Ridiculous or Sublime?

 

sublime - adjective - of such excellence, grandeur, and beauty as to inspire great admiration or awe (Google).

Tragically, a close friend of mine and former lost her soulmate a few weeks ago. He passed away suddenly while reposing at home, a brightly painted ranch house on a lagoon. Since his death, my friend has become more open to possibilities related to the afterlife. In fact, she feels as though her husband might have been reincarnated as a swan, a theory that many erudite pundits on life after death would consider to be ridiculous rather than sublime. 

Personally, I feel that nothing beyond our comprehension could be ludicrous because after all, we only know what is before our faces. Although we have plenty of ancient tomes dedicated to conveying religious philosophies and prophecies and plenty of predictors in the way of the occult sciences, we have no hard evidence as to what happens to us after we expire. Everything is up to conjecture and debate until we depart ourselves. 

Today, my friend texted me hard evidence of her speculation: multiple photographs of sublime swans that have been visiting her dock regularly and mysteriously ever since her man's spirit left her.  I must admit that their unlikely, random appearances do seem uncanny. After seeing one image of a single, male swan, I texted back that her husband never looked so good and that he is no doubt still with her, no matter what form he should choose to take. Her final reply was a smiley-face meme blowing kisses and hearts my way. Obviously, we understand each other quite well. In the end, whatever you can do or say to a grieving soul that will mitigate the pain of loss is a very good thing. There is no place for judgement in this sort of situation. 

For my friend and those of us who dare to recognize the sublime, a reminder:

"...the simple act of noticing the awe of existence, the staggering marvel of the world and its order. Awe moves us to a silent expression of gratitude and wonder." -Dr. B. S. Artson

Nothing ridiculous here. 

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A Defining Raison d'Etre

 

raison d'etre - noun - the most important reason or purpose for someone's (or something's) existence (Google).

Unfortunately, I don't speak French, but I would if I could as I find the sound of it sexy and romantic. On occasion, when reading a well-written book (usually a classic), I'll come across a French word or term and will Google its meaning. Last night, I was immersed in an oldie, but goodie, F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Beautiful and the Damned when I bumped into raison d'etre used to refer to protagonist Anthony's primary motivating purpose: to pen a tome on the Middle Ages. And I got to thinking about actual men and women who consider their pastimes or work defining since they see what they do as their raison d'etre.

I used to feel that mainly men viewed themselves as inseparable from their occupations, but now I am finding that at least two of my female friends are leaning in the same direction. Heck, I may be in the same category simply because what I do, sing, has always been a part of my internal composition. I can't remember a time when I wasn't able to perform as a vocalist. One of my close friends who dates back to high school and college (We attended the same university together.), confided in me recently that tennis is her raison d'etre. Recently, she endured elective, experimental surgery on her shoulder just because she couldn't conceive of a life devoid of playing the sport. Her new and improved shoulder should assure a few more years on the court for her. Another one of my college friends, a professional actress turned storyteller, pretty much said the same thing: that her raison d'etre is composing and telling audiences autobiographical anecdotes, and she can't imagine doing anything else as her pastime is pretty much who she is as a person. I suppose she purports to tell tall tales until she drops.  Of course, I'm just joking. I hope so anyway. 

To own a raison d'etre and/or to allow it to define you is probably a good thing. For one, if you are getting on in years, like my friends and I are, a raison d'etre allows you to move forward after getting out of bed in the morning. And sometimes, that's all you need to do. 

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Virtual Parasites

 

parasitic - adjective - habitually relying on or exploiting others (Google)

Getting old is not especially fun. Not only does the body start to break down, but the parasites, actual and virtual, out there assume that because you have reached a certain age–let's say, over sixty–you are fair game for their shenanigans. But what they don't realize is that they can only fool some of the people some of the time.

Case in point: This morning as I was going through my emails, I noticed a mysterious invoice for a product, ironically, spyware for my PC (which I no longer use) that I did not order. The bill was for over five hundred dollars. Fortunately, there was no proof on the document that the bogus company had gotten a hold of my credit card number; however, I called the number provided anyway to cancel the order. The gentleman on the other end who was heavily fortified with an Indian accent just to make things more abstruse told me that my identity had been compromised, which I already knew, and informed me that if I wanted to ensure that this would not happen again, I would have to go through an online procedure. When I declined and told him I was planning on giving my bank a heads-up, he promptly hung up on me, proving that his motives were most likely parasitic in nature. Never trust anyone that hangs up on you.

I often wonder if organizations like AARP sell these grifters emails of seniors who belong to the club. If that were the case, it would be a sad irony indeed. But you never know. Money talks; in fact, it hollers. 

Word to the wise: If you see anything shady coming through via email, just delete it right away. To reference yesterday's blog, you don't have to be woke in today's world, just awake to parasitic behavior.

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To Be Woke or Just Awake?

