Think about the businesses that would be created.

Think about what it would be like to live and work in a country where women and men make equal pay for equal work.

Think about the smiles on the faces of your wives. Think about how it will shift the conversations you will have with your daughters about their futures. Think about how it will shift virtually...everything!

For good order's sake, below is the link to the most recent article about this issue, which inspired this post:

Thanks so much for reading.


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+Eivind Eklund I appreciate your own very thoughtful response. Thank you. You know, one of the things that troubles me the most about this issues is the attempt (I am speaking generally, not about you particularly) to parse the difficulty of the discussion into one about statistics, figures and evolutionary behavior, none of which individual quite get at the matter, and the whole of which leaves out so many other things.

It is impossible, and I do mean impossible, to have a discussion about the evolutionary aspects of women perhaps using their beauty to effect relationships, without taking into consideration the hundreds of years of behavior encouraged by pre-existing financial circumstances.

I don't buy the argument because no one can be completely free to choose if, oddly, they have no choice. So, if a woman feels she has no choice, and perhaps no education, no experience, no support structure, no contacts, she may well rely on promoting herself in a particular way because that is what she has, sort of like playing poker.

While at the same time a woman with different circumstances may go down a different road - for instance if she is highly educated, has a supportive family with deep pockets, a wide and solid support structure and perhaps even entry into the business world (including a family business).

I do think one of the things that everyone agrees on is that it is a more difficult choice for women. For instance, I have NEVER met in my entire life one single man who feels, or who has felt or who would ever feel that at some point in his life he will have to chose between having a wife and a family and having a career. It is just isn't real.

While this is the dilemma that most women will face at one time in her life or another. And the financial consequences of her decision can sometimes be quite dire.

And I do not agree with an easy dismissal that women are making equal pay for equal work...because they aren't and simply because stats say most might be or some might be, I don't think that is an argument winner.

Way back in this thread, however, someone (or many someones) made the point that the core issue is opportunity and this is something I would like to go back to in my post...which is the focus on men (fathers, brothers, uncles, bosses, friends) paying attention to the issue and being mentors to the women in their lives. This +Eivind Eklund I think is the thing that will shift it internationally.

If everyone is striving for equality consciously...then it will be difficult to breed the circumstances that give rise to inequality, right? (This is true for so many things)...thank you for joining the discussion...
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I'd say that before Slomo, I became the typical, institutionalized, educated Western man. In other words, I was driving a BMW to work. I was working long hours, I was paying my taxes and doing everything by the standards of society and so on, just like everybody else in the work force. And, frankly, I intended to just work myself on into oblivion and get old and die. That was pretty much the scenario. But now, I experience myself like a tip of a great iceberg of consciousness.

Slomo (Slow Motion), the gentlemanly subject of the self same titled documentary by Josh Izenberg, used to be Dr. John Kitchin, a neurologist, who decided to give up his doctorly life in favor of moving and grooving through life to a decidedly non-medical tune.

How many professional men and women do I know who look down their noses at men and women who turn their backs on what is considered a respectable and traditional life in order to go off and do something most people would consider weird? Like spending their days roller blading on the boardwalk in California?

I have met boatloads of such men and women. And I always think that what is at the core of the downward nose gazing is a sort of jealousy. A wonder. A curiosity. A quizzical disbelief that any sane, intelligent, talented and successful person would ever want to get off the gerbil wheel and experience something, well....something else.

Something that can't be explained to anyone. Something that makes sense in a way that words can't necessarily express. Most human beings are born with a kind of innate wonder about the world. An endless supply of curiosity and a bottomless pit of magical thinking.

And then we go to school and we get socialized. And if we are very, very lucky we will have teachers who encourage us to remain in a state of curiosity and wonder and magical thinking throughout our lives. If we are not lucky we will be run roughshod over by those who make every waking moment of our days about practicality. And being sensible. And fitting in. And proving our worth. And running with the crowd. And belonging to the club. The right club. The accepted club. The club with people who dress like we do. And get their hair cut where we get our hair cut. And drive the same kinds of cars and live in the same neighborhoods and eat at the same restaurants.

And belong to the same political parties and read the same books and have the same value systems and everything is neat and tidy and predictable. Not wondrous at all. And hardly ever magical. And we wonder where the curiosity is.

For the large part it is a grinding affair...working a way, having a family, making the whole thing happen, and at the end of it most people are pretty worn out. They don’t believe in God, they don’t believe in anything beyond this ephemeral existence we are in and their attitudes are cynical. They are what we in America call assholes. And I was one of them. - Slomo, a/k/a Dr. John Kitchin

And then one day we meet a stranger, someone who hasn't bought into the zeitgeist of what a significant number of people think it means to really be alive, what it means to really be successful, what it really means to have made it. In the 60s these people used to be called flower children. In California they are often called surfers. In New York many of them sport fully body and practice Yoga.

