David Bowie: A Mortal With Potential of a Superman

Here’s my personal essay/eulogy on David Bowie which was just published on Huffington Post. He affected everyone differently. This was my take…

David Bowie

Some fairly monolithic statements have been made about David Bowie’s passing: ‘It’s like this generation’s version of losing John Lennon,’ and ‘An avatar has died.’

Ultimately, the Brixton-born musical artist said it best in the spiritually and culturally evocative, ‘Quicksand’:

“I’m not a prophet or a stone age man, just a mortal with potential of a superman.”

Beyond the fanfare, tributes and news specials, he was just a successful, talented man, with a family, who lived a full, rich life. So why then did his passing affect people so personally and viscerally? Footage of fans sobbing and laying flowers in front of memorials is perhaps de rigueur when an international music star dies.

But I don’t cry over strangers’ deaths — as sad the circumstances around some may be. A Los Angeles native (over)exposed to the entertainment world, up close and personal, I don’t gush over celebrities either. Yet, I cried, alone in my room — just like when I was a teenager — when I heard David Bowie had died.

The obvious encyclopedic explanation for the public’s outpouring of emotion for this man is that the master appropriator — whose borrowed cultural and musical acquisitions were quite simply better with his touch — had an influence that spanned generations and crossed boundaries and ‘scenes.’

Some Bowie music-heads were religious sycophants at the altar of his early more avant garde work; others revered him as Bowie the pop star-turned-fashion icon who slickly, stylishly made his way into mainstream culture, and married the model Iman. The original LA punks, who I spent my teen years around, adored him; but so did the Studio 54 disco freaks, and later the house DJs. Cut to the changing slideshow-like GIF of Bowie’s different ‘looks’ (from Thin White Duke to Ziggy) made by one avid aesthetically inclined fan.

I suspect that it’s something far more intimate than his catalogue of cool looks which got deeply under the skin of the public — but I can only intuit this from my personal experience. Bowie’s death means two Yin-Yang opposite things for me: 1. the death of the dream and the dreamer and 2. a wake-up call for how I want to live my life.

If I want to open up a can of ‘high school’ — replete with all of its agonizing self-consciousness, introspectiveness, and over-the-top dreams, I can step through the time portals that are Hunky Dory and Aladdin Sane. I can fully re-immerse myself in a period when I was in a relationship with a much older touring punk musician in LA — my bitterly painful first love who broke my heart just about every week.

I’m taken back to a time when I was crossing off the days until he returned from a two-month tour of Europe or North America, or wherever. But I wasn’t alone in his absence — Bowie was with me. Instead of joining me on my journey, he whisked me away into his world, with apropos tunes like ‘Time.’

‘Time – he flexes like a whore
Falls wanking to the floor
His trick is you and me, boy’

Those were the days before constant wi-fi. Listening to an album was a spiritual experience to be relished in the moment — not another distraction, or background music on one’s laptop courtesy of YouTube. This was when — thanks to the lack of technological intrusions — experience was pure and concentrated.

That type of unwavering presence and focus, I believe, acts as a perfect time portal. I can still hear every instrument in my head, every lyric uttered, particularly the whispering count-in to ‘Queen Bitch.’ ‘Oh You Pretty Things’ played out as a pageant of my girl friends and I — in our school uniforms — heading to band practices to hear (in retrospect) lecherous men play punk music, as we tempted them with our immodest innocence.

Even years later, well into adulthood, Bowie’s music somehow managed to evoke a kinesthetic sense of place — yet a place out of time. I closed my eyes and saw him singing in front of me in outrageous glam attire — a non-conformist maestro, a psychedelic guide. During one particularly hard day, it seemed as if he was singing right into my soul:

Oh no love, you’re not alone
You’re watching yourself but you’re too unfair
You got your head all tangled up but if i could only
Make you care
Oh no love, you’re not alone
No matter what or who you’ve been
No matter when or where you’ve seen
All the knives seem to lacerate your brain
I’ve had my share, I’ll help you with the pain
You’re not alone

If my imagination was feeling particularly rusty I could always count on Bowie to polish it up. A pan-sexual muse, he kept the proverbial dream alive. His music invited you down a rabbit hole and you could forget for a moment that you were this age, living in this time, had to pay bills or lived in a world of meaningless constant consumption. Bowie’s music brought you face to face with your own creativity.

And so I wonder — in this epoch of more information and ‘communication’ than we could all possibly need — if Bowie’s passing didn’t, at least for some, feel like the death of the dream… the demise of pure art and creativity untainted by commerce. It’s not to say that his music wasn’t sold as a commercial product — that’s the way of the industry — but for that ten bucks or whatever, that you paid to buy a Bowie album, you got something immeasurably more valuable.

Perhaps the dream isn’t dead. It just feels like it in the early stages of a Bowie-less world. The dreamer is of course gone — the man who excavated every archetype there was to explore, and in sharing those universal truths with the world, fulfilled his destiny.