 

woke - adjective. informal, U.S. - alert to injustice in society, notably racism (Google)

Because society is composed of fallible human beings, there will always be injustice. Trying to combat it is always an upward battle. As an apolitical person myself, I tend to stand clear of movements that find their way back to partisan politics. For this reason, the Woke Movement is one that I tend to avoid although I have always been alert to wrongs, particularly racism and have quietly attempted to right them via volunteer work and monetary contributions. In short, I'm awake to the possibilities of change, not woke. Those claiming to be woke in the Movement, however, can be loud yet non-participating, meaning they are all talk and little to no action. 

Case in point: The other day, I went to Michaels, innocently looking to buy frames for some prints I had bought as gifts. At the check-out, the young male clerk, like vanilla ice cream in root beer, was floating in a good mood, which was communicable in that his positivity succeeded in elevating me. The amount that I owed for the frames wound up being $14.92. As I handed him a twenty, I recited jokingly, "In 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue." He and I both laughed; but a woke interloper, another, somewhat older female clerk, heard the word "Columbus" and started a lengthy lecture in support of his relations with indigenous peoples. As she pontificated, I wondered who this woman thought she was to consider herself a pundit on the subject as obviously she wasn't old enough to have been an eyewitness to Columbus's exploits, positive or negative. At the close of her monologue, which was actually a soliloquy because the other clerk and I had stopped listening half way through it, I simply said, "The problem with people today is that they have no sense of humor. People need to lighten up." She mumbled a word or two in complaint as I exited the store into 2021. Indubitably, the woman was woke, yet caught up in her own rhetoric–all talk, no action. 

Another problem with the Woke Movement (along with the female clerk) other than inaction is that it is too centered on the past and not on the present.  For instance, the Native American tribal people once owned and operated the entire continental United States. Should the government fork over all of the land that it had stolen from them? If so, with the exception of the indigenous people, we'd all have to return to our points of origin. Personally, I'd be okay with returning to Scotland, but I don't think too many others would be keen on going home; otherwise, they'd be there already. What I am trying to stress here is that some Native American people on reservations are suffering in the now, suffering from inequities that have led them to lean on drugs and alcohol. Surely there is a way for the government to assist them. I am all for reparations if they concern persons in the present, not the past.

If the Woke Movement were truly awake, it would concentrate on what is happening now, not on what happened hundreds of years ago that history cannot rewrite favorably. Stop talking about yesterday and do something about the injustices that afflict minorities today. Just saying. 

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The Power of One

 

mettle - noun - a person's ability to cope well with difficulties or to face a difficult situation in a spirited or resilient way (Google)

U.S. Route 22, an east-to-west thoroughfare, is one of the original U.S. highways of 1926 connecting Cincinnati, Ohio to Newark, New Jersey. (Wikipedia). The span that runs through Springfield, Union, and Hillside, New Jersey is particularly treacherous as there are six lanes, three extending east and three west, separated by a wide median. Littering the triptych of land bisected via the roadway are various strip malls, fast-food restaurants, retail conglomerates, and center-island u-turns that are a constant distraction for the drivers of trucks, cars, and motorcycles, weaving in and out of lanes indiscriminately at fifty to sixty miles per hour. No doubt, it has got to be one of the most dangerous highways in the country. I recall that just after I earned my driver's license at seventeen, my parents forbade me to drive on the "Double Deuce" as it was affectionately known for fear of my becoming just another highway statistic, a teen who lost her life in a car accident. Although 22 made me jittery, against my parents' wishes, I still braved it just to get to Geno's and back for some fried chicken at lunch time. 

It still makes me nervous to negotiate the nefarious 22. As someone who has been behind a wheel since the age of twelve (I used to drive up and down my parents' driveway, a serpentine, thousand feet.), I nonetheless lack the mettle one requires to put the peddle to the medal in an SUV with confidence. Today, though, a dauntless stranger unknowingly assisted me in making a nerve-wracking U-turn from east to west on Route 22. A pedestrian, an older woman with cottony white hair dressed like a banker and holding onto two rolling suitcases, was waiting to cross the westbound lane, bustling with on-coming traffic of all shapes, sizes and velocities. I have no idea how long she was there, but within a minute or two of my arrival at the jug handle, she intrepidly stepped into the fast lane, held up her feeble hand like a crossing guard before an elementary school, and stopped the oncoming traffic dead. Thrice she did this–one lane at a time–until the entire ensemble of previously surging, deflecting vehicles was frozen at a standstill, allowing her to get to the other side safely and me to accelerate in front of her onto an empty macadam expanse sans anymore wait time. To tell you the truth, I don't think I have ever seen anything like it. The octogenarian had more mettle than any D.C. Comics action heroine, and she wasn't even fictive. Surely, she must have seen herself as some sort of superhero anyway to possess that degree of grit. 

As I sped off to Barnes and Noble on Rt. 22 west, I couldn't help but think of the power that one mere mortal can wield if that particular mortal is equipped with mettle and self-confidence. If all of us had that woman's kind of tenacity and courage, we'd all be a lot better off today. Clearly, there is power in each one of us. We just have to summon the strength to use it to benefit others, not merely ourselves.

