Picture It: Sicily, 1942...
Or, Sophia's Petrillo's Perspective on Meatballs & Menopause: Today's Thin Place
I got it, nobody told me; I didn’t get it, nobody told me. I figured this is life, and went back to my meatballs.* — Sophia, The Golden Girls (S. 2, Ep. 1: The End of the Curse)
Maybe that’s the best advice of all: This is life, so carry on—get back to your meatballs.
Honestly, I’ve gotten worse advice in my life.
I’ve also been thinking about what it means to make in the face of radio silence or what can feel like a cosmic shrug. So… From Sophia Petrillo to David Lynch, on Rachel Martin’s “Wild Card” pod:
Many, many people have a great talent, and they just can’t get arrested. I always say they can't get arrested. And they’ve got this talent. And I always say fate plays such a huge role in our life. You know, it’s like some people get red lights, and some people get green lights.
Yessss: I’ve repeated this statement to fellow artists feeling glum that they haven’t gotten their big break, to those who are putting in the work (the only part of the process we can control anyway) but not seeing the world sit up and take notice. I really appreciated this from such a successful artist—not just financially successful, but an artist who is still so alive to his work. Lynch, I suspect, is the kind of artist who could or would make work anywhere, with or without an audience.
OK, some days I am not getting all the green lights I wish for, but, Lord, make me notice the green lights. Let me not stop when I should go, or go when I should stop. Green lights, green lights, green lights.
Lately, that’s my prayer.
Green lights don’t always look like Lana Turner at the soda shop.
Sometimes a green light looks like that faint voice that says, “Yeah, that’s an interesting idea. Maybe. I’m not sure what it’ll be, but… Let’s follow it.” Green lights can be inklings. Ultimately, though, they sit in our greasy gut.
Janice, a co-worker from 28 years ago, introduced me to the concept of the greasy gut. When I told her that I was anguished because a few of my friends didn’t approve of my relationship with my boyfriend, Janice said, never mind your friends—what about you? In your greasy gut, is he the right guy for you?
I did a quick Greasy Gut Check (GGC), and I lied—to Janice, to myself: I said, oh, most definitely: he’s the guy.
That guy is many years gone, but the GGC, that remains. That was a Thin Place, circa 1996, Philadelphia, Pa. And man, Janice, wherever you are: Viva the GGC!
Now, back to my meatballs.
*Emphasis is mine.