Play it Again, and Again, and Again.

It's coming...

The Atlanta Symphony is presenting Casablanca this Friday, film on the big screen, while the magnificent Atlanta Symphony Orchestra plays the score. CAN YOU IMAGINE!

This is not to be missed. And maybe to prepare, I'll do a little 'round robin of classic films starring the truly fantastic actors and actresses of the Silver Screen. We'll start with Bogey and add Audrey for some Sabrina.

And then there's Audrey and Greg Peck in the inimitable Roman Holiday.

Next is Gregory Peck and Lauren Bacall in Designing Woman.

Then How to Marry a Millionaire for some keynotes delivered by Betty, Lauren, and Marilyn.

Marilyn and Tony Curtis warm things up with Some Like It Hot.

How about the more obscure Kings Go Forth with Curtis and Natalie Wood.

Also starring The Voice himself, Mr. Frank Sinatra.

Which of course means I'll have to take time for one of my favorites: Sinatra and Grace Kelly in High Society.

And next is Kelly and Cary in To Catch a Thief.

Then Bringing Up Baby with Cary and Katharine.

Or The Rainmaker with Katherine Hepburn and Burt Lancaster.

From Here to Eternity stars Lancaster and the lovely Deborah Kerr,

who starred in The Journey with Yul Brynner.

(And was photographed by him!)

Apparently Brynner was a marvelous photographer, because while on set of Anastasia,

he also captured the beautiful Ingrid Bergman.

Which brings us back to where we started, to Bergman and Bogey at Sam's piano in Rick's Cafe Americana.

So if you're in Atlanta this weekend, head to the amphitheatre in Alpharetta and catch the sweeping drama of Casablanca with a LIVE soundtrack. If it plays and you're not there, you'll regret it. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But soon, and for the rest of your life!

What's In A Name? or Cy (sigh.)

It is a day for remembering the epic.

On Tuesday, one of my favorite modern painters passed away.

Cy Twombly, the man who made epic tales into epic paintings.

Fifty Days at Ilium: The Shield of Achilles

Cy Twombly, 1978

Philadelphia Museum of Art

It is only appropriate that the work of Michelangelo shows clear, human, relatable figures but with an artistry and grace that seems touched by angels. Michael, a common, strong, classic name. Angel, a word that invokes otherworldliness, heavenliness. Michelangelo, the creator of masterpieces, human forms with heavenly beauty.

And then there is Cy Twombly. What a wonderful name, and fitting for his work. Cy was named for baseball great, Cy Young. But he became great in an entirely different field, and his ball of choice was not of leather and stitching, but a great ball of fiery paint. Cy for Cyclone. Twombly, like a word one of my 4-year-old students would have created to describe something twirling and wobbling and spinning and riveting. I tell you, there's something to the names of people.

Untitled, 2008

Cy Twombly

Tate Modern

If you get a chance today, look up Cy. He and his friends decorated the modern art galleries of the world. His artwork has driven admirers to kiss his canvas (a less abstract expressionism, to be sure!). And if you ever find yourself in Philadelphia, stop by the Philadelphia Museum of Art and find his room of epics. Just sit and let Homer whisper in your ear as you gaze at the re-envisioned battles of kings and gods, of valiant men and scheming beauties.

Fifty Days at Ilium: The Fire that Consumes All Before It

Cy Twombly, 1978

Philadelphia Museum of Art

Back in White.

Summer is here, and the air hangs thick in Atlanta.

What better way to fool yourself into thinking you've dressed "lightly" than to frock up in glorious WHITE?

It's classic, it's crisp, it can be whimsical or stunning.

So take a cue from Anthropologie's new sister company, BHLDN, and Tom Sawyer himself. It's time to wash yourself white.

Go classic with Chanel, (no one beats this piping)

Or modern with Gucci.

Beach bound? Channel some Grace. Grace Kelly, of course!

While we're speaking of Princesses, we can't forget Kate!

This dress was princess perfect; what a Royal day.

If you're looking for regal, look no further than Carolina Herrera's signature shirt.

Be a little clandestine and grab a glorious hat, like Jean Shrimpton.

Or Transform yourself.... Okay. I'm embarrassed to admit that this post was inspired by Transformers 3. But Rosie Huntington-Whitely looked phenomenal in her white wardrobe. A white blazer with jeans and stilettos. (Were we supposed to believe those gorgeous black stilettos remained intact and on her feet during all that running and jumping and sliding down buildings? I'll buy the giant transforming evil-beating mechanically intelligent vehicles. But super-stilettos?