Some of them are painters, artists, Jazz musicians, performance artists, poets. Some of them life on relatively little. Some are hungry. But if they came to their place in life by choice, they have a lightness of being about them...because they have decided that they are not going to go willingly from the Womb to the Tomb.

Instead, they are going to float and glide ecstatically through life. Like Slomo. 

*What we're going to do is let the music determine everything."

Yes, John...Slomo...we should all do what we want to do.

But somehow, not everyone can see how to get there. And is afraid of what they will discover when they do.

Watch, please. You'll be glad you did.

#Slomo   #JoshIzenberg    
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I totally agree with that,G.....
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I love a heartfelt apology, particularly when expressed as public regret by someone who became internationally famous by being stridently unapologetic. I'm writing, of course about David Brock. Yes, that, David Brock, who, over 20 years ago committed all of his energy to bringing down Bill Clinton (and therefore Hillary). Brock was the Poster Boy for the ultra conservative faction of Clinton haters that became known as The Vast Right Wing Conspiracy, which wasn't a conspiracy at all, but, rather, a real group of political nut jobs who managed, according to Brock, to brain wash a lot of people into becoming anti-Clintonites...and Brock was one of them.

Interesting things have happened since then. Brock and his posse wasn't able to dismantle the Clintons. No amount of money the Elephants threw at the Donkeys would succeed in getting them (the Donkeys) thrown out of the circus. And since the Times in-depth expose of what really happened in Benghazi points the finger at the lie-manufacturing machinery of the Republican party rather than at any complicity on Hillary's part, the conservatives are either hiding under the rug, or huddling and trying to figure out what to do next.

Meanwhile, back at Camp Brock, our man David has woken up. Gotten conscious. Figured it out. Decided not to have anything to do with the lie-mongering, hate mongering anti-Clinton campaign. Made amends. Switched teams. What, you ask? Switched teams? Really? YES! Switched teams. The once conservative David Brock is now actively campaigning for The Hill.

Never mind that The Hill has not yet announced that she's running for POTUS (but she will, don't you worry), Brock has decided to completely retool his political stance by publicly apologizing for having been such a bozo:

In the early and mid-’90s, I was on a mission to try and bring the Clintons down, essentially, and now I’m coming back 15 years later with a very different perspective — not only as somebody who’s supportive but somebody who is actually doing some work in relation to her potential presidential candidacy,” Mr. Brock said. well as go public to set the record straight:

In October, he published an e-book called “The Benghazi Hoax,” which defends Mrs. Clinton’s handling of the attack. And through his media appearances and behind-the-scenes interactions with reporters, he helped discredit an Oct. 27 report on CBS’s “60 Minutes” that led to the network’s apology and the journalist Lara Logan’s leave of absence.

Ah, Yes, the many benefits of turning 51. It is a magical age during which one can wake up or go back to sleep. Apparently Brock has a conscience, something none of us would have thought he had 20 years ago.

But in addition to the many good fortunes that having an older, more experienced and wiser brain brings to life, there could be something else going on, and I expect it has something to do with a kind of cultural waking up. We're in a tough spot, culturally, politically...socially. People all over the world are struggling - The Ukraine, Egypt, Syria, Israel, the Sudan - with huge issues that are almost unfathomable to us here in the United States. Our President isn't poisoning our citizens. We are not being shot in the streets. Our government isn't using chemical weapons on us. We are, whether many people want to admit it or not, so much better off than many of our friends who live in countries we care about around the world.

The United States needs to be a compassionate and caring global citizen. We need to try to help and protect beleaguered and repressed peoples. We need to remain a Democracy that is able to help others. But how can we do that if our political parties do not care about serious issues at home...issues that go beyond lowering taxes? 

Brock's break with the conservative party represents a kind of waking up. I imagine him lying in bed at night, thinking about how fragile and unpredictable life is (James Gandolfini died at 51, Tim Russertt at 59) and wondering..."What is to be my legacy? What do I believe in? What do I want people to say about me should I die tomorrow, next week, next month, next year? That I don't believe in social programs for children? That I think women should not have the freedom of choice over their own bodies? That I don't support love, affection and commitment between gay, lesbian and transgendered couples? That I think it's OK for anyone to be able to by a gun and wipe out dozens of people in a movie theatre, a high school, an elementary school...because my right to own a gun is more precious than a child's right to live without fear of being gunned down? That I don't believe in scientific research? That I don't believe it's important to figure out how every child gets a decent education? That I don't think how we treat our elders matters? That treating illnesses is a matter of The Greater Good rather than a matter of finance solely? That I don't think women should be protected from abuse and harm? That all I care about is lowering taxes for wealthy people? That I hate ObamaCare and think it's inconsequential to so many millions of people don't have access to medical care in such a great country? That I really don't believe all this wacky weather is a part of Global Warming? That I don't think we need to protect Mother Earth? That I don't think we need to protect our citizens from nefarious businesses? That I believe (as Mittens does) that 47% of Americans are takers?"