Tomorrow, the wake-up call begins. If there’s one thing I can take from Bowie’s life it’s that he expressed himself fully and skirted the boundaries of his spirit through art — a side-effect of which was being famous. It gives me peace of mind to know that he did this and that we all can too, as ‘mortals with potential of supermen.’


Neville Goddard Mini-Bio

Not much is known about 20th century new thought leader Neville Goddard. The unlikely metaphysician espoused a blend of what is now commonly dubbed ‘law of attraction,’ and bible scripture peppered with a kabbalistic influence. Today, a modest movement of people still follow his teachings which have been made available for free on the Neville Goddard Free Lectures site — although it’s nothing like the following of a Deepak, for example. In any case, what little biographical information I found on this fascinating man, I cobbled together in a mini-bio video — which I produced and narrated for my own enjoyment and for educational purposes. I don’t expect it to reach masses of viewers but one fellow in Bombay (Mumbai) India already reached out to express his support and pleasure after having viewed it and that’s worth more to me than 50,000 half-interested views. So without further ado…

Quantum Creativity

Quantum Creativity by Amit GoswamiIt’s been so long since I’ve actually finished a book (other than legal texts — a side effect of studying law). Something always seems to come up to distract me. I change my mind about a given subject and rapt attention quickly turns to fiddling distraction.Rare is the tome that can capture my imagination and attention all the way through and actually leave me wanting more.

Quantum Creativity by quantum physicist Amit Goswami is one such book. Quite simply, it’s my new bible for living. When I turned the last page I felt a sense of doom — it was over! I wanted the book’s contents to continue weaving through my life — reminding me that despite all algorithmic external Information Age appearances, life is an astoundingly creative, spontaneous, beautiful human thing, if you allow it to be.

Goswami discusses the seemingly disparate topics of Eastern spirituality, Jungian archetypes, quantum physics, creativity, science, art and poetry, leaving the reader with the Aha moments to which he refers throughout. Creativity is often associated with ‘creative people’ — filmmakers, painters, writers, musicians — but here, the author dispels that myth, maintaining that creativity is everyone’s God-given right (and mandate, if we’re actually awake and listening).

If one takes pop culture as a cue (or at the very least as a symptom of revolutions in the human spirit), humans are very interested in how to maximize their self-mastery right now. Take the film and subsequent TV show Limitless as one example; the Scarlett Johansson movie Lucy as another.

Taking it a step further, I believe humans are becoming very world-weary of the scientific materialism Goswami speaks of in his book (he refers to it as a mindset of the past which has perpetuated an illusion that has separated us from our quantum callings). In recent years, the slew of film and TV offerings have centered around unknowable mysteries, speaking volumes of this ‘practical reality fatigue’ (The Leftovers, The Returned, Fringe, Lost — Hell, even bubblegum entertainment like the Twilight and Harry Potter series).

Goswami says creativity is our lifeline to the self-aware universe or the unified consciousness from whence we all came. “Evolution is fundamentally creative, and when we align ourselves with the evolutionary movements of consciousness, the universe itself puts wind in our sails,” he maintains (this has become my mantra!).  He also says that expression compromises truth; however those who can most adeptly and consciously express or represent archetypes (the hero, justice, etc.) in their lives are in a way fulfilling their mission (I’m paraphrasing).

In Goswami’s world, tired old cliché becomes clearly differentiated from profound archetypal exploration. It’s about expressing these cosmic truths in your own way, not copying an existing pattern, he explains. Originality is king but not originality for originality’s sake; originality as a conduit for evolutionary growth, for individuals and the greater collective consciousness.

He simplifies the creative process (and if you’re a LoA fanatic, the manifestation process) by describing its unfolding in four stages: 1. preparation, 2. incubation, 3. sudden insight and 4. manifestation. I love that he spends a fair amount of time discussing that incubation process — unconscious processing, being or surrendering.

This is something that many a writer, like myself, has found frustrating — the writer’s block phenomenon when you’re trying to do to much. In such cases my dad always told me ‘take the day off,’ ‘do something else,’ ‘go to a museum,’ ‘go for a walk and forget about it.’ He was right, whenever I let go of the needing to perform, the epiphanies came. This is what Goswami describes as discontinuity (or the ‘bolt of lightning’ after the quiet).

His technique resonates with my understanding of Yin-Yang. He cutely calls it do-be-do-be-do, chronicling the process of right action with alternating moments of passivity and receptiveness. Deepak Chopra also described this natural phenomenon in a chapter in his The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success, focusing on ‘economy of effort’ (it’s not that you should ‘do nothing’ but you should only act when you are prompted to act — by ease of action or that lightning bolt of Aha-ness).