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Reality vs. Fantasy in the Cinema and in Life

 

cinema-verite - noun - a style of filmmaking characterized by realism in that artificiality is avoided and effects are made with simple equipment (Google)

I don't know about you, but I have spent an inordinate amount of time immersed in movies throughout my life. And from 1988 until 2004, I even owned and managed a video store, housing about 10,000 titles. My love of film began when I was a small child. I'm talking four or five. My mother would drop off my sister and me (who wasn't much older) at the Rialto, watch us enter the movie house, and then depart for places unknown whilst we were babysat by slightly more mature strangers and Walt Disney via his early masterpieces, such as Bambi, Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, etc. No worries. She always came back for us within two hours. (Clearly, it was a different world back then.) As a teen, I started associating with more urbane friends who had penchants for Ingmar Bergman and his unlikely protege Woody Allen, who transitioned from the fatuous, fantasy Sleeper to the dark, authentic Interiors within a brief span of time. In the late seventies, both directors were the toast of cinema-verite, which is rarely used today since the blockbusters emphasize computer generation and escapism on the big screen. And why not? Art imitates life. Our lives today are all about technology, and due to the difficulties we are facing at the moment (Do I need to mention the "C" word?), Goodness knows, we all need a quick exit from reality.  

For the past two weekends, my daughter, who is even more obsessed with celluloid than I (because she literally grew up in the aforementioned video emporium), spent a few, masked cumulative hours in the local AMC, devouring two movies that are quite the opposite of cinema-verite, No Time to Die, perhaps the last of the Bond series, and Dune, a remake of the 1980s' sci-fi classic. Both involve CGI and the necessity that the audience suspend disbelief. Both allow the onlookers to become lost for over two hours in other lands and times. 

Of course, for those who enjoy reality, there is always the small screen, for instance, the Bergman remake on HBO Max, "Scenes from a Marriage," which is classic cinema-verite although few might wish to watch a believable marriage dissolve in front of their eyes since so many are dissolving in real life. As does life, cinema involves free will, a.k.a. choice. 

As for my personal taste, I tend to like romances that don't necessarily have Hollywood endings. You know, the realistic ones. Films like La La Land, Havana, Casablanca, etc. turn me on because I know in life, perfection between two lovers is rarely possible for any length of time, so when things go wrong, I feel it is best to count your losses, walk away with the the best moments in your memory–as opposed to the worst–put them in an imagined box, tie it up with a big red bow, store it in the attic of your mind and take it out and unwrap it if nostalgia warrants it. You can create your own feel-good film that way, using cinema-verite or not. And you have an option of changing the ending in your thoughts or sometimes in actuality. It is all up to you. Again, there is that thing called choice. Choosing happiness over misery is always the better option in reel life as well as real life. 

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Insouciance and Sinatra

 

insouciance - noun - casual lack of concern; indifference

If you have been reading this blog for a while, you may remember that one of the hats I wear is one of a professional entertainer, a singer/dancer who purveys joy at area nursing homes, assisted living residences and halfway houses. Ironically, I share a birthday with Frank Sinatra and a small number of other crooners who can be found on the A-list of celebrities. (If found at all, I'm on the E-list, nearly extinguished as opposed to distinguished, but I'll take what I can get.) Being that most of the inhabitants of the nursing homes tend to be over eighty, I tend to perform quite a few of Frank's hits to please them or just to stimulate them to sing along as opposed to falling asleep (which often can and does happen). 

Before I start the series of tunes, I tend to query the audience as to how many still listen and like Sinatra's common standards. Due to insouciance or just lethargy, I don't usually see a lot of hands. Which is fine since I wind up singing them anyway regardless. Musicians can't make massive alternations to a playlist at the last minute. Sometimes, though, there is one fan of the man who, at the close of the concert, wheels her way to the front to thank us for the memories. This particular Tuesday, there was one woman, who had to be in her nineties. She stayed behind to share with us her recollections of Sinatra from his earliest beginnings in backwoods Jersey bars and restaurants to his sold-out concerts at the large venues. Listening to her was like being inside of a documentary about Ol' Blue Eyes. For those few minutes, the man and his magic were resurrected through her monologue punctuated with facial expressions that increased the voltage of the room's lighting. It was as if she were transmogrifying into a bobby-soxer again, and we were accompanying her in the time machine. Insouciance was nowhere to be seen; the woman truly loved Sinatra and everything that he represented. 

There is nothing more magical or immortal than music and the musical magicians who have intoxicated and mesmerized audiences for decades and beyond. Today, out of curiosity and nostalgia for my deceased dad, I went onto YouTube just to see how many views one of Sinatra's contemporaries, Glenn Miller has: several million. Enough said.