I can imagine David Brock lying in his comfy bed late and night and asking himself what he wants to be when he grows up. And I can imagine him saying that he wants no part of hate-mongering and lying and false accusations. That he actually wants to do something important. Like help people. Instead of hurt them.

Good for you David Brock. It's hard to apologize. And there will be those who will accuse you of having a hidden agenda and only campaigning for The Hill so you can keep your name in the press. Do we care? No.

I do so love a good apology. It's so much more civilized than lying. Besides, isn't this new turn of events going to be fun? Grab the's going to be quite entertaining between now and 2016.

#HillaryClinton   #DavidBrock   #Benghazi   #VastRightWingConspiracy  
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+Giselle Minoli, Forgiveness is the ultimate gift of love and asking for forgiveness is the consummate definition of humility.  There is nothing sweeter than a sincere apology, something our society sincerely lacks.  Nice post! - Jill
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'Twould appear this Sunday morning that March is wrestling with whether to remain a Lion, or to become a Lamb. Perhaps there is a little Lamb in the Lion, and a bit of Lion in the Lamb? Storm within calm? Calm within storm?

Public within private, private within public. The visible within the invisible. The invisible within the visible. Silence within sound. Sound within silence. The known within the unknown. The unknown within the known.

These past few years on G+ in which HangOuts have become "the thing," I'm all too aware that I am not good at hanging out. If someone were to call me up and ask me if I wanted to hang out, chances are I'd say I have something else to do.

But ask me to go for a walk in a botanical garden? Yes! Ask me to join you for a long chat over dinner? Yes! Ask me to be your safety pilot? Yes! Ask me to join you at the ballet? Yes! I will do most anything to get to know someone with whom I feel a connection - except a video hangout. All those years as an actor, when what I looked like - my "type," my "age," my "casting potential," wearied me of the physical word when it comes to communicating, and beckoned me back to the world of words and music and art, and sound...and voices.

I love voices...people's voices, the voices of birds, animals, the voices of nature - the wind and the sea. If we listen carefully to them, we can hear within those voices so much that we would miss if we just used our eyes.

In instrument flight training, you spend a lot of time under a hood or foggles, so that you cannot see the horizon, the sky, the ground. You have no sense of where you really are. You can only see the instrument panel and have to train yourself to scan listen carefully. Take sight away and another sensory world opens up for exploration.

+James Barraford and +Randy Resnick invited me to "sit down for a chat" with them on their PodCast show called Leave the Bottle. I wanted to do it as audio...because I like the sound of human voices.

On Friday morning, long before the sun came up (6:45), I sat down and talked with these two men, both of whom I've known for a long time on G+. They always seem to show up when I post something socially or politically provocative. We've been sharing words online for a while now, so it seemed time to listen to one another's voices.

The material within the mystery. The mystery within the material...

Because behind every face, there is a voice that is, IMHO, far more important than the face.

P.P.S. The article about the "older brain" about which I speak in the PodCast is titled The Older Mind May Just Be A Fuller Mind, from the New York Times:

The book by Dr. Mark Epstein to which I refer is called *Going to Pieces Without Falling Apart." His prior book, which is how I came to know about him, is titled: *Thoughts Without a Thinker." His most recent books is "The Trauma of Every Day LIfe" I recommend his books to everyone. His website is:

The transgendered artist couple, Rhys Ernst and Zackary Drucker, to whose exhibition exploring the realm of "relationsihps" that I refer, can be read about here:

A taste of Mali Music, to which I refer, can be heard on YouTube here: Mali Music - Beautiful. The official web site is

#LeavetheBottle   #MaliMusic   #RhysErnstZackaryDrucker   #DrMarkEpstein   #JournalforSocialEraKnowledge  
We all know +Giselle Minoli is brilliant within G+ threads. Now you can listen to Giselle as she joined myself and  +Randy Resnick this morning discussing gender issues on the latest podcast of +Leave the Bottle .