Goswami’s book also features a chapter on being creative in business. And should one wish to continue following that thread, he has written a follow-up to this book called  Quantum Economics (published in 2015), which I am currently reading.

Everything today is quantified — a mix of capitalism gone off the rails and the computer Information Age has dehumanized work, careers, and society as a whole, Goswami says (and I concur). The brilliant thinker is instead offering his alternate view of a future worth living — one in which creativity, connectedness, synergy, etc. are highly valued (rather than paper currency and abstract stocks and derivatives). I for one would rather live in Goswami’s world!

Coding Consciousness

kabbalah coding

I just watched a rather generalist American documentary on the history of the Jewish spiritual, mystical tradition of Kabbalah the other evening and was struck by one of its central tenets: that God made the world by using the 22 letters of the Hebrew alphabet (according to the Sefer Yetzirah). It’s easy to dismiss this as flowery, grandiose religious prose, but I started to imagine how that concept might be taken literally.

Literally, the human genome is made up of  DNA sequences encoded within the 23 chromosome pairs in cell nuclei and in a DNA molecule found in individual mitochondria. Literally, combinations of the letters A, C, G and T create different characteristics in humans. The ACGT is of course not completely analogous to the Hebrew alphabet but it’s interesting that at the base root of humans is this code; and at the base root of creation according to Kabbalah, is this encoded alphabet.

The fact that, as humans have further evolved, we have become more aware of coding and it’s become more enmeshed in our lives in the form of html, CSS, Java and so on, is interesting. I don’t maintain that human beings have necessarily spiritually progressed alongside this human technical progress but perhaps we’re onto something without being fully conscious of it. It’s possible that we are getting closer to understanding not just our biological makeup but also to connecting this to some ancient spiritual truths.

We may well be unconsciously drawn to this language because it speaks to ‘who we are.’ And it’s perhaps no coincidence that at this time — when the Human Genome Project has been completed and round one of the Large Hadron Collider’s (LHC) particle smashing experiment has successfully culminated — we are also at the frontier of developing artificial intelligence.

This latter fact makes me — and folks like Elon Musk and Stephen Hawking — extremely nervous, for good reason (as does the LHC for yours truly). However, now I’m wondering if even this potentially childlike play at AI is not part of the greater ‘plan.’

I say ‘childlike’ because my position is that as humans we barely understand ourselves or one another so maybe we should work on that before ushering in an age of AI with murky morals and flimsy regulatory hurdles. Interestingly, some Kabbalah teachings indicate that the proverbial Adam was not banished from the Garden of Eden — rather he banished himself by turning his back on the spiritual component of his life (poetically coincidentally when he bit into the apple — the very same symbol of tech titan Apple computers).

Adam and Eve apple garden of Eden computers

But it could be that AI, along with the coding culture we’re so embroiled in, are the keys to understanding this — at least on a rational level.  I still however believe that experience (meditation, awakening, epiphany, psychedelic messages, synchronicities, etc.) is more vital to this understanding than intellectual identification and reasoning.

I had not long ago — erroneously — moved away from my study of Kabbalah, viewing it as a spirituality based too much on tech, which for me was so definite and substantial as to miss the boat when it came to the nebulous, messy moments of reckoning that happen frequently in other spiritual practices. Something about its definitiveness and obsession with letters made me uncomfortable. However, after having viewed the aforementioned documentary, I understand that my perception of Kabbalah was based on the pop-spiritual Western-friendly interpretation put forth by Rabbi Berg and his Kabbalah Centre empire. I had never sought this out specifically but when I lived in LA, a Berber friend of mine introduced me to it (the Berg way).

In tandem with our own intricate and deeply rooted origins, Kabbalah is obviously replete with layer upon layer of code and requires time and patience to understand. It’s not an instant flash of obsessive mania like it was for the 1666 false prophet Sabbatai Zevi. He sold his soul in exchange for not being beheaded by a Muslim sultan; Zevi, basically under duress, converted to Islam disillusioning his followers at the time. History shows that Zevi was manic depressive — not a good mix with Kabbalah, which can conceivably cause extreme and unwanted results for those who are spiritually imbalanced (imagine the results for a bi-polar person such as Zevi).

In any case, after watching this doc, I am even more curious about Kabbalah and will attempt to unearth and devour its reputable tomes — not the modern pop psychology I’ve been spoon-fed — in hopes of connecting our coded present with humanity’s coded past.

Arles… Beyond Van Gogh

I just returned from a short sojourn in the Southern French city of Arles, which could, at some point, become a cool, mignon weekender destination for art aficionados (think Antwerp in the ’90s for fashion mavens).

Unlike its flashy French Riviera neighbors, Arles has more of a shabby-chic feel to it. Everything is rundown — some of it charmingly so, other parts just rundown. Arles is like some young, beautiful Bohemian hippie guy who could be on a catwalk in Milan if he just got scrubbed down and cleaned up.

