my nine lives and the ministry of lemon pudding

Naming
I was named for the stage. When my parents stopped fighting long enough to conceive me, the only name my father, a frustrated singer ala Dean Martin, would allow- was Cameron. Alexandra, my middle name, I am led to believe was a nod to his Russian Empiric heritage. My mother, herself a professed relative of Grace Kelly and a studied actress, must've hoped what she carried in her belly would live the dream she'd sidelined for love.

I named Sydney, Sydney Shalom for similar reasons. Shalom- a nod to my father's Judaic heritage as well as a proclamation of my own Jesus centered aspirations. Sydney Shalom- in itself arresting and poetic, is a perfect "stage name" should she so choose. Her name embodies the Hope that the eschatalogical future will include the reconciliation of all broken things- broken relationships with my father and the broken ecosystem included- back to the Creator.

I intend to write much of this entry on mentors. The importance of them and the way I have come about them in my nine lives. I have had a remarkable life so far. I've supped with movie stars and hobos. I've walked the far east and the lower east side. I've sketched alongside world famous artists and gazed upon the live and in person face of the great Audrey Hepburn, which was at more than 80, the embodiment of stunning kindness.

A colleague once exclaimed over tex Mex- "How old are you?" When I amen'd and smiled at some obscure cultural reference from the 60s. I've had an incredible journey so far and I'm not even 35.

Writing this and naming these different 'lives' has confirmed for me how blessed I really am, and that everything is indeed a season. The mountaintop and the valley of the shadow of death. Both, seasons. Perhaps God in his wisdom and his mercy knows we can't take much of anything for very long. And that waiting -shapes us.

Now, to clarify the stage I am referring to is not the American Idol or Star Search stage. It's the stage of the golden voiced Sarah Berhardt, the Grand 'Ol Opry (even though I've never been there), the in the round or blackbox theater where real art happens and dreams come to life.

This is the stage I named my daughter for, and I imagine, the stage I was named for.


Mentor
Sadly for my mother I never showed much gift for the stage at a young age. I was desperately self conscious. Adolescence was not kind (it rarely is) and I was immobilized by trying to hide myself form the eyes of the world. My skin, my profile, my hair, was never right. Too pale, to pointy, to red. At the tale end of adolescence I encountered my first real mentor. His name is Michael Horowitz and he is a writer, editor and the primary archivist of Timothy Leary. He is also the father of actress Winona Ryder.



Though I was too self conscience to act myself, I was an avid fan. And the blondes of the 80s had made way for the broody depth of my dark haired hero, Winona. I saw her in Lucas. Scrawny, boyish and beautiful, a misfit. Walking poetry. Later called "the thinking man's movie star" she embodied all I loved and wanted to be.

Instead of cultivating my headshot and monologue (which as a teenager at the High School for the Performing Arts, living a half block from Lincoln Center, was quite radical) I wrote poetry. I discovered Alan Ginsberg (who I stalked all over the West Village). I discovered Lawrence Ferlinghetti's Coney Island of the Mind (the actual Coney Island is where I would be baptized some 11 yrs later.) I discovered Jack Kerouac, and later Rainer Maria Rilke and Adrienne Rich. I identified myself as the maker not the muse.

And then I found Mike Horowitz. I was a fatherless, teenage poet and who better to mentor me than the father of my hero?

Reading an interview with Winona in Elle Magazine in my bedroom on the 21st floor, I came across a description of her father's business, a rare book mail order house specializing in rare books from the 60s. "Could I be so lucky?" I thought. I was writing a paper on the Beat Generation at the time for my AP English class and convinced myself that I had a legitimate reason to write to him. What could I lose?

What began as an inquiry for a book, turned into a bonifide pen pal and phone call mentorship. I cannot imagine what inspired this kind man to talk to me, encourage me and listen. I sent him my poems. He loved them. Or so he said "Keep going," he would say. "I am so proud of you."

My mother and I would later travel to Northern California, she on business, me on a pilgrimage to spend the day with Michael in North Beach, unearthing treasures of the beat writers in their original habitat. Later we would drive to Petaluma and have dinner at the family's kitchen table. Their kindness was shocking. They never questioned why this 16 year old stranger was hanging out with their Dad. We had dinner and conversation. I got to know Sunyata and Uri (2 of Winona's siblings who were living at home). I was enfolded and accepted.

Our correspondence continued for years. A self described LSD expert and Atheist, Michael Horowitz was the most fatherly man I had ever met. Though his values were not the best, he did care about me. And he encouraged my adventurous spirit, and most importantly my writing.