+Meg Tufano 
Leave the Bottle
Episode 011: Once Is Not Enough
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It is really wonderful to hear your voice +Giselle Minoli , thanks +James Barraford  for this...
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It's Spring. Finally. I don't remember a time in my life when I have not been viscerally affected by nature. Everything changes within me. A particular kind of joy is woken up. Details are more detailed. Colors are more colorful. I can feel on my skin the difference between 'wind,' 'breeze,' 'gust' and 'gale,' oh so much more personally than trying to describe them with words. 

I am instantly lonely when the sun starts to go down, as though I am saying goodbye to a friend I will never again see. I become giddy about a pending sunrise, as though I have never before seen one and I have just regained my eyesight after a long period of mysterious blindness.

I can watch a caterpillar make its way across the patio for an hour and think I have spent my time quite wisely.

I will try to predict in which direction the gloriously orange Cardinal that sings in the apple tree will next take flight.

I will wonder if the bumblebee that hovers near my open door - so that pungently sweet aroma of cow manure can fill my nostrils with another kind of Spring reality - will come inside to its eventual death, or if it will opt to prolong the freedom it already has.

I think about Gift From The Sea, Anne Morrow Lindbergh's paean to women and nature and love and life.

The shell in my hand is deserted. It once housed a whelk, a snail-like creature, and then temporarily, after the death of the first occupant, a little hermit crab, who has run away, leaving his tracks behind him like a delicate vine on the sand. He ran away, and left me his shell. It was once a protection to him. I turn the shell in my hand, gazing into the wide open door from which he made his exit.

I think about the opening words of Spring and Fall, a poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins that I fell in love with in college.

MÁRGARÉT, áre you gríeving 
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leáves, líke the things of man, you 
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Áh! ás the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you wíll weep and know why 
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sórrow’s spríngs áre the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It ís the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for

I think about a verse from When One Has Lived a Long Time Alone, a poem by Galway Kinnell.

When one has lived a long time alone,
one can fall to poring upon a creature,
contrasting its eternity's-face to one's own
full of hours, taking note of each difference,
exaggerating it, making it everything,
until the other is utterly other, and then,
with hard effort, possibly with tongue sticking out,
going back over each one once again
and cancelling it, seeing nothing now
but likeness, until . . . half an hour later
one starts awake, taken aback at how eagerly
one swoons into the happiness of kinship,
when one has lived a long time alone.

I think about Walt Whitman, and To the Sunset Breeze in his Leaves of Grass.

Ah, whispering, something again, unseen
Where late this heated day thou enterest at my window, door,
Thou, laving, tempering all, cool-freshing, gently vitalizing
Me, old, alone, sick, weak-down, melted-worn with sweat;
Thou, nestling, folding close and firm yet soft,
companion better than talk, book, art,
(Thou hast, O Nature! elements! utterance to my heart beyond the rest - and this is of them,)
So sweet thy primitive taste to breathe within - thy soothing fingers on my face and hands...

If I am lucky, I will get to stay for a day. If I cannot, perhaps my memory will do me the kindness of recording the splendor of how I feel, so that when I awake at night, or walk down the streets of New York City in the howling traffic, that, too, will feel and sound and look like nature to me.

Because, in fact, everything is a kind of nature in the end. Isn't it?

Have a lovely weekend, everyone.


Spring and Fall: to a young girl, by Gerard Manley Hopkins:

When One Has Lived a Long Time Alone, by Galway Kinnell:

Gift From the Sea, Anne Morrow Lindbergh:

Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

#Poetry   #WaltWhitman   #GerardManleyHopkins   #AnneMorrowLindbergh   #GalwayKinnell   #Spring  
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Thank you +Deborah L Gabriel and +grace jolliffe. How did I miss these last comments? Too much time outside with the birds I think. Waiting for the first Hummingbird. That to me is always a notable event. It's like being visited by a fairy! Or a spirit from beyond. It always bodes wells, the appearance of a Hummingbird...
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Titstare is an app where you take photos of yourself staring at tits, Mr. (David) Boulton began, as photographs of women’s chests on a cellphone flashed on the screen behind him. After some banter, Mr. (Jethro) Batts concluded, This is the breast hack ever.

I always feel a little strange when I read about some new toy, or game, or app featuring women's body parts that has been thunk up by fellas to entertain themselves. It's not that I don't get it. After all I did grow up with an older brother and, yep, Playboy was there right alongside National Geographic, which seems oddly animalistic and appropriate if you want to justify it in some sort of twisted way. You appreciation of all that nature and stuff.