Arles France street painting

Photo by Shana Ting Lipton

And, by 2018 it will have been imbued with the requisite  star power (more precisely starchitect power) to launch it as a small-scale European arts/design destination. Internationally renowned architect Frank Gehry is putting his creative touch on  the 20-acre Art Resource Center located along the Eastern side of the Boulevard des Lices.

Another international design star —fashionisto Christian La Croix —  also recently waved his magic wand over this small city (his home town) when he christened the 5-star Jules Cesar hotel last year. The property — where I stayed — oozes the ostentatious, bold, flamboyance that the designer is known for with vibrant colors abounding, and decadent Roman undertones.

Photo of restaurant Lou Marquez at the Jules Cesar in Arles

Photo of restaurant Lou Marquez at the Jules Cesar in Arles

In contrast to this, its location’s past incarnation was markedly puritanical: it was a nunnery (this is reflected in the unfortunately small single window in each fairly dark room).


Photo of the courtyard of the Hotel Jules Cesar in Arles by Shana Ting Lipton

Photo of the courtyard of the Hotel Jules Cesar in Arles by Shana Ting Lipton

The historic part of the city — whose Southern boundary the Jules Cesar sits on — is both Southern French and Roman. The former is evident in  its colorful shutters and little cafes fronted by blackboard menus inscribed with handwriting.

Photo of an Arles facade by Shana Ting Lipton

Photo of an Arles facade by Shana Ting Lipton

The latter is embodied in Roman ruins and most notably the old city center’s focal point is its Roman arena where bullfights are still held — (one of macho Pablo Picasso’s man-haunts, back in the day).

Photo of Arles bullfighting arena by Shana Ting Lipton

Photo of Arles bullfighting arena by Shana Ting Lipton

Historic photo of Jean Cocteau, Pablo Picasso and Luis Miguel Dominguin at the Arles arena

Historic photo of Jean Cocteau, Pablo Picasso and Luis Miguel Dominguin at the Arles arena

Nowhere is the town’s romantic faded glory more evident than the salaciously named   Grand Hotel North Pinus lobby lounge. In the height of the off-season, the whole saffron-lit room was empty yet replete with a haunting presence. Photography punctuated the space which was furnished with caramel-colored leather armchairs and old Moorish-looking chandeliers. This was apparently part of the stomping grounds of such intellectual heroes as Jean Cocteau and Ernest Hemingway (I can imagine the latter would have spent many an afternoon soaking up the death at bullfighting matches in the arena).

Photo of the Roman theatre by Shana Ting Lipton

Photo of the Roman theatre by Shana Ting Lipton

An inaugural stay in Arles necessitates a visit to the various Roman ruins which dot the old town like the aforementioned arena, as well as the stunning Roman theatre. Again, having gone there in the off-season I was privy to what every actress dreads (and every savvy tourist loves) — an empty venue. The weather was a moderate 65 degrees Fahrenheit but it felt like 80 degree weather in the theatre, I’m guessing, thanks to the Roman stonework which soaked in the sun.

Photo of Arles' Roman theatre by Shana Ting Lipton

Photo of Arles’ Roman theatre by Shana Ting Lipton

With a fervor equaling my emphasis on visiting the aformentioned, I must conversely underscore that the Roman baths are a waste of time. There’s not much to see in the latter (just a fraction of the original baths) and let’s face it, you’re visiting a sex den. It’s akin to future-visitors to Manhattan paying money to view a gay bathhouse — a bit harsh, I know but true nonetheless.

Arles’ crowning jewel is the Musée Reattu. I had never heard of its namesake artist Jacques Reattu prior to my visit. He painted in the period between the 18th and 19th centuries — beautiful portraits and vivid Greco-Roman-themed tableaux. Like visiting say The Frick in New York, the Reattu’s lure is its context. Viewing artwork by M. Reattu, along with more contemporary works by Ton Zwerver in a late 15th century space (once Reattu’s studio and home) is unique and unforgettable. Picasso — perhaps committing one of the few acts of kindness of his life — donated some of his (lesser) works, drawings, to the museum, obviously feeling for the city in regards to its lack of Van Goghs .

Again, the off-season provided a special experience for me — simulating what it might have been like to have been invited into someone’s home to view their private collection.  I was one of two people in the entire museum (not a huge one, mind you). The surly and regimented security guards’ insistance on visitors taking a prescribed route through the place notwithstanding, it was a beautiful experience.

Photo of the Reattu Museum by Shana Ting Lipton

Photo of the Reattu Museum by Shana Ting Lipton

Food-wise, I had a lovely meal at Le Jardin de Manon — a mom n’ pop restaurant in a not-so-pretty residential part of Arles. What the route to the eatery lacked in charm it made up for in quirky historical significance. To get there, I had to pass the final resting place of Jeanne Calment, Arles’ most famous non-famous resident — otherwise known as the oldest living human; she died at 122. Hopefully, touching the gate of her residence was like a magical rite that infused me with a vitality and a stick-to-itiveness to stick around — befitting of the grand dame.

