Regarding the nudity, or lack of it, in the Aurora Fox’s production of “The Graduate”, John Moore’s mention of it in the Sunday Denver Post and the current dialogue… The decision about the nudity was made before I signed on to do the show. I was aware that the script called for it when I auditioned and as a professional actress and playwright, I would have bucked up (or should I say ‘buffed up’?) and done it. Frankly, I am not a fan of alterations to theatre (that’s for you John) scripts, and I’m not sure of a playwright who is. I find additions, subtractions and ‘improvements’ to plays by other theatre artists disrespectful at the least, hubris if I’m being dramatic. As an actress/playwright I must remember which hat is on my head to avoid conflict, though we writers actually have unions and guilds to prevent these decisions from being made and recourse for them when they are. But that’s a discussion for another column, another blog.
Basically, disregarding the author’s intent is equal to the actor not honoring the director’s directorial notes, or the costume designer blowing off the agreed upon color palette, you get the idea. It says that you may have your job, but I know better. What if, for example, playing Mrs. Robinson I chose to take the same liberty and come out one evening stark naked? The hierarchy of theatre has always been skewed. We claim to serve the play and mouth that the playwright is king or queen, then make changes as suits our needs. Happens in film, happens in TV… where there’s a writer, there’s an editor. The line of demarcation here is in intent. Does deleting the stage direction of her nudity alter the action of the scene or the impact on the characters? Does it make my Mrs. Robinson more or less seductive, powerful or desperate? I don’t think so. Would it be more shocking and intimate if I were standing naked in front of Jack Wefso as my Benjamin? Yes. But the real vulnerability would have happened between us, in rehearsal, long before the audience filed in. I’m sure there are many theaters in Aurora and in Glendale for that matter, where the nudity of the woman on stage would be critical to the quality of the show. I don’t think that would apply in this case. Theatre ethics and theatrical risk aside, the real and most important question here is this: would the show receive more stars if I showed my tits?

I don’t sleep well when there is a global catastrophe. It’s as if my psyche were in silent vigil for the living and dying who are struggling to find their way within the grip of nature’s fury. Images of bodies lying in the twisted rebar or washed up on broken, angry beaches, families standing on rain-soaked rooftops, children searching solo for anything familiar: they trouble me. They flood over airwaves as I sit, comfortably and uncomfortably, transfixed before my cable news network. I don’t want to watch. I don’t want to know, but my soul does. It does not forget for a second. My ventures into social media provide distraction; Amy’s daughter lost a tooth, Jeff got a job, theatre openings/closings, and plenty of go-team-go. Then there are the postings, the pleas for $10 worth of help, which makes me feel more helpless. All I can do is send a paltry sum? Will that get the planes there faster? Will that stop the voices crying out from inside the concrete rubble? The answer is yes. And…yes. That may be all I can do from the comfort of my uncomforted zone, but deep within my sleepless psyche there is work to be done.
I am heartened by the massive funds collected click-by-ten-buck-click, enraged by the perspicacious insights of the religiously insane. Treaties with France and pacts with Satan aside, the world is harsh and cruel and that will never change. When I see the film of Haitian people, who have never had much but have lost it all, grateful to be alive to live another day in poverty, I am brought to my knees, careful not to rip my jeans. (They cost me over half the yearly wages of the average Haitian.)
The problems of Haiti are long-standing and legendary. They will not be reversed in a day, or in a generation. The road of reconstruction is long and hard, the path of re-invention, harder. Like our native sons and daughters of New Orleans, the spotlight of their plight will shift, cameras turning toward the next true or false calamity, and they will be left alone together. What is left is the opportunity to rebuild, the responsibility to recreate, and that is to be shared by all with equal measure. We can send our money and our troops; we can send our prayers and some well-meaning group will be collecting teddy bears, for that is what we’re made of.
I lose sleep hoping that our fruitful steps in times of overwhelming crisis will not melt into meaningless gestures of remembrance once the parade has passed. While we commit to fund and rebuild Haiti, let us also fund the bank account of our humanity. Let’s call on it daily, putting forth our best before disaster strikes.

