Mauve Momma #2

This is the time to remember
'Cause it will not last forever
These are the days
To hold on to
Cause we won't
Although we'll want to
This is the time
But time is gonna change...

-- "This is the Time," Billy Joel

You are all misunderstanding the Woodster.

And I should know, being the universe's biggest, and perhaps, only, Latino Woody Allen fanatic. I have seen thirty-five of the man's movies, read his biographies, the works. I will defend his work against all comers. And so in this instance I say this: You can choose to see the quote as some movie character saying life is miserable and worthless - even though you'd be ignoring the second half which says that life is over too soon. But I see it as one side of a complete picture of life that emerges in all of Allen's films- sometimes full of misery, sometimes of wonder - but always over too soon.

Let's tell the truth. Our lives are not always long lists of sweet sensations and tastes, neatly printed onto glossy posters and bookmarks. Painful things happen. Less poetically, sometimes nothing happens at all. And we, as creative beings, can acknowledge that. We can inhabit the mystery of it. We can write terrible but heartfelt and joyous love poems. AND, we can feel extremely sorry for ourselves after some minor setback and curl up on the couch, staring slackly at reruns of That '70s Show, a smudge of Cheeto dust on our cheek. One does not invalidate the heart-aching truth of the other. Writers and musicians and artists know what I'll say next. Our creative efforts let us make whole universes out of each experience; separate characters or movements or photographs to represent each strange burst of insight we stumble across.

Woody Allen knew this too. And so, in the beginning of his most famous movie, he put his main character, Alvy, face-to-face with the audience to tell us life is full of suffering and misery, but over too soon. And you know, that's true. God knows I've been there. I imagine you have, too.

But it doesn't stop there. Take Allen's black and white masterpiece, Manhattan. Near the end of the movie, his latest incarnation, Isaac, is having a much worse time than Alvy at the beginning of Annie Hall. His love life is a mess, his ex-wife is giving him a hard time, and he's just lonely. So what does he do? We find Isaac prone on his couch with a small tape recorder, making a quiet, sweet list of "the things worth living for." Jazz. The Marx Brothers. The apples and pears of Cezanne. The crab at Sun Wo's. His own little collection of sights and sounds that comfort.

And suddenly we see the whole artist. Allen inhabits the mystery. He can get sucked into his own whirlpool of pessimism, and he can pull himself out with the romance of what he truly loves. He, and we too, are complete, soaring, sniping, warty, whole human beings. Thank God for that.

But this moment, be it joyous or Cheeto-binging pathetic, won't last long. We need the Woody Allens and the Cezannes and even the Mauve Mommas of the world to help us remember what went before.

And so to quote a thousand grandmothers: This, too, shall pass. But I'm going to set it in words while I can.