Communing
Day 4: Photostream
By the time 5:15 Tuesday morning arrived, I was awake, but just wasn’t quite ready to get up. “I’ll just rest for a few more minutes,” I thought. Next thing I knew, it was 7 a.m. I quickly got ready and left the hotel only to find myself stuck going the wrong direction due to construction that closed all the exits for 10 miles out. Frustrated that I got to such a late start, I was hoping I’d be able to make up for lost time at some point throughout the day.
I finally arrived at my first destination, San Xavier del Bac Mission south of Tucson. There are times when the obstacles of the day turn into a gift, and this was one of those days. As I entered the mission, mass was just starting, and I realized I was meant to be there in that moment. I quietly took a seat in one of the pews.
In remembrance
It’s so hard to believe that it is one year ago today that Jenny was declared dead by the Broward County Police Department. One year ago as of 1:30 this morning. Being here in Florida, the memory of those first moments of awareness, when Norrie called and told me that there had been an accident, and the days, weeks, and months that followed resonate so clearly.
Yesterday we went to the accident site, laying flowers at the place where the accident occurred, and tried to make sense of the events leading up to the accident with my mother. “That’s the left turn lane she was in,” she said, “and there’s the place where they were staying. That’s where she was going.” But, of course, she never made it.
Thinking about Jen and Gus and, of course, about Kris, who is in California for the weekend with friends, brings back feelings of loss and grief, but also joy and delight. Jenny was so full of life, and loved dearly the warmth and the heat of places like Florida. She loved the ocean, and it’s hard not to think about her and her last days here as we say goodbye.
Norrie and I took Jen’s ashes yesterday, transferred from the bag in which they arrived to a biodegradable urn that will be left at sea once her ashes are scattered. It’s hard to imagine a life so full as Jenny’s being contained in this small bag of what is, essentially, bones. But of course, it’s not Jenny in that urn, but the material manifestation of her life here on earth. Jenny could never be contained, even from the earliest days of her life here on earth, and she never will be. She is everywhere in and around us, everywhere in and around me.
I love you, baby sister, and I miss you each and every day.
Brokenness
There is a brokenness
out of which comes the unbroken,
a shatteredness
out of which blooms the unshatterable.
There is a sorrow
beyond all grief which leads to joy
and a fragility
out of whose depths emerges strength.
There is a hollow space
too vast for words
through which we pass with each loss,
out of whose darkness
we are sanctioned into being.
There is a cry deeper than all sound
whose serrated edges cut the heart
as we break open to the place inside
which is unbreakable and whole,
while learning to sing.
— Rashani, 1991
“I am…Vampira”
The scene is black and white, the setting gothic — a cathedral perhaps, or maybe a crypt. The lights are low; a candelabra is burning in the shadows. A low mist rises over the vast expanse of the foyer. A figure forms in the mist, advancing through a doorway at the far side of the room. She has an impossibly small waist, a wasp-like cinching between the swelling breasts and the voluptuous hips of a fertility goddess. Her black dress is in tatters, a form-fitting, cleavage-revealing shroud. Fingernails like straight razors extend from her long, pale fingertips. her face is white, placid with dark lips and kohled eyes. Eyebrows like flying arches frame her face, marking the space between her eyes and her black serpentine hair. Her gaze is fixed on the camera before her as she approaches, her eyes locked with yours. She raises her talons to her hair and screams an ear-piercing wail, a banshee’s cry. In a voice deep and rich, a timbre reaching from beyond the grave, she speaks:
“Good evening,” she says. “I am…Vampira.”
from Vamps: An Illustrated History of the Femme Fatale
It was my mother who told me that Maila Nurmi died today. She’s not a fan, nor of the era of the Vampira show. But she knew of Vampira through my love of horror and my friendship with Maila herself, so when she heard the news, her first impulse was to call me.
I first met Maila in 1995, at the Son of Famous Monsters convention at Universal Studios in Los Angeles. Maila made several appearances throughout the weekend, and told some wonderful stories about how Howard Hawkes brought her to Hollywood to make her “the next Lauren Bacall,” her split with Hawkes, her adventures with James Dean, and her later association with the infamous Ed Wood.
One of my favorite stories from the weekend was when she was asked who she most enjoyed working with in Hollywood. She mentioned how much she enjoyed working with Basil Rathbone, her co-star in The Magic Sword, and how much she admired and appreciated him.
“He took me under his wing and advised me, a young actress, about how to be successful in Hollywood.”
“What was his advice?” I asked her.
“Honestly, I don’t remember,” she answered, in inimitable Maila style. “At the time I thought, who the hell is this guy to be telling me what to do?”
We spent a lot of time together that weekend, talking about her expriences as a child and young woman, about great actresses such as Greta Garbo and Marlene Dietrich, and the world of the classic femme fatale. I bought one of my prized possessions from her that weekend, too: a painting of Vampira, by Vampira, standing in Holy Cross Cemetery, with soil from the cemetery mixed in with the paint.
We saw each other many times of over the years, at various events and conventions. One of my favorite memories is the time we were lucky enough to find her at one of her favorite haunts, the McDonald’s on Sunset Boulevard, sitting in the booth under a portrait of Greta Garbo. Intelligent, dynamic, engaging, witty, it was always a delight to visit with her. I always regretted not being able to spend more time with her because I lived so far away, and now I’ll never have that opportunity.
You’ll be missed, Maila. Thank you for everything.
Musings & Meditations 
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