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The Sybil and the Power of Positive Thinking

 

sibylline - adjective - prophetic and mysterious, relating to a sibyl, any one of several prophetesses credited to separate parts of the ancient world (Google)

Although I may be isolated on a nearly deserted tropical island regarding my opinion on this one, I believe that God has the ability to speak through others. Call them sibyls or angels, take your pick, but they are out there. And most likely, they don't realize that they have the gift of prophecy, yet their apt words tend to point us in the right direction if we happen to be lost in the palm trees. Speaking of palm trees, take my main man out in L.A., for instance, who has the most splendid view of tall, sabal palmettos from his apartment. (Note that he can see them; he's not lost in them.) Okay, sure he is a licensed psycho-analyst and probably one of the best there is in California simply by virtue of experience. But he is more. Well schooled, sibylline, intuitive, sensible, he is someone who is keenly aware not only of how the human mind works, but how the Universe functions. Naturally, a little education, instinct, and common sense can all add up to prescience.

Ralph Waldo Emerson, who was also a seer in his own time once said, "As a man thinketh, so is he. As a man chooseth, so is he." We are the sum of our thoughts and the choices we make. It sounds easy enough, but in reality, it isn't because most of us tend to feed off pessimism and fear, which can influence our decisions negatively. My main man fights the tendency to fall into this snare trap by sending out positive energy into the Universe. He told me just by contemplating that something will come to pass, he usually gets what he wants. It comes down to the power of positive thinking, not a new concept. 

Now, of course, if you don't know what you want, then this technique won't work for you. But still, if you just keep the faith and hang onto the notion that your life's trajectory is set accurately, then you should be able to find your way out of the palm trees eventually. You don't even have to be sibylline; all you have to do sometimes is go with the flow and trust that it will take you into the clearing where you can see for miles. And sometimes all you have to do is listen to the good intentioned advice of the sibyls/angels that surround you. Just saying. 

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Amaranthine Love

 

amaranthine - adjective - undying or amaranth - noun - a flower that never fades

I have to confess that I am not a big fan of social media. To me, it is a necessary evil. It has an insatiable appetite for attention, devouring an unnecessary amount of my time, but since almost everyone on the planet is on one platform or the other, I have to use it if I want to promote my music. This morning, I went on Twitter to see if anyone commented on my latest promotional tweet, and was surprised to see that John Lennon, who left this life in 1980, has been tweeting–a miracle of fate or just technology–via The Beatles on Twitter. (No, he did not comment on my ad for obvious reasons.) Philosophically, he conveyed, "I think whatever love is...it is constant. It's been the same forever. I don't think it'll ever change. It's a sort of abstract concept that comes and goes whether you like it or not." I agree. It is a constant, it is abstract, and yes, it can come and go as it pleases. But what if it defies all boundaries and stays no matter what as somewhat of an amaranth among weeds?

Case in point: One of my closest women friends is in the process of losing her husband of thirty years to pancreatic cancer. His oncologist is about to release him from the hospital to home, palliative hospice care as he has approximately six months or less to live. Although this man has been an avatar of verbal abuse, insensitivity, unprovoked anger, and self-absorbed unpredictability for the duration of their marriage–with some breaks in the action, of course–my friend, a true saint if there ever was one, has loved him unconditionally and has no idea how she will persevere without him. Huh? 

All day today, I have been tossing and turning my friend's constant-love over in my mind since to me, it doesn't quite make sense. How could anyone love someone as difficult and toxic as her partner for so many years? Finally, I had an epiphany, coming to the conclusion that authentic love has got to be God, and God has got to be love. What my friend possesses is a Godlike, perfect type of love, the kind that accepts all, the kind that forgives all, the kind that endures all...true love, the unconditional, the amaranthine, the kind that is nearly impossible to find. And yet, yes, it does exist. It might not be requited, but yes, it is real. For her, love is an absolute, indubitable constant.

Yes, John, love is abstract, taking many forms and having many definitions. And yes, it will always be a constant because the real McCoy, the indisputable kind, defies all reason, perpetuating itself whether we "like it or not." 

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The Miracle of Fate

 

fatalist - noun - someone who feels that no matter what he or she does, the outcome will be the same because it is predetermined. (vocabulary.com)

I don't know about you, but I tend to rely on evidence to steer my system of beliefs in the right direction. Most find it hard to believe in anything sans proof. For one, there is affirmation that predetermination is real. For example, COVID's habit of being randomly indiscriminate in terms of who survives it and who parishes from it confirms what I call the miracle of fate. Or simply put, when it is your time to go, you're going. If it isn't, you're staying. But COVID alone isn't the sole confirmation that fate is valid. Miracles involving fate happen all of the time. They are just left unreported due to the penchant for dirty laundry that I covered four blogs back. 

Case in point: The ninety-one-year-old father of several sibling friends with whom I attended high school prefers to live alone in the family home that he has owned and inhabited for over fifty years. His one daughter, who lives in the same town, my hometown, checks up on him daily. 

