Cabos Celebration

Nearly a week since Andrew and I returned from the celebration in Cabos, Mexico, honoring the marriage of Matt and Suzi. As we learned a few months ago, Matt and Suzi married in Florida, December 11, 2010, this, in anticipation of a celebration originally scheduled for February 2011. Beheadings in Mexico combined with a transfer to Phoenix delayed the celebration. In November when plans were finalized, we got the word: The party was on!  February 9-12. Dreams Resort, Cabos San Lucas, Mexico.

The wedding party and guests formed a small but hearty group, each committed to the proposition that this was to be, first and foremost, a ‘celebration.’ A celebration of Matt and Suzi, their marriage, their characters and lives and all they bring to the ‘marital’ relationship.

It’s a truism in photography that ‘proof sheets don’t lie.’ This past week as I edited and arranged photos for a slideshow of the event, this thought struck me: Marriage is not for children. 

The proofs revealed the fact that the two principals ‘joined together’ in the bonds of holy matrimony were both adults. Here were two grown, mature individuals who know who they are and what they want. Footwear told the tale: Suzi sported jewel-bedecked, four-inch spiked heels; Matt wore flip flops. Suzi gusssied up in a strapless, full-bosomed bridal gown; Matt wore a plain linen shirt and slacks. The point being, that both presented themselves as they wished--both comfortable with themselves are they are.  This feeling of ‘ease’ settled upon the whole party, allowing all to jump in and enjoy. And that we did! Each in our own way. Ole!

Another factor in the joy of celebration was the interaction between/among the two supporting characters--Best GF, Maggie, and Best Man, James. Both enlivened as they stood second to bride and groom. Case in point: Shortly before the ceremony was to begin, I found Suzi at the spa with Maggie and hairdresser, Laura. Things were not going well in the arrangement of the bridal ‘do.’ Too much chlorine in the water. Too little humidity. The curls were NOT laying down as they should! Crisis! Here we were, an hour before the ceremony! Two years of planning! Hundreds of hours, thousands of dollars expended! Every detail planned, checked, cross-checked. Every possibility considered. After all this! Disaster! Suzi was on the verge of tears!

Laura was firm. “Don’t cry. You’ll ruin your make-up.” Maggie was right there. She threw her arms around Suzi. Looking in the mirror, she said, “You are beautiful. Matt loves you. Don’t worry about the hair, just smile.” Laura attached the veil; the smile appeared. All was well. 

P.S: After the ceremony, I recounted this to Matt. His reply, “I didn’t notice the hair. All I saw was the DRESS.” Ole! 

Tuesday, January 31, 2012

Society’s Child: my autobiography  by Janis Ian (2008). 

Singer/songwriter Ian’s autobiography tracks the ups and downs of her tumultuous career which began at age 15 with the release of her mega-hit “Society’s Child,” a song that Ian describes as “the best of songs, the worst of songs.” The ‘best’ of songs because it launched her career; the ‘worst’ because it nearly got her killed. The same could be said of Ian’s career--a wild ride from the top of the charts to down in the gutter and points in-between. 

Ian writes candidly about her career--the hits and flops; love affairs; bigotry; the music business; life on the road; fellow musicians; therapists; FBI and IRS; the devils who betrayed and the friends who stood by her. The narrative includes stories behind her greatest hits, including “Society’s Child,” “Jesse,” “At Seventeen,” “Between the Lines,” and “Tatoo.” Some came easy, some came hard. Creativity, like everything else in her life, has its ups and downs. 

The one thing that can be said about Janis Ian is this: her career was her life. Life and career appear seamless, inseparable. She lived her career, body and soul. Her best songs reflect this ‘lived life’ quality. Other artists have recorded Ian’s songs,; but, for me, the renderings aren’t the same. Her songs resonant through her voice. We hear the celebration, confusion, surprise, perplexity, wonder, sadness and the joy. It all filters through.

Sometime in the late 90s, Ian performed at the Dead Dog Saloon in Salt Lake City. I sat up front, close enough to watch her as she sang and conversed with the audience. She seemed curious about the audience, as curious about us as we were of her. Curious about these women her own age, living in the heart of Zion. 