Most boys go through the I think I'll hide the Playboys under my bed where no one will ever find them stage of life. This, as we all know, gets very tiring and sooner or later they just haul them out and leave them, well, everywhere, frankly, most particularly and peculiarly and predictably in the bathroom for their sisters and mothers to wonder about and ponder when they're blow drying their hair.

There is a brand new TV show (a comedy, of course) called Surviving Jack, which is actually quite funny. How appropriate was it, though, that the pilot episode considered the fact that Jack's (Yes, teenaged) son, had stolen a bunch of Playboys and buried them (Yes, buried them) in the backyard and was digging them out at night in his tight whites (Yes, you read that right) and was caught by his father, (the afore-mentioned Jack) who sat his son down and told him words to the effect of, "You will never go to bed with a woman who looks like that in your life," to which his son said, "Yes, I will," to which Jack replied, "No, you won't," adding, "And real women don't screw like that in real life," to which his son said, "Yes, they do," to which Jack replied, "No. They. Don't."

Most women tolerate the inanity of it all (we have our own fantasies fellas, one of which is that our boyfriends or significant others actually think about us from time-to-time and not pictures of some other babe's anatomy) and figure that it's just something we have to put up with, like plastic water bottles on top of Mount Everest or something.

Besides, if we ever do open our mouths about how, What? Disgusting? Stupid? Childish? Boring? Meat-headed? it all is, we are likely to be called an 8 letter word starting with an 'F' and ending with a 'T.' Better to let boys be boys, yawn, and walk away.

Then along came computers, and our beloved internet and our even more beloved favorite apps and the possibility that every girl's brother and every mother's son and every woman's husband or business parter or cubicle mate gets to remain a Peter Pan becomes a distinct, and less than humorous, reality.

Enter, to take full advantage of modern technology, one young David Boulton and one young Jethro Batts and their adorable app called Titstare, which allows you fellas to take selfies of yourselves (?) staring at, What? Boobs? Yes. Boobs.

As I said, it's not that I don't get it. How could I not? I mean, we're talking about an essential freedom, aren't we? And freedom, as you know, is my favorite thing to write about. Actually, we're talking about several freedoms...the freedom to read, enjoy and look at whatever you want to read, enjoy and look at. The freedom to fashion a business and create your fortune in whatever way you please (let's not include gun-running, drug dealing, war-mongering, enslaving women, stealing and other assorted dangerous businesses, okay?).

No, we're talking about innocent pictures of yourself staring innocently at nature. No harm done, right? Make a buck...or billions. Have a few yucks. Have Thanksgiving with the family when Dad, Grand Dad, and assorted uncles, brothers, nephews and boys cousins are all slappin' ya on the back and all, sayin' Way to Go with the most excellent bizness Concept Bro! When's the IPO? I'm in! Awesome Dude!

The thing is, I can't help but wonder, within all the freedom to do as we please, make a buck as we please and, well, just to let it all hang out all the time, what the reaction would be if women techies were spending their time inventing apps so that they could take pictures of themselves staring at a man's package.

'Oh, come on! They would never do that. Don't be absurd!'

'They, wouldn't? Why do you say that?'

''Cause women don't do stuff like that. They have better stuff to do.'

'They don't? Why not?'

'Duh! 'Cause they're women! Jeez...'

'Ah, come on. We women can give as good as we get. Fantasize with me for a moment, will you?'

Imagine that same Thanksgiving dinner, except this time the family's star daughter, an engineer and technology wizard from Stanford, unveils her new app that allows women to go junk-shopping in the privacy of their own homes (or at their desks, in the subway, stopped at the stoplight, walking down the street, on the elliptical, or secretly under the table when having dinner with their fellas, or, basically, just whenever they feel like it, no matter the company they are in, including their bosses office when they say, "Excuse me...gotta answer this text..."), her Mom and Dad beaming with pride, the subsequent mass email to the relatives announcing there'd been a VC bidding war to fund Sis's app (let's call it JunkStare, shall we?), Dad going to the office next day and telling everyone about it, and then the whole family on 60 Minutes talking about how egalitarian the world has become, and that, you know, what's good for the gander is good for the goose, and we're sooooooooo proud of our daughter, and isn't it all just grand?

Sunny day here. Going flying.


#Titstare   #WomenInTechnology  
Crude apps, patronizing behavior. For some, “bro” culture offers one explanation for why there are so few women in tech.
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Laughter is probably the single most important thing that has kept me somewhat sane +Giselle Minoli , so thank you and keep on posting!
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Giselle Minoli

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Why can't a woman be more like a man?
Why can't a woman take after a man?
Why can't a woman behave like a man?... 