A month or two ago, the gentleman lost his balance whilst traveling up a narrow staircase in his foyer and fell backwards down to the base of the steps. At the point of impact, his skull dislodged from the base of his spine so that he was internally decapitated, and yet, he did not die. An hour or more later, his daughter found him and called 911. After he arrived at the nearest hospital, surgeons reattached what needed to be reattached via metal plates. The patient recuperated successfully and is, at present, living his life and even driving a car with the help of mirrors since he cannot turn his head from right to left or left to right. A miracle? I'd say so. There is no reason why this man at ninety-one or any other age should not have died at any time after the fall. He just didn't. Now do you know why I'm a fatalist? He didn't pass on because it just wasn't his time to leave. His number just hasn't come up yet. And I'm sure his family is glad it hasn't.

In reality, there are events such as the aforementioned that cannot be explained solely via science, which is why so many scientists and others believe in God, the master of fate and other miracles. As my dearly departed mother used to say, maybe it's time to "let go and let God." Keep strong, keep the faith, and don't allow your fear to take the wheel with or without mirrors. 

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Fishing for Compliments

 

guddle (Scottish) - to fish with one's hands by groping under the stones or banks of streams (Lexico.com)

Yesterday, my daughter and I found ourselves on Long Beach Island, a thin, twenty-mile barrier between the ocean and mainland just north of Atlantic City where the finest sand and salt water can be found in all of New Jersey. It used to be considered quite a find, but unfortunately, since Billy Joel and Christie Brinkley bought and sold a residence there sometime during their short marriage, the entire world knows of its existence and has probably visited the destination at one time or the other. However, in October, the population of summer residents and tourists is reduced considerably, and you can find just about no one on the beaches. 

My daughter, who is training for the New York Marathon in November, decided to run the length of the island while I visited prominent zoologist friends just shy of Barnegat Light for a few hours. As my friend and I were strolling on the sand, littered with clam and oyster shells that nearly camouflaged scurrying sand pipers avoiding the incoming tides, we came across two young men who were not guddling, but probably doing the modern day equivalent: fishing with poles. Before our eyes, one of them caught a baby shark, which he wound up tossing back into the water, a motion I figured was close enough to guddling, today's choice of weird or infrequently used English words. 

As my friend and I continued to head north, I marveled that even in the present, there are still some who prefer to hold onto traditions of the past. These two guys were of the age at which they could have easily spent the afternoon engaged in computer gaming or even glued to the Giants vs. the Rams on TV, but no, their preference was to while away the day surfcasting into the wind, practically alone. Little did they know that they were fishing for compliments, ours, their hooks latching onto them and not letting go. I thought to myself that in other places of the globe, there were probably adolescents just like them, doing the same thing and getting the same results. And I was glad, glad that humans are still capable of stopping time through simplification, finding solace via the ordinary and extraordinary at once. Maybe there is hope for the human race after all :). 

Bravo to the indefatigable few who perpetuate something real! 

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Salacious at Sixty?

 

salacious - adjective - having or conveying undue or inappropriate interest in sexual matters (Google)

Three weekends ago, I decided to brave the elements (the possibility of contracting COVID from being in a enclosed space for almost six hours and close proximity to crying babies or mask-less regurgitating toddlers) and fly United nonstop to L.A. from Newark to celebrate my main man's birthday. Needless to say, he went from being the president of Platonic Anonymous (my club of men who are just friends, literally) to being an attentive lover within minutes of our reunion. We had been communicating via Jetsons-esque technology for two years. I'll spare you the salacious details, but I have a feeling those of you in your sixties might just be lusting to hear them.

And no, you wouldn't be alone. Upon my return, two of my close gal pals, one who is pushing sixty and the other already in her sixties texted me, desiring to know my carnal exploits with my rock star of a boyfriend, blow by blow. Shocking, I know. Naturally, I gave them exactly what they wanted to hear, which sent them reeling into a realm of envy. I felt it was the least I could do as these two women have both been married to the same men for about thirty years and seemed to crave a bit of an imagined break. Truly, one can be salacious at sixty. 

And no, there isn't anything wrong with it, either. If anything, it's all good because quality life pretty much begins at sixty. Most of my friends, those of whom who aren't wino hobbyists, that is, seem to be at their best now that they have accomplished much of what they intended to professionally, have paid up mortgages and student loans, gotten their adult kids out of the house, etc. Without these problematic ingredients, they are emerging from the abyss of stress and anxiety with smiles on their faces and the willingness to rediscover what they might've forgotten about, one of which could be mature sex with their partners. And with aids to enhance, Viagra for the guys and Estradiol for the ladies, it could very well be the best intercourse ever since most at sixty are on the experienced side. I should hope so anyway.

Yet for those too shy to delve into this area freely, there is always vicarious living through someone like me. Salacious at sixty? It is okay from any range. :).