However, the jewel of a dining experience that will perhaps never leave me were my two meals at La Gueule du Loup, located on a hilly old town street at 39 Rue des Arènes. The  breaded oysters which sat on some sort of exquisite ham terrine base were gorgeous, the homemade foie gras to die for, the Coquilles St. Jacques, everything you’d ever want out of this French classic and lastly, their Fleur du Sel dessert (dark chocolate mousse delicately coated in salted caramel sitting atop some sort of lovely biscuit) was one of the best French desserts I’ve ever tasted! Even before sitting down to enjoy a top meal, as you enter the premises you smell the sweetness of the open kitchen in this charming little family-run restaurant situated in a space that echoes the old stonework theme permeating the historic center.

The exquisite Fleur de Sel at La Gueule du Loup restaurant in Arles

The exquisite Fleur de Sel at La Gueule du Loup restaurant in Arles

And last but not least, what about Arles’ most famous short-term resident, Vincent Van Gogh? Sadly, this shabby chic city does not own any of the artist’s paintings despite the fact that one of his most prolific  periods was spent there (creating Arles-depicting works like Starry Night and Cafe Terrace at Night). The Reattu does possess a letter from Van Gogh to his brother Theo which I read — it truthfully felt a bit strange reading someone’s confidential missive. Last year, the Fondation Vincent Van Gogh opened to honour the master’s work and connection to Arles — however, again with a glaring lack of his paintings.

Photo of the fountain in front of the Arles town hall by Shana Ting Lipton

It is however perhaps just as well. This prompts visitors to Arles to explore the settings of Van Gogh’s works and be inspired by them: the banks of the Rhone where Starry Night was painted, the arena, the courtyard of the Arles hospital… And then there are of course those would-be artists who sit around the fountain in front of the Hotel de Ville sketching, hoping that some of Van Gogh’s genius (and no doubt brilliant madness) will possess their pencils, if for just a fleeting moment.

Café Terrace at Night (in Arles) by Vincent van Gogh

Café  Terrace at Night (in Arles) by Vincent Van Gogh

Of Punk Rockers, Superheroes and Villains

Before I even had a driver’s license, I was cavorting with much older punk rockers (or other breeds of alternative musicians) in Los Angeles. Beyond the spikey-haired skate-punk heartthrobs and dopey flannel enthusiasts there was a scene of Hollywood weirdos in the spirit of David Bowie and Brian Eno’s glam movement that ignited a fire of creativity and teen cheekiness in me.

They were peacocks of Hollywood’s  music scene underbelly, your mother’s worst nightmare, clad in platforms, and glittery frocks — and they had a taste for ‘jail bait’ like me. At the time, that seemed about as edgy as it got — grimy 30-year-old men chasing 15-year-old uniformed school girls from Beverly Hills. There was one band that lived illegally in retail spaces above a pizza parlor on Hollywood Blvd. I stayed at their space, which drew the likes of transsexual prostitutes and sleazy opportunists.

At their gigs, you’d often see some shady characters — beyond the requisite slutty, angry rock chicks (one of which was Courtney Love). El Duce, a bald, angry, pot-bellied, foul-mouthed pig who sang about raping and sodomizing women was one of them. That was about as scummy as it got. And my little girl friends and I reveled in that scumminess. We thought it was coolbadass and even a bit evil.

All of this to say that while I am sickened by what I see every day in the news in regards to IS recruiting teenagers in Britain and Australia to join its barbaric forces in Syria, it makes some warped sense to me. These are not your mother’s teen-angst filled rebellions. These are the angry rebellions of a generation that has grown up forced to worship at the altar of capitalism — an empty, pre-fab, ideology of increasing obscolescence and alienation through technology which clearly makes some of these kids yearn for something to believe in and fight for (even if it’s the most misguided of ideologies).  Add to that the hormones coursing through their veins and the teen anger and you’ve got the ultimate recipe for disaster — on a global level.

My aforementioned glam-punk reverie pales in comparison to this dark shade of rebellion. But in a time of tweets, fake Facebook friends and pop stars like Miley Cyrus and  Lady Gaga (who’s even gotten sick of her own exaggerated image) trying to one-up each other in salaciousness and shock value, the ante has been upped tenfold on teen rebellion and Islam may well be the latest excuse for “anarchy” and “destruction” (two keywords from the early punk era). In short, rebellion — like weed (post-’The Chronic’) and drugs have gotten more extreme.