...bellows Henry Higgins in My Fair Lady, my favorite musical from my childhood. I memorized every word...because it was, of course, absurd! And we knew Eliza would end up wrapping Henry 'round her 'lil finger in the end (But don't tell Henry...).

But My Fair Lady was a musical, in which Rex Harrison as Henry was a genius. Audrey Hepburn as Eliza was incomparable, and Wilfred Hyde-White as Colonel Pickering was Higgins' perfect foil...and his conscience, I might add.

My Fair Lady was based on George Bernard Shaw's Pygmalion (Shaw was a feminist, but I digress...), so it could hardly have been anything other than brilliant, particularly with with Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Lowe writing the lyrics and composing the music.

In this classic tale about rich and poor, the educated and the uneducated, manners and boorishness...and supposed differences between men and women, Henry Higgins and Colonel Pickering wax on forever, interminably really. They never stop talking or tire of the sound of their own voices, and we love them for it.

So why does it seem that men are always suggesting that everything be brief...when they themselves are anything but brief? Is it because they have short attention spans? Or speak only one language, a language they therefore require everyone else to speak? Or is it because they don't have time, or don't want to spend the time? Clever isn't it, devising a maxim to accommodate one's personal habits?

Neither Higgins nor Pickering would have paid any attention to Danny Heitman's advice to Keep it Short and keep it brief:

...writing is a kind of talk, a discourse that must eventually answer to the clock. In writing, brevity works not only as a function of space on a page, but the time that an audience is willing to spend with you. Even if the Internet has made infinite texts possible, the reader’s attention is not without end. - Danny Heitman, the NY Times

Well, now. Heitman takes his cue from the clever, articulate and witty E.B. White, who wrote one of my favorite books, Here is New York, an essay on the magic, charms, horrors, highlights and outright improbability of New York City, circa 1949. (Note: any book about New York is likely to be on my hit list, but I digress again...)

However, Heitman got it way wrong when he used White as "proof" that a writer should always strive for brevity, for White, by his own admission, was not fond of reading! Therefore he would hardly have been prone to encourage writers to explore shall I say it...elongated sentence style of a writer like Gabriel Garcia Marquez, for instance.

I was never a voracious reader and, in fact, have done little reading in my life. There are too many other things I would rather do than read….It is a matter of some embarrassment to me that I have never read Joyce and a dozen other writers who have changed the face of literature. But there you are. I picked up Ulysses the other evening, when my eye lit on it, and gave it a go. I stayed with it only for about twenty minutes, then was off and away. It takes more than a genius to keep me reading a book. - E.B. White

So there you have it. You can safely ignore Danny Heitman. And instead of worrying about the length of a sentence or paragraph or poem or song or essay that you are writing, you might concentrate instead on being true to your own voice, spoken or written. Or whether it might be time to expand your color palette, or musical range, or whether you might like to branch out from ballet to break-dancing. Or whether you might like one sentence to be short, the next long, the next filled with every adjective and adverb in your repertoire, and the next missing, perhaps, any apparent verb! Horrors!

I wonder if Heitman reads poetry. Or Shakespeare. Or goes to the theatre. Or museums. Or sings. Or dances. Or takes long walks. Or plays a musical instrument. Or paints. Or daydreams. Or does anything creative. Or sits down to dinner with friends and chats for hours.

Or makes love for more than two minutes...

...without a timer next to his bed...

....but I digress, yet again...


Why Can't a Woman Be More Like a Man?
(music by Frederick Loewe; lyrics by Alan Jay Lerner)

Why can't a woman be more like a man?
Men are so honest, so thoroughly square;
Eternally noble, historically fair.
Who, when you win, will always give your back a pat.
Why can't a woman be like that?
Why does every one do what the others do?
Can't a woman learn to use her head?
Why do they do everything their mothers do?
Why don't they grow up, well, like their father instead?

Why can't a woman take after a man?
Men are so pleasant, so easy to please.
Whenever you're with them, you're always at ease.

Would you be slighted if I didn't speak for hours?

Of course not.

Would you be livid if I had a drink or two?


Would you be wounded if I never sent you flowers?


Well, why can't a woman be like you?

One man in a million may shout a bit.
Now and then, there's one with slight defects.
One perhaps whose truthfulness you doubt a bit,
But by and large we are a marvelous sex!

Why can't a woman take after a man?
'Cause men are so friendly, good-natured and kind.
A better companion you never will find.

If I were hours late for dinner would you bellow?

Of course not.

If I forgot your silly birthday, would you fuss?


Would you complain if I took out another fellow?


Why can't a woman be like us?


Why can't a woman be more like a man?
Men are so decent, such regular chaps;
Ready to help you through any mishaps;
Ready to buck you up whenever you're glum.
Why can't a woman be a chum?