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Failure to Launch

 

enable - verb - to give someone the means to do something (Google)

In today's PC society, enable is a verb with a proclivity for frequent usage. It just seems to be on everyone's judgmental tongue, particularly when many adult children (Warning: oxymoron) come to mind. Doesn't it? The word itself dates back to the 15th century, originally meaning "to make fit" (etymonline.com). That works for me because these irresponsible "kids," dwellers in their parents' basements, who range in age from 21 on up tend "to make" their parents "fit" to be tied. But who is kidding whom? Who is enabling whom? The parents are for the most part, of course–parents who just can't seem to let go of their progeny, making excuses for their immature behavior, ergo creating myriad problems for themselves and others. The 2006 romcom "Failure to Launch" starring Matthew McConaughey and Sarah Jessica Parker introduces the idea of a adult male reluctant to fly the coup, but the parents, who do everything in their power to oust their son, are viewed as being innocent bystanders. I contend that there aren't as many blameless mothers and fathers in real life.

Case in point: I have a group of gal pals half of whom have been my friends since elementary school. The four of us mirror Carrie, Miranda, Samantha, and Charlotte, the protagonists in HBO's former staple Sex and the City. My Miranda and Charlotte are guilty of enabling their adult children because for some odd reason, they can't come to terms with their kids' loss of innocence. For example, Miranda's thirty-four-year-old son is still residing in her basement, and she makes dozens of excuses for why neither he or she can seem to extract his body from the lower level. To make things even worse, Miranda makes excuses for other people's impudent, totally enabled adult children as well. In fact the other day, while we were in the cemetery celebrating the birthday of a recently deceased mutual friend, I complained that it was obvious from the weeds overtaking the tombstone that neither our friend's "devoted" extant husband nor her two sons were tending the grave. After accusing me of being "judgmental," which clearly wasn't enough liquid for her toxic diatribe, she injected, "You can't expect the boys to do anything. They're just kids." Kids? At 25 and 27? Since Miranda was married and supporting herself and her husband in an apartment at 22 herself, I couldn't comprehend her logic. As for Charlotte, I won't even get into her. The question remains: When do our kids cease to be kids? In this era, I'm guessing that the enabling can continue until they are what? Forty? Yikes. 

Forty years is way too long for children to be children. We parents who have failed to launch into independence (the "empty nest") ourselves have got to let go and let God when it comes to enabling and harboring our adult children, AWOLed fugitives guilty of PPS, Peter Pan Syndrome, the inability to slip out of indolent baby booties and slip into responsible army boots. The world needs active, industrious participants–fighters, not computer gamers. We can't afford to have anyone hiding in the trenches indefinitely because there is too much at stake in the war against climate change and other foes. 

Judgmental? You bet your booties, I am. If the shoe fits, you Mirandas and Charlottes of the world, wear it and start walking in the right direction.

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The Love of Dirty Laundry

 

sully - verb - damage the integrity of, soil, defile (Google)

In the 1970s, before the woke were awake, Don Henley of The Eagles wrote a song called "Dirty Laundry" about how humanity craves negativity. The "bubble-headed bleached blonde comes on at five/She can tell you about the plane crash with a gleam in her eye/It's interesting when people die." Henley's satirical bent is straight as an arrow, aiming directly at people's penchant for bad news. It's true. Maybe the anchors on the evening news are no longer bubble heads (I don't watch Fox News), but the lead stories still tend to be about murder, corruption, death, and deception, all what Henley terms "dirty laundry." As a consolation prize, there is usually about one minute left at the end of the broadcast for a human interest story, a.k.a. good news. Yet it is as though the majority, the pessimists, want to throw the minority, the optimists, a bone just to say that they did. For me, an optimist, it isn't enough to stay healthy mentally. 

What is tragic is that there is enough good news out there, but because of the human race's propensity for dirt, it just doesn't get reported. Case in point: on September 11th, my daughter and I were lounging on the beach at Sandy Hook, gazing out at lower Manhattan, thankful for its present intactness, when a plain-clothed soldier approached us to ask whether the skyscrapers in the distance belonged to New York City. Her question made it crystal clear that she wasn't from the East. I asked her where she was from and why she was in New Jersey, and she told me that she was a marine from Washington stationed at Fort Dix, helping to distribute Afghan refugees to parts known: Germany, Canada, and the U.S. I asked her whether or not it was going well, and she replied, "Yes, very well. In fact, the entire process has been exceptionally well organized." Good news. One would think it would travel to the six o'clock news or the front page of  The New York Times, but it didn't probably because it would have come as a drastic contradiction of the Biden administration's handling of the withdrawal of troops from Afghanistan. God forbid that should happen, and we should hear what the President is doing right. "Kick'em when they're up; kick'em when they're down...We need dirty laundry."

News may not be entirely "fake," just skewed in the wrong direction to attract attention. Can this be changed? Maybe. It just may not be profitable to do so. Human beings would have to change intrinsically to want to hear uplifting information on a full-time basis. Can that be done? Maybe. It would just take a lot of effort, the right detergent and some bleach to clean the dirty laundry. Maybe it is just easier to wear sullied clothes.