In my youth, it was enough to pierce a body part or get a tattoo — that got you noticed as an outsider to this fucked up capitalist system — a hell-raising iconoclast. Now, squeaky clean Olympic athletes and teen idols have piercings and tats, rendering such modern primitive body adornments impotent — as far as shock value goes. I am aware that the aforementioned pop cultures may have no direct bearing on the girls who have thus far been recruited into IS, but make no mistake, this global (thanks to the internet) culture is having some influence — albeit indirectly and in the form of a decades-in-the-making tipping point.

So this Grand Theft Auto, adrenaline junkie generation — or at least some of its denizens in the right demographic — is saying ‘fuck you’ to the system by joining a cult of beheading terrorists. These days, that’s pretty must the worst thing you could do to break your parents’ hearts (since your parents probably already have tattoos).

Pussy Riot

Pussy Riot

Of course, there are others who put their rebellion to positive use — think Pussy Riot, taking blows from Putin’s henchmen just to uphold values it holds dear, all the while rocking out and punking it up with those ski masks! They’re cool. So as you can see the intent of my blog entry is not to give the teen girls who just left London for Syria to join IS a free pass for what will likely be their life of terrorism ahead. Obviously, there are heroes and villains in the world of teen rebellion and angst — but there are also anti-heroes and ant-villains.

I don’t know how I feel about letting these young London girls back in the UK after they so clearly and decisively left to get up to the most extreme form of no good. I’m concerned for my welfare here and for that of the ones I love and care for and that part of me says ‘F the lot of them — they knew what they were getting themselves into when they joined this infamous gang of murderous thugs’.

The other part of me remembers how I filled my own parents with worry, hanging out with the ‘wrong’ crowd, staying out until all hours, and so on. I didn’t mean any harm of course (and luckily my brand of rebellion didn’t include harming others). So, I do understand the need to rehabilitate these young girls and give them a chance to grow up and outgrow this nasty “phase”.

However, to be clear, we’re not talking about spray-painting ‘fuck the police’ on a wall, romper-stompering around a gig and getting into a fist fight or pissing in someone’s backyard. There’s a sanctity of life issue here — and even amidst raging hormones and an age-appropriate attraction to chaos — beheading someone, to say the least, ain’t cool.

Vanity Fair: FanFiction and the Fifty Shades of Grey Effect

Fan fiction or Fanfic and the 50 Shades of Grey Effect

Image: fan art.rob kris

What if Edward Cullen was a submissive and Bella Swan was a dominant? What if Peter Bishop from Fringe fancied Eurasian journalists and began courting one? — I, ahem, digress here. The point I’m making is that fanfiction — fans fantisizing about their favorite movie and TV characters and rock musicians and so on, and writing about them — is a hot commodity with literary agents in the wake of what I’ve dubbed the ‘Fifty Shades of Grey effect’ (i.e. the seven-figure, Big Five publishing house treatment).

I wrote about this very topic recently and the finished product is now up on Vanity Fair‘s site, timed with the release of the ‘Fifty Shades.’

Here’s a teaser:

When Fifty Shades of Grey author E.L. James first signed a seven-figure contract with Random House’s Vintage Books imprint in 2012, some literary agents dismissed the deal as a fluke. The trilogy started out as posts on the seminal site Fanfiction.net as an amateur writer’s erotic take on Twilight; after its popularity online, the first title was released by a small publisher as an e-book and a print-on-demand title—not exactly an origin story fit for the notoriously elitist literary world.

Despite its populist backstory, Fifty Shades was an easy sell for James’s literary agent Valerie Hoskins, thanks in part to the online accolades and word of mouth fueling its demand. “There was already a buzz about the trilogy in early 2012, appreciation for the books had gone viral,” she said adding, “all of the Big Six (five now) publishers in New York City were very keen to offer for it.”

Three years later, with Dakota Johnson and Jamie Dornan bringing the guilty pleasure to life on the big screen this weekend, the fan-fiction world where the movie originated seems more relevant than ever for literary agents hoping to bank on the coveted “Fifty Shades effect.”

“We’re getting deals everywhere,” explained London-based literary agent Lorella Belli, who snagged a six-figure advance from Simon & Schuster for her author Sophie Jackson’s forthcoming trilogy, A Pound of Flesh, which also started out as Twilight fanfic. “[Fan-fiction writers] already have such a huge following without doing any kind of promotion,” she continued. Jackson’s story drew more than 4 million reads on Fanfiction.net, and she’s gone from being a schoolteacher in Britain to having three major publishing houses bid up her debut novel. Just last month, Hollywood agent Steve Fisher at Agency for the Performing Arts signed on to secure the film rights.

Belli and her colleagues have gotten into the practice of scouring popular fan-fiction sites, as well as Amazon’s comparatively new fanfic portal Kindle Worlds, for potential talent. But her current crop of writers from the fan-fiction pool solicited her, she noted, adding that the submissions she receives from fan-fiction authors are often higher in quality than the average submission. “Readers of fan fiction are much more sophisticated than most people give them credit for—they’re quite discerning.” Accordingly, they’re not shy in expressing their opinions about stories.