I don't think so.)

Or this gorgeous white dress.

Back on the runway- the detailing on this frock is art,

Much like Rodney Smith's brilliant black and white images.

White gloved art.

And Audrey, white gloved loveliness.

So take a crisp white page from some of these gals and put on your best white today. You'll feel cool, fresh, and chic.

Just don't forget your lipstick!

Coming Home.

I thought about writing a short, clever, witty, beautiful entry with which to ease my charming readers back into my internet psyche. I thought that would be a great idea. But I have too much to say. So... too bad.

For the past six months, I've been singing P Ditty/Dirty Money's "Coming Home." (usually splitting parts with the incomparable Shannon, my darling Lawrence roommate.) (For the record, I love Smokey Robinson's "Tears of the Clown." Sorry Ditty.)

Anyway, all of a sudden, I AM home. Or sort of.

They say that Home is where the Heart is. Those with itinerant hearts, therefore, have a scenic tour which they call Life.

But for now, this is home:

Here is the house I grew up in (and in which I am once again nesting. For those who are curious, no, I don't have a plan yet, and no, I have no idea how long I'm staying here. Much like my true love of getting lost on highways and byways, I have no problem skipping off the map of An Orderly Life from time to time. I have found that there are memorable adventures waiting in the caves and in the mountains and in the industrial towns that weren't in the pre-approved itinerary.)

So what does it mean to come Home, when Home, for the time being, is Atlanta, Georgia?

First and foremost: things change as they stay the same.

Mother, closet interior design fiend who fruitlessly denies her talent while creating cool, classy Southern-tinged decor on the budget of a small upstart community theatre, has attacked the Living Room. Around Christmastime (read: my last visit "home"), I came home to find a whitewashed and re-envisioned Den.

This time, she's re-created the front room, determined to move the family "hang out" from the south side of the house to the north side of the house, where we get more natural light. So she moved the television. (Genius tactic.) Here are some pics of the new room, not quite complete.

It is a room with character like my mother: brilliant, classy, subtle, bright spots here and there that sneak out when you least expect them. See the orange spine of a book on Tuscany, or the red jersey of my little brother's soccer days? Mountains of books (many of which are mine, deposited here last summer during my I-have-decided-to-take-up-simple-living-for-one-year-so-here's-all-my-stuff,-mom! phase, and over which we will bargain, bid, and arm wrestle when I decide to reclaim them for my own living space...but God only knows when that will be) blend seamlessly into the decorations. Books ARE decorations, for the room, for the mind, for the soul.

Coming Home, here, also means FAMILY TIME! (Dear Lucky Stars, thank you, verily, for making my family witty and classy and smart and clever and talky and funny and precious and dear. It makes them much easier to love.) The serendipity of living "in community" for a year, sharing a car, a bathroom, a budget, a life, forsaking all "free time", before moving home into that nebulous place of independence-under-my-father's roof is not lost on me. So I am well prepared for togetherness. On Sunday, July 3rd, we drove the hour out of the city to Rutledge, Ga (read: farm country), home of the annual SUNFLOWER FESTIVAL.

And we broiled ourselves in the sun.

And we posed for pictures with gardens that grow in the full sun we'd love to have in our yard.

And we picked SUNFLOWERS!

$15/bucket!!

What a perfect welcome back to the land of sweet iced tea and peaches and accents thick like molasses and old timey manners and Southern Belle sass.

Coming Home means fresh fruit in my yogurt. I didn't take a picture, because my food photography isn't up to snuff, but believe me, raspberries and blueberries and strawberries in your vanilla yogurt = good morning.

Coming Home means "Yanni: Live at the Acropolis" or Fleetwood Mac or "Finding Neverland" playing ad infinitum. Loudly. Wonderfully.

Coming Home means mosquitoes. 'Skeeters. Flying Teeth. Beware the threat of dusk and get thee inside. It doesn't matter that the backyard looks like a fairy-tale garden (mom and dad have been hard at work here, too). If you value your blood and want it to stay put, flee to the safety of the screened-in porch. Sit here, and you can enjoy the sunflowers.

Coming Home means rejuvenate. Regroup. Relax (for just a little bit). Re-envision the future. Reboot the job search. Read some of those books lying about (my latest venture: Geraldine Brooks' "People of the Book.")

Coming Home means Re-Design my wild and precious life. After all, I only get one.