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Life in the Moment

 

hodiernal - adjective - relating to the present; of today (Lexico.com)

I don't know about you, but I have read quite a few passages both on line and in books regarding living life in the moment, something that seems nearly impossible to do. I have even undergone mediations lead by live, legitimate Buddhist monks just to learn to be sentient inside each second so that I don't miss anything earth shattering that is happening in the now. And they have helped, of course. In order to free myself of the past and future that inhibit the present, what I wind up doing is reminding myself of the hodiernal existence's importance. 

Why? The present has it all over the past and the future. Whatever happened in the past, no one can change. Due to memory, positive or negative occurrences tend to stick around and often repeat themselves. The other day, I wrote about photographs, how they preserve the best moments of the past. We keep the positive pictures around in order to shield us from the negative imagery that stays with us and is stored beneath the surface sometimes so that it doesn't hurt or hamper us. Which is why a lot of us wind up in therapy: to unearth these baneful tidbits so that we can thoroughly understand our own motivations. If we can't go back or don't want to, we don't have to. An option is to continue along hodiernal lines if for no other reason than to save ourselves time and money and the possible pain of the pitfalls of self-realization.   

As to the future, it can even be more frustrating. Right now, I'd just love to live in its infinite possibilities, but I can't because of where I am in the moment. How frustrating! Each experienced minute contributes to the future, which simply points to the fact that we have very little control over what we will encounter tomorrow, next week, next month or next year. Sometimes plans made are thwarted by circumstances beyond our control. Just cue up that Robert Burns quote about the best laid plans to substantiate what I am communicating here.

So I am back to where I started: square one, the hodiernal existence's significance. Often we don't have a choice when it comes down to how to live, but I can say with confidence that a life best lived is hodiernal.  I hope I can stay in the moment. If not, it's time to get back to the Buddhist temple. LOL! 

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Every Picture Tells a Story

 

(Just as a preface: for those of you who are Rod Stewart fans, I did not borrow the title of this piece from his album of the same name. But since the shoe does fit, this entry is wearing it.)

daguerreotype - noun - a photograph taken by an early photographic process employing an iodine-sensitized slivered plate and mercury vapor (Google)

A photograph is always revealing, no matter what camera was used to take it or what process was involved in its inception. Today's word I gleaned from yesterday's reading of George Saunders's thought-provoking novel, Lincoln in the Bardo. During Lincoln's time, the daguerreotype was commonplace. Whenever I am browsing in a museum featuring photographic glimpses of the distant past, I am always quite taken by the similarities and not the differences between life in the mid-to-late 1800s and now. For one, the human faces–albeit rigidly discomfited and dressed up differently–bear an uncanny resemblance to those on the streets today. Sometimes they look so familiar that I feel as though I might have known or even know them. And naturally, each photo presents a narrative that begs the viewer to write for his/her own entertainment.

Last year, I traded in my ailing flip phone for an iPhone SX, which includes a remarkable camera capable of taking incredible photos and videos, the quality of which once belonged only to the talents of a professional. Sometimes when I am bored, I scroll through all of the portraits I took that hold time in their hands. All of the moments come back to me vividly so much so that I want to reach into each image and embrace whoever or whatever is featured in the frame and never let it go. But then I get a hold of myself and realize that the purpose of the photograph is just that: never to let go of the memory documented. 

In my favorite novel of all time, Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby, Nick reminds Jay that he can't repeat the past. Well, maybe you can't repeat the past in reality, but surely you can duplicate it on film so that you can re-experience the actuality in your imagination, which is probably why Jay surrounds himself with photographs of Daisy (if not in the novel, than in the Farrow/Redford film version). Wow! The photograph was, is and always will be one of human kind's greatest inventions since it allows us opportunities to recall actual stories of the past or invent unrealized ones in order to escape the present reality just for a bit. To enter a photograph is to live largely in our memories and imaginations, places we don't always have time to inhabit. 

Photographs allow us to "take a walk on the wild side" or not. It is our decision as to how far we want to wade in the past while ensconced in the present. 

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The Dark Side

 

vomitous - adjective - nauseating or repulsive

When I think of the dark side of life, I tend to tarry on taxes and death, two constants that most don't look forward to on any level. Since I've been reading two books, both recommended, on death via war, Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carry (Vietnam) and George Saunders's Lincoln in the Bardo (the Civil War, but not the current one), I have been compelled to contemplate death more than taxes. Let's face it. We tend not to ponder what we owe to the government until at least March. Although this blog is not a book review, I will say that each historical novel includes unenjoyable, vomitous descriptions of suffering associated with the particular bloody conflict. I would definitely prefer a picture not as naturalistic.