Why is thinking something women never do?
And why is logic never even tried?
Straightening up their hair is all they ever do.
Why don't they straighten up the mess that's inside?

Why can't a woman behave like a man?
If I was a woman who'd been to a ball,
Been hailed as a princess by one and by all;
Would I start weeping like a bathtub overflowing,
Or carry on as if my home were in a tree?
Would I run off and never tell me where I'm going?
Why can't a woman be like me?

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+Roger Voss Thanks for the link to your friend Jim Elvidge's article. I didn't answer the Paranormal question only because it's so far off the topic of this particular posts. But if you post something about the paranormal on your on post, Ping me...and I will be happy to comment there!
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Giselle Minoli

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Perhaps that’s why we see so much vitriol online, so many anonymous, bitter comments, so many imprudent tweets and messy posts. Because creating them is less cathartic, you feel the need to do it more often. When your emotions never quite cool, they keep coming out in other ways.

Actually, I think the real reason we see so much vitriol online is two-fold: 1) Anger is the easiest emotion to access, and 2) Its sudden appearance in a convo very often succeeds in sending all but the equally (or competitively) angry heading for the hills.

Uncontrolled anger is not only easy to come by, it is cheap, flimsy and rarely constructive. What a difference between a blast of hot air from a vexed reader, seemingly unwilling to dig deep into their own unexplored reserves of self-expression for bon mots more powerful than, "You are a pompous pea-brain," or, "You are a bloated baboon," (although at this moment both have their appeal and I can think of many persons to whom each applies...), and a reader who has the presence of mind, skill and patience to float out the elegant, simple and effective, "This angers me."

In the world of the Thee-Ah-Tah, doncha know, actors are taught to mine their anger first, to get it out of the way, all the better to peel away the truly complex layers of the emotional onion, revealing ever richer sensibilities and feelings - skepticism, doubt, dismay, revulsion, sorrow, consternation, woe, regret, fear, depression, annoyance, shame, bewilderment, ambivalence, passivity, ennui, shock, fury, terror, torment, cynicism, dejection, misery, to name but a few possible emotions hidden by the all powerful and lofty 'anger' mode.

True enough, one might in the end venture back into the territory of outright rage having thoroughly explored all of the above, but it will be a colorful rage, a well-expressed rage, a nuanced rage, a well-thought out and examined rage, rather than a slipshod, hasty and fast food variety of anger better suited to the school yard than the round table.

But here we come to the real truth behind so much vitriol online and, dare I say, in real life - filtering through one's anger to the meat of the matter turned out onto a plate of well-chosen words that continues, rather than stops, the conversation takes time and effort, something that anger slingers, well, don't make time for or spend any effort at.

Bullies are boring.
Hit and run drivers are cowards.
Fast food gives an immediate sugar rush, then hunger sets in.

I remember a fellow joining one of my threads within the first few months of G+. He waxed on about how his hopes for G+ were that the medium would allow people to be truly "honest" with one another, you know, no holds barred, like the Thrilla in Manila fight between Ali and Frazier, the sort of verbal boxing match that leaves people bloodied, toothless and humiliated in front of millions of public posters, the sort of aggressive repartee in which someone wins and someone loses. I remember telling him to knock himself out (no pun intended) if he couldn't figure out a better way to communicate. Never heard from him again.

Do I wish Truman had leveled Joseph McCarthy publicly? Yes. McCarthy was a blight on our country and he gleefully destroyed the lives of many, many people. But leveling anger at someone in a position of authority with the power to cause harm is decidedly different than being an angry blunderhead online.

Perhaps I feel this way because there are so few Mark Twains and Christopher Hitchens anymore, those extraordinarily well educated and articulate persons who were unparalleled in their ability to whip up a well-worded froth.

In their absence, I'll settle for some online civility, which has all the signs of becoming a Lost Art itself.
Anne Hole's profile photoScott GrantSmith's profile photofan tai's profile photoGideon Rosenblatt's profile photo
Interesting ! Cooking similar to writing!!
Writing is abstract..I never thought about that!
I must be at 7h 30 at school tomorrow, Iust sleep. But tomorrow I'll send you the name and the numbers of the interviews .
I choose to read mainly women. I read Louise Erdrich interview , for instance.
I wish you a good day!
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The sun has kissed the morning
I kissed my husband goodbye
I could kiss the sky
The mourning doves kiss on the tree outside my window
Do you remember your first kiss?
Would you kiss a stranger?