To read the rest on Vanity Fair .com, click on How Fifty Shades of Grey is Dominating the Literary Scene.

The Unbearable Heaviness of 2015

I’m a news junkie — to my own detriment. Ever since I can remember, it’s been bad news all the time. Only now, I can’t explain it, but it feels like we (earthlings) are reaching the tipping point of bad news, trapped in a world that has completely lost its innocence — not in a sexy way but in a scary way.

The daily news stories tell of gang rapes, long-time celebrity sexual abuses of power, beheadings of journalists, hostage sieges, terrorist attacks, church pedophilia rings, child trafficking, gunned down schoolchildren, and rock star baby molesters… the sickening list goes on… until it leaves many of us (I can only speak for myself) feeling utterly defeated and deeply sad.

The world has always been a violent, angry place. It’s as if, after enjoying the warmth and peace of our mothers’ wombs, we come out angry and screaming at the audacity of birth: that we should be forced to live in this ‘cold hard place.’

But something about the current darkness feels different, more ominous. As Pope Benedict said, ‘oh how the world needs tenderness.’ Whereas before the darkness was comprised of the usual ‘world gone mad’ stuff of wars and ‘otherness,’ now it’s a compacted throbbing mass of the aforementioned atrocities coupled with an inability to protect and encourage innocence.

The kidnapping of schoolgirls by Boko Haram and droves of victims who suffered abuse under British celebrity Jimmy Savile are just the tip of the iceberg (of course, despite the Pope’s much-needed words, the Catholic Church and its regional leaders’ systematic abuse of children is the ‘bad guy’ too). When our world is not just dark, mad and evil but when, on top of that, we can’t protect our children (by ‘our’ I mean in a general community sense), we have failed, as spiritual beings, to spread the universal spiritual values of purity and love.

This is the kind of stuff that makes my heart ache uncontrollably. The only thing that may make it ache more is the thought that even my words — in this cynical world — could be construed as cliché or postured. A disproportionate amount of irony, sarcasm and snark in a society is a true sign that we’ve lost our way.

I was watching the Roman Polanski HBO documentary the other day and while I love this brilliant director’s films, I was deeply disturbed by Hollywood’s unabashed support for him on a personal level and for people like Woody Allen (who, even if he didn’t molest his daughter, has a few vices, including inappropriately marrying his adopted child after grooming her from a position of trust).

When I saw a clip of an awards ceremony with people like Martin Scorsese and Jack Nicholson cheering the then-absent award-winning Polanski, it made me feel a bit ill. Let’s just say that growing up in LA around the Hollywood machine, like I did, you hear things about people, things that may not make it into the tabloids but that point to some seriously broken moral compasses.

I briefly wanted to be an actress and attended classes at Strasberg (even met Lee Strasberg), was taken under the wing of my godmother/family friend, actress Barbara Parkins as a little girl, went on some auditions, and was flown to Germany to do a screen test for director Wolfgang Peterson for one. I’ve gone to school with celebrities, the whole nine yards — I know a little bit about how the system works in Hollywood.

It’s a scary system that has not only thrown women away when they became too old to play the female lead (and were too young to play the mom) but also grooms young women (and possibly men too, to be fair) to use their sexuality and work the casting couch system otherwise they’ll be passed over. Hollywood (and the music world as well) teach people to look the other way when a perverted old man is leching on an underaged girl (after all it’s not part of the boring ‘normies’ system of ethics and morals).

I’ve seen this up close and personal and now having lived in other cities/cultures I see it for the sickness that it is. Along with terrorists, governments, corporations and data harvesters, Hollywood lays down its gauntlet and the world complies (perhaps fawns and sycophant-ishly adores, is more appropriate).

So it wasn’t surprising to see so many people point fingers at Polanski’s 13-year-old victim, making her out to be a ’70s Lolita. The truth is that, even if she were a highly sexual 13-year-old (most adolescents are highly sexually charged anyway — par for the course), a grown man offering her drugs and having anal sex with her is still rape — or at the very least an abuse of someone in an adult (privileged celebrity) position.

Looking back to when I was a teen and coming of age, I thought I was pretty badass hanging with much older guys in bands and flaunting my sexuality through rebellious clothing. I believed that was what being an adult was. Sadly, only now do I realize that being an adult is looking back on those days and wishing I had spent more time with people my own age and remained a kid for longer.

Such is loss of innocence. It means never being able to return to that pure, unadulterated sense of yourself and never being able to experience a world that filters out sarcasm, where everything is fresh and possible. Perhaps that loss of innocence is what makes anguished people like Polanski (with his devastating personal history) yearn for innocence so much that they prey on the innocent, like vampires living off the life force of the young.