I help people buy and sell houses in the Denver metro area, many of which are a hundred years old or more. As I help my clients prepare to list or to move, we find some interesting things in the attics and basements of these storied homes. My recent discovery was page 11 & 12 of the Sunday Denver Post dated December 27, 1931. It was a time of high unemployment and economic anxiety. Here’s a bit of the what’s up two days after Christmas nearly 78 years ago:
*Pasco Santana, called the PLATTE RIVER HERMIT took residence in a cardboard house near the Sixteenth Street viaduct. With his “Back to Nature” attitude he chose this location, feeling the city dwellers were the ones missing out. “The river is my best friend, even tho it doesn’t say anything and just keeps rolling along” (The neighborhood would be too crowded for Mr. Santana’s liking today, even among the cardboard crowd.)
*500 SALESMEN ATTEND MEETING- Sponsored by the market development committee of the Chamber of Commerce in an effort to acquaint Denver wholesale and manufacturing firms of their “Buy-it-in this-Market” program. (Just like mama said, everything comes in style again).
*JONES OPPOSES PLAN FOR JOB RELIEF- Senator Attacks Proposal of Direct Federal Aid to Feed Needy.
*POPE APPEALS FOR UNIFICATION OF CHRISTIANS- Seeks United Front for Fight Against Unbelief and Immorality.
*BATTLE IS OPENED ON SULLIVAN LAW- A bitter attack on the recent amendment to the Sullivan law requiring all persons carrying a revolver to be fingerprinted and photographed. The National Riffle Association went on record as favoring a repeal of the Sullivan law.
*DECLINE REPORTED IN FARM MORTGAGES
*FARM WASTES TOTAL 250 MILLION TONS…and so it goes.

Business meetings, battles over government funding of social programs, religions striving to reconcile, gun control, mortgage declines. A lot has changed in America, but this makes me wonder if we’re really just swimming in circles. For the readers of these pages in 1931 times were really, really tough. World War I had shown the atrocities of which modern man is capable, the economy was in the toilet, confidence in our government was shaky at best. But somehow, though those years and all that followed we have prevailed. We’ve taken small steps forward and “giant leaps for mankind”, getting better every day. If you don’t retain your sense of reason and a bit of the Pollyanna perspective, it certainly never will.
Today the Stock Market is up and the housing market is showing signs of return. Denver is rated #3 among the nation’s best cities to work and Gov. Ritter announced that REpower USA was relocating their headquarters from Oregon reinforcing Denver’s growth as an epicenter of renewable energy. Interest rates are low and banks are still lending to qualified buyers, there’s an $8000 tax credit for first-time buyers and down payment assistance programs have revamped and restarted. But many of us are still struggling. For those experiencing job loss, soaring medical bills, upside down mortgages of a pending foreclosure, the Pollyanna attitude is surely put to the test. Focus on the good in your life, get yourself back on good footing, call in help if you need it.
Today’s headlines are experienced differently by each of us. Whether you’re feeling like you’re headed for the cardboard box by the river, or you’re looking for a home overlooking it, as a real estate consultant I can guide you through these changing times. For however the economic moment is treating you… this too shall pass.

The wife if a produced playwright, the husband, a filmmaker. They purchased this condo years ago and have built equity. With the arrival of their first son, they’ve put their beautiful condominium up for sale in order to take advantage of the current market and “move up” to a single family home. Located in Denver’s Capitol Hill neighborhood, where you’ll find Old World charm and great proximity to the thriving downtown Denver art/cultural/theatre scene.

Creative people are the driving force behind the economy. Learn more about how you can turn your creative talents into a profitable lifestyle. Call me.

Going from “For Sale” to “SOLD” is at BEST a difficult experience made worse if you feel emotionally connected to that property, and let’s face it, most of us do.
In the midst of all of that, Tracy Shaffer brings a confident, professional and calm approach to your real estate transaction. She is well informed about the current market, realistic, and a good listener when it comes to the seller’s needs. Best of all, Tracy Shaffer knows how to market the property “FOR SALE” and get that message out to a huge buyer pool. (Even in this market, we had multiple offers!) So be smart. I think Tracy Shaffer is a GREAT choice for a Realtor to sell your property and given the opportunity, she can take you from “For Sale” to “SOLD”.

THOMAS MURPHY
West Washington Park
Denver, CO

Thanks Thomas!