Something else struck me about Ian’s performance. She seemed detached, split--the performer reveling in the limelight while the introverted writer shivered off-stage.

Glad to read that Janis Ian has achieved resonance in her career and personal life. It has been a long time coming.  

Higher Education in the 21st century

Dukies camped out for b-ball tickets

The Education Life section of the Sunday New York Times, January 22, 2012, contained several interesting articles on current trends in higher education. The title of the lead article, “How Big-Time Sports Ate College Life,” by Laura Pappano, says it all. Exhibit A: Ohio State recently signed former Ute coach Urban Meyer to a contract worth $4 million per year plus bonuses and use of a private jet. “For good or ill,” writes Pappano, “big-time sport has become the public face of the university, the brand that admissions offices sell, a public relations machine thanks to ESPN exposure (p. 23).” This is higher education today--branded, commodified. Colleges and universities ‘consumed’--packaged, marketed, sold to the highest bidder. So too, college ‘life.’ 

Another fascinating article by Lawrence H. Summers describes “The 21st Century Education.” The message: The digital age has changed both how we teach and what we need to learn. What goes? Term papers, facts, trigonometry, calculation, and memorization. What goes forward? Blogging, Google Translator, statistics, video lectures, collaboration.

An interview with David J. Helfand, former chair of the astronomy department at Columbia, now president of Quest University Canada, suggests how the structure of the ‘traditional’ university will change in the 21st century. What goes: tenure, departments, large lecture halls, semesters, term papers, traditional grading. What goes forward: the block system (month-long study of one subject), small classes, faculty evaluation based on student engagement, ‘guest’ faculty, final two years (upper division) of study on a single topic. 

Other articles deal with student activism, addiction and how to cope with stress: shout out!, therapy dogs, coloring (yes, old-fashioned coloring with crayon or marker), impromptu ‘one-song dancing’ in the library, and, ‘stress balls.’ 

Finally, an excellent article on continuing education for us older folks. How to take 10 years off your brain’s age? Get a college degree. Keep on learning. There is no “preordained march toward senescence.” I’ll buy that . . . 

Plucked from a dumpster . . .

The Red Leather Diary

The Red Leather Diary by Lily Koppel (2008). 

The story behind the book is interesting. As Koppel, a journalist newly arrived in New York City, set off for work one morning, she noticed a collection of old steamer trunks piled in the dumpster outside her Upper East Side apartment. Intrigued, Koppel investigated and discovered that one of the trunks had spilled open revealing among other items a sleek, sequined “flapper’ dress from the 1920s and a fraying, red leather diary. 

The diary belonged to Florence Wolfson, a gift on her 14th birthday, August 11, 1929. Over the course of the next five years Florence recorded short descriptions of daily life on the Upper East Side of New York City: cultural events, school, friends, frustrations, adolescent crushes, sexual encounters (male and female), college, her university ‘salon’, and, a trip to Europe (summer 1936) conculminating in an affair with a famous Italian aviator. The handwritten accounts though brief convey the contours not only of the life, but the personality, passion, talent and intelligence of the adolescent Florence Wolfson. Koppel fills out the narrative with descriptions of New York City, institutions, events and personalities mentioned in the diary. 

Sample entries: August 3, 1932: “Spent all day reading something of Jane Austin’s--how refreshing--how novel--has her breed died out?” June 28, 1932: “Have stuffed myself with Mozart and Beethoven--I feel like a ripe apricot--I’m dizzy with the exotic.”  January 11, 1931: “I’m so happy--gloriously happy--more than I deserve to be--It’s George--George with his arms  and kisses . . . “ April 11, 1932: “Slept with Pearl tonight--it was beautiful. There is nothing so gratifying as physical intimacy with one you like.” 

Florence’s entries along with Koppel’s descriptions make for a good read. But there’s more. Intrigued by the diary’s author, Koppel launched a search for Florence Wolfson hoping find her alive. With little to go on, Koppel hired Charles Gordon, a private investigator, license plate “Sleuth3,” to help in the search. Using old telephone books, Charlie narrowed the field to a Dr. Daniel Wolfson,1391 Madison Ave, which happened to be the same address as Lily Koppel’s apartment. The father’s name led to a birth certificate, Florence Wolfson, born August 11, 1915. 