You must remember this 
A kiss is just a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh 
The fundamental things apply 
As time goes by 
And when two lovers woo 
They still say, "I love you"
On that you can rely 
No matter what the future brings 
As time goes by
Moonlight and love songs 
Never out of date 
Hearts full of passion 
Jealousy and hate 
Woman needs man 
And man must have his mate 
That no one can deny 
It's still the same old story 
A fight for love and glory 
A case of do or die 
The world will always welcome lovers 
As time goes by

Moonlight and love songs 
Never out of date 
Hearts full of passion 
Jealousy and hate
Woman needs man 
And man must have his mate 
That no one can deny 
It's still the same old story 
A fight for love and glory 
A case of do or die 
The world will always welcome lovers 
As time goes by

As Time Goes By (A Kiss Is Just A Kiss)
By Louis Armstrong

#FirstKiss   #TatiaPilieva  
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lembro ainda... saudades dela...
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Have her in circles
37,680 people
Cultural, political and social essayist. Fine jewelry designer. Private pilot.
  • Christie's New York
    Senior Writer/Chairman's Office, present
  • Synaptiq+ Journal for Social Era Knowledge
    Editor-at-Large, present
  • Giselle Minoli
    Writer, present
  • Giselle Minoli
    Fine Jewelry Designer
  • Christie's New York
    VP, Senior Business Development Liaison/Writer, 1990 - 2012
  • Actor/Theatre Director
    New York City
  • CBS Records, New York
    National Director, Customer Merchandising
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New York City
San Francisco, California - Santa Fe, New Mexico - Albuquerque, New Mexico
Contact Information
I write literary nonfiction.
I'm a writer, but since I graduated from St. John's College, where I studied the Classics, I've had several careers, each of them related to the arts. Strangely, my education in Philosophy underscored my need to to be involved in the creative arts, so I headed to San Francisco, which had a thriving experimental cultural scene.

Dance, then music, then theatre, then art (and always books) have been in my life for as long as I can remember, and the signs were everywhere that these needs would turn out to be lifelong ones. At St. John's the Lower Commons dorms were named after the nine Muses representing the arts (mostly), literature and science. I lived in Euterpe, a dorm named after the Muse of Music (or Lyric Poetry), so it isn't surprising that shortly after arriving in San Francisco I landed a job at CBS Records.

I loved it, won a lot of awards, was promoted to National Director of Customer Merchandising and headed to New York City, where I had dreamed of living since I first visited when I was 14. Everything opened up for me in this magical city, where every day there is another poetry or literature reading, or documentary film to see, or gallery opening or museum exhibition.

Music lead to acting, which led to directing for a fledging theatre company, which led to designing fine jewelry (a story in itself), which led to becoming a writer in the art world, the entire combined history and mystery of which led to my current life, rooted in the arts of storytelling, conversation, communication and performance.

And, yes, I'm a private pilot, saddened by the slow disappearance of general aviation in the US, the low number of women pilots, and the almost complete lack of wonder anymore at what is still the magic of flight. As cell phones, iPads and TV clamor for our attention, we have come to rather yawn and shrug at the sudden appearance of a small plane against a blue sky. Orville and Wilbur who?

But flying is an art - dancing in the skies, painting invisible pictures in the ether, making music with the wind. Air architecture. Wind poetry. Bird imitation.Yes, magic.

I'm writing a book about many things, one of which is Italy, where I go whenever I can. I will never get enough of the Italian landscape, the cobblestone streets, the art, the music, the food, the wine, and that gloriously melodious language (I wrote my thesis on Dante, the ultimate storyteller), and watching Italians strolling through their piazzas and streets after dinner, arm-in-arm, always kissing one another, and talking, talking, talking. 

For years I apologized about having so many interests, so many passions. American children are taught at a very young age to focus their energies on just one thing, but life is too short and too interesting to focus on just one thing, so I no longer apologize.

The disciplines of my life converge on I'm grateful to the talented Ron Louie of Opto Design for creating such a nice place for me to publish my own essays.

From time-to-time I write for StepMom Magazine about my experiences as a stepmother to my husband's three adult children: Climbing the Steps: Conversations With My Stepson About Life, Love and Loss, which is about my relationship with my stepson, and On Birthdays and Black Nail Polish, which is about my relationship with my youngest stepdaughter.

Bragging rights
Not something to brag about, but something I'm proud of - being one of approximately 16,500 female private pilots in the US, out of more than 200,000 total. The rest are men.
  • St. John's College, Santa Fe, New Mexico
  • L'Universita per Stranieri, Siena, Italy
  • Parliamo Italiano, New York City
  • The New York State Writer's Institute
    Literary NonFiction
  • Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism
    Social Media Course
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