Because I am in the fourth quarter of life and have probably seen just about everything short of war, I am somewhat inured to the authors' repugnant imagery, yet admittedly, it all adds up after a while, pushing the reader into a corner of repulsion in a sense. As much as I have not wanted to get stuck there ("No one puts Baby in a corner."), I have found myself licking the wallpaper of war and its two bi-products: death and grief. I've come to the conclusion not only that none of the three tastes good alone or in combination but 1. war is completely unnecessary since we are sentient beings capable of negotiation 2. death is a part of life albeit it can be circumvented partially in times of peace and 3. grief is emotionally crippling, but it can be overcome at least to an extent if the afflicted is willing.

The question I find myself asking is why do we humans tread on these elements of the dark side? Okay, I get that we can't escape taxes and death via natural causes, but we can escape war, all forms, including the cold civil war we find ourselves in now that many believe will propagate due to factors beyond our control. But are these factors truly beyond our control? I say they aren't. We just have to be open to what makes sense, which is nothing remotely vomitous. 

The takeaway is that if you want to walk in the light, you should never read two graphic books about war back to back. It is just common sense :). 

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The Give and Take

 

bamboozle - verb (informal) - to fool or cheat. Origin: early 18th century, unknown source (Google)

Life as we know it is composed of dualities. One of them is the give and the take. If Karma is real (and it really is), then it would make sense that each of us give as much as we take albeit that is not always the case as we are always contending with the pitfalls of human nature. The truth is that we might not notice just how much we are contributing or depleting since we are just "too busy" with the daily grind or communication is lacking. 

Last Saturday night, my lover suspected that I might have attempted to bamboozle him out of an expensive gift-a night at an outrageously priced hotel-that I had offered to purchase for his birthday, but that he had jumped the gun and put on his credit card instead. At the time, I wanted to send him a check, but he told me that we would work things out later. We did but we didn't really because he couldn't tell me the exact amount that he wanted me to pay, so I paid him a set amount, which probably amounted to half. He accepted the money without complaint. Days later, because I did not pick up the entire amount, he felt cheated since apparently some relatives of his had done something similar, yet probably more substantive and intentional, and he never got over it. It is sad that people who supposedly love each other might attempt any sort of deception. But since the relations were not participating in the conversation, they were unable to provide their side of the story, which might have been somewhat different. In the end, to appease my own conscience since he had told me to forget about the balance owed, I made good and paid him, but I couldn't help but wonder why people assume the worst: there are more who bamboozle in order to take selfishly and fewer who give unselfishly.

As most don't pay attention to outmoded etiquette since they are again, "too busy" (preoccupied), bamboozling tends to happen commonly, intentionally or unintentionally, the taking as opposed to the giving. When was the last time someone told you she would like to have you to dinner as a thank-you for a favor yet never actually bothered to arrange the date? Although this is a small mishap and easily forgiven, it is hard to forget. It is important to reciprocate, even out the score. 

The moral of the above is that we should all make good on our words; stop making excuses as to why we can't own up to them. "Too busy" just doesn't cut it. Integrity is about doing what you say you'll do whilst always doing the right thing. No one is perfect, but we can realize our mistakes and atone for them. Communicating needs clearly wouldn't hurt either.

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"Tainted" Love

 

adulterate - verb - render poorer in quality by adding another substance, typically an inferior one (Google).

I woke up this morning with William Shakespeare on my mind. Okay, I know what you're thinking: the woman must miss teaching high school English. Yes and no. Mostly no, though. What I do tend to feel nostalgic about is literary exegesis, getting into the bone marrow of a work analytically before an audience, attentive or not. What I am finding, though, is that in the absence of legitimacy, I am reflecting on my own life, perceiving it as a work of art and dissecting it instead. Which could be dangerous and probably is. 

Last weekend, I officially fell in love with a man who shares a birthday not with Shakespeare but with F. Scott Fitzgerald. Not surprisingly, the two have a few things in common. Which could be dangerous and probably is. But I digress slightly. What this blog is supposed to be about is not him or me or Shakespeare or Fitzgerald, but love and its nature. Will Shakespeare got it right, and in a sense, so did Scott Fitzgerald. Those of you who associate love with God are on the right track, but anything pure–concrete or abstract–remotely associated with human nature tends to become adulterated over time, in short, as imperfect as we are. In "Romeo and Juliet," every type of love is depicted. Friendship, parental love and family loyalty all enter and exit the stage, and in the spotlight of center stage, of course, is romantic love. Which is the most flawed of all because it takes hold of the senses and doesn't let go. It makes the most practical lose their heads, and eventually, their hearts. Heck, look at what happens to Rome and Jules. Not good. 

Romantic love makes this optimist pessimistic, but only because I know tainted love too intimately. (The song isn't all that bad as it is accurate.) But at the same time, I don't want to let go of it, don't want to give up hope, throw in the towel. I keep thinking that Romeo and Juliet will wake up from death in the final moments of the play and carry on together in love. I guess I am the optimist, after all. Incredibly blind. Incredibly unrealistic. Incredibly romantic.

The truth is whatever love provides us with, perfect or imperfect, we need. Life is one big, fat duality. You've got to take the good with the bad. 

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