I am a writer. I’ve been told for years that I should write and I have. Now as a Realtor, I’m told I should blog. Okay, so I’ll blog, but I don’t want to blog about real estate. Well, that’s not completely true, I don’t want to blog only about real estate, I want to blog about life. Life is more interesting than interest rates and market trends; real estate shares a lot with life.
We’re put here on this earth and we make of it what we will, learning to love and be loved, to take care of ourselves and of others, to share our experiences. Creativity, life’s work, spiritual beliefs, all of these is the soul’s expression of the human experience. So is a house.
The value of a home is not measured by your neighbor’s foreclosure or the appreciation gained by the new Whole Foods down the block. When you buy a home, you’re claiming your place on the planet. It is your shelter, but it’s also where it’s safe to be yourself. It’s where you put your stuff. You’ll cook your meals here, share them with friends. Or you’ll eat in solitude, a whole pint of Hagen Daz, knowing your very own private slice of earth. Your home holds your dreams and it holds your tears.
I wonder about those who live in boxes and under bridges, where do they put their dreams? Perhaps they’re left with just a box of sorrows.
The time to sell is not dictated by the media, it’s driven by needs, by desires that push you further down the river. When the day comes, something’s happened: you’ve outgrown what the bricks can hold.

Sellers transfer the deed, hoping the buyer will take care of their place on earth. Sometimes when we move to “something better”, we take the time to see how good where we are has been.

I have a friend who sees his home as a liability rather than an asset; thinks his money would be better spent on stocks. I think it’s because there is no dream within those walls and he knows it. Like a nomad, whose happiness is always on the horizon, a box without a dream is just a box.

This is from my play “Saints & Hysterics” and posted for my mother, Leni, who died 17 years ago today.

WOMAN

It was the night of the summer solstice, a total eclipse of the full moon the night my mother died. As they wheeled her calmly to intensive care, she was scribbling notes on a yellow pad, things to be said that the ventilator would not allow.

“I found a picture for you Mama in an antique store.” I said, trying to cheer her in her naked state. “It’s a picture of Jesus and Mary.”
Grabbing her pad she writes, “Is it autographed?”

“No, but it will be.” I think to myself and I know reads my thought.
That was the last I heard from her, her final missive.

A shadow creeps over the moon as her trinity gathers around her.
We are laughing and telling funny stories while she floats in her semi-coma, saying good by to a world she’d grown so fond of. My brother asks if she can hear us and she squeezes his hand. Three times this query; three times this response.
Then her systems start to shut down, one by one. She doesn’t smell of lilies but of honeysuckle, the sweet and sickly fragrance of summer nights and death.

One celestial body now completely obscures the other.

I walk out into the darkness to gaze at the mystical moon and smoke.
I light chains of cigarettes and Hail Mary’s, watch my prayers and smoke rise up, as soon my mother will. Tears fall like heavy water from my eyes, I understand her TV tears from many years ago and what she meant about her moment for this was mine. I wait for the slow-motion sword of sorrow to pierce my heart and make it bleed. I think of Mary, the Mother of God, and ask for a moment of her time to thank her for the life of my mother, Mother of my life. I pray that she will guide her journey home and ask for her grace to guide me. I give her back.

A sliver of light creeps out from the moon.
Crushing out the embers of my final cigarette— it is time.

The staff is hesitant to let us all in, “Only two at a time, those are the rules.”
But we are the children of Leni and there are no rules. Three souls came through her into this life, three will see her safely out.
Soft sound of heart monitor.
My brother takes her right hand; my sister takes the left.
I cradle the halo of her head and I whisper in her ear—
Deep into her soul as she has done so many times to mine.
Our Lady speaks along with her, quietly audible.
“It’s okay, Pinky, all will be well.
Flatline. Silence. Beat. Lights shift.

I see my mother’s hands in the veins of my own; hear her blood, coursing through them.
I know she is my backbone with her ever-present echo.

OUR LADY
Shoulders back, stomach in, head up straight.

WOMAN
I slip off the jacket from an old 33. It starts with a rumba, and we dance.
And all is well. All is very well.

How real estate and transition braid in life.

Everyone talks about the real estate market and how it’s changed. Well of course it’s changed, that is the constant, just like in life. In fact, for most home buyers and sellers the decision is driven by change: the first home changes us from a state of renting life to owning one. We “move up” as we create partnerships or to welcome the baby, reduce, downsize, divorce, change jobs. Very few people in the real estate market are purely looking for more closet space; they are enacting change in their lives. I see the real estate transaction as a moment of human transition, with all the emotions, excitement and nerves that go with the territory.
My clients who buy and sell as a business are more financially engaged than emotionally, but they are active in creating financial gain, putting more change in their pockets.
Today’s market is in a state of accelerated transition and much like politics, it works better for some than for others. There will never be a better time to buy a home in our lifetime with prices reduced, interest rates historically low and so many homes to choose from. Change is never easy, but it always brings growth and usually a multitude of blessings. The question is, are you ready to make these circumstances work for you?