The world is tired and disconnected from the sacred and pure today. It’s not just evident in kids who are certainly growing up too fast (that happened in the ’70s). It abounds in adults unable to connect to their own innocence (rather than cynicism or sexuality) and more detrimentally, not being able to pass the torch and act as guardians of that innocence, in protecting the young and preserving the spiritual notion of innocence.

What is the answer? I don’t have one. But I do know that from time to time, when I’m feeling particularly wounded and raw, I think back to a wind-up musical jewelry box I had when I was little. A ballerina spun inside the magenta container as the tune chimed on. But far more valuable than all this pomp and prettiness was a little gap in the fabric in which I stuffed handwritten notes which whispered happy secrets into my childhood ether: which boy I liked or who I wanted to be when I grew up. That tiny gap, I sense, is where my innocence resides.

A Kinder, Simpler 2015


I recently went into a bookstore and was predictably drawn to the self-help and business sections. Like many others at this time of year, I had intended to start the year right with an appropriate course of action. Titles like ‘How to Get Things Done’ lept off the covers as I was tempted by the suggestion that 2015 could finally be my year of productivity and abundance.

Ultimately, I left the shop empty-handed. Last minute, I decided that 2015 would be my year to simplify, and through this simplification of my life and attention to the present moment — and not via some prescribed step-by-step process — the new year would be productive and abundant.

Instead, I popped into a phone shop and purchased the above flip phone. Sans data, with its elegant spartan simplicity, this device will further my commitment to de-vice in 2015. I’m hanging onto my iPhone for those days when I have to travel or am expecting an important email and need access to my data plan; but otherwise, I’m paring down all the information that’s coming my way. Hopefully, this will increase my focus on whatever the task at-hand is and enable me to enjoy my life more.

In addition, I cannot continue to support Apple’s culture of obsolescence. No sooner did I buy my new iPhone than I was prompted by the latest Apple update — interestingly enough, one that would take up the lion’s share of space on my device (and ultimately force me to upgrade yet again!) So, with this new purchase I’m saying a big giant ‘screw you’ to Apple and companies like it for this and other breaches of consumer trust and planned obsolescence (and don’t even get me started on the ‘privacy’ issue).

Several years ago, I grew tired of complaining about Facebook’s unfriendly privacy policies and took the big step of deleting my account (never again to return to it). This was a moment of reckoning. So many of my FB friends had complained and petitioned about such things ad nauseum but in the end didn’t put their money where their mouths were. Personally, I’ve never looked back.

And so again, I find myself at a defining moment when it comes to the tech in my quotidian life. I’ve once again decided to let my values guide me, to stop complaining about iPhone and Apple’s ‘newer-is-better’ culture and to take a big leap forward. As I said to the phone salesgirl when I purchased this old familar flip phone: ‘Welcome to the ’90s.’ Hopefully, something from that simpler more robust era comes through in my experience this year.

Tonally, my new year will also be guided by tenderness. I was very moved by Pope Francis’ Christmas midnight mass speech, in particular when he said: ‘“How much the world needs tenderness today.” I also loved his turn of phrase when he said “God is in love with our smallness.” Between beheadings, rapes and hostage sieges, I think we can all attest to the fact that what the world needs now is love, sweet love… and humility.

Charity begins at home, so for me, this ‘resolution’ revolves around being more patient and tolerant when I’m out there in the frantic thick of it dealing with others. It’s easy to get frustrated in crowded urban environments and that’s how tension gets infused into the proverbial melting pot so I’m vowing to be more tender in words, thought and deeds in 2015.

Happy New Year!

My Article On Female Computer Coders Is Up At Marie Claire UK

Female coders Kathryn Parsons decoded

I can’t say that my rudimentary html coding skills make me a coder per se but I do feel solidarity with female coders as this tech-nerdy pastime has always been a secret love of mine (between curses at my screen — when I forget to include a caret or a quotation mark and mess up all my coding).

As such, I did a bit of light exploration into the world of female coders in Britain — their organizations, tech superstars and coding schools and wrote a piece up for Marie Claire UK which went live on their site today: ‘Meet the Women Coders Who Are Britain’s New Face of Tech.’  I talked to Kathryn Parsons from Decoded and Amelia Humfress from Steer, among others. See the article excerpted below:

The world of computer coders has classically been the domain of scrawny dateless male geeks getting ever more squinty-eyed behind laptops in garages and other man caves.

But, it’s undergone a much-needed makeover in recent years, with women getting under the skin of software and apps to carve out a digital niche for themselves — and not a minute too soon.

Last month, Microsoft’s male Chief Executive revealed that he thinks women should leave the thorny issue of equal pay to ‘karma’. Throughout the year, Gamergate — the hostile video game community response to females in its midst — cast an ugly shadow over women in tech. Despite such Victorian attitudes, UK women are discovering female-friendly tech communities that are demystifying coding and making the JavaScript jungle more accessible.

Read the rest of the article at MarieClaire.co.uk