Sleuth3 found more. He discovered that Florence Wolfson, now Florence Wolfson Howitt (93) was alive and well, living in Florida. With this news came a phone number. One afternoon in April 2006, Koppel made the call. After two rings, “a refined voice with the command of a stage actress” answered. Without introduction, Koppel knew with whom she was about to speak.

Sorting shells

Saturday, MerrillNC met up at Joe and Mo’s for a family gathering. It had been awhile since we had all been together--a year or more. It was Andrew and Joni’s first visit to the new house in Cary and two year-old Mya’s opportunity, the first she’ll remember, to meet her cousins. Introductions were in order all around.

Three-year old Jacque and I were on the patio bouncing on the ‘bouncy’ chairs, engaged in conversation about barbie dolls when Mya arrived, parents in tow. Jacque noted their arrival but showed little interest. “Let’s go see little Mya,” I said taking her hand. Jacque shot a look: Not interested. “Come on,” I urged. “You might like her.”

In the front entry hall, we found Mya clinging to Andrew’s leg, shy, a bit bewildered. Just then a troop of older children poured through doorway, yelping, baying, dogs barking--a terrifying commotion. I swooped down and picked Mya up. She threw her arms around my neck, clinging tight. Jacque was not impressed. Another look came my way: I’m a big girl. She’s a baby. Still not interested.

As I said, introductions were in order. I led Jacque into the living room, the only quiet spot in the house, and sat down on the couch with Mya. “This is your cousin Jacque. Jacque is three, almost four. Her birthday is January 5.” Jacque seemed pleased, repeating, “Yea. January 5, my birthday.”

To Jacque, “Mya is two almost three. Her birthday is March 4. She’s only two but she isn’t a baby. She goes to school, talks, and wears big girl pants.” At this point, Mya, sensing she had a role to play, unlocked her arms from around my neck and pulled her finger out of her mouth.

As Jacque assessed the situation, Mya slipped off my lap and began picking through a collection of shells on the table. Taking one from the bowl, Mya declared clearly, “I have shells at my house. From Myrtle beach!”

Jacque was taken aback by this, not expecting such a firm declaration from one so young. She drew nearer to the bowl. Heads together peering into the bowl through tangles of dark and light hair, the two sorted shells together--some to one pile, others to another in an order understood only by the two of them. A relationship felt; a bond established.

“Do you want to see my Barbies?” Jacque asked. Mya’s eyes lit up. “Yeah!” Enough of grandma and shells. Off they went--the real work of child’s play to begin.

Lacuna

The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver (2009)

Blues book club met to discuss Barbara Kingsolver’s book, The Lacuna (2009). The discussion opened with the question: Who liked the book? Carolyn, Helena and I expressed our approval. Martha admitted, she didn’t like the book, so we led off with her. Martha didn’t relate to the character(s). She found the plot confusing. The book just didn’t hold her interest. NPR’s book critic Maureen Carrigan agreed.

Carolyn admitted that she, too, was frustrated with the novel’s opening section. Her interest in the use of narrators and narrative point of view grew as the structure of the novel unfolded. Carolyn also pondered the question of writing as a means of writing oneself. Does one exist through the word? Through writing?

I led off with my usual question: What’s the book about? In this case, the answer is simple. The book is about ‘lacuna.’ Images of lacuna as gap, passageway, cavity, void, recur throughout the novel. Lacuna as a metaphor for that which is missing, the missing piece, is the novel’s central image and theme.

The author states this in the following passage in which Violet Brown scolds the protagonist, Harrison Shepherd (HS) for not telling her of his 30th birthday. “A man turns thirty years, that’s important . . . and to think I sat here and knew nought of it, all the day long.”

HS reflects on this statement of knowing nought (a gap, lacuna). “I didn’t say what Frida would have (another gap). That you can’t really know the person standing before you, because always there is some missing piece: the birthday like an invisible piñata hanging great and silent over his head, as he stands in his slippers boiling the water for coffee. The scarred, shrunken leg hidden under a green silk dress. A wife and son back in France. Something you never knew. That is the heart of the story (325).”

Not only is ‘lacuna’ a central image and metaphor for the novel, it also forms the structure of the novel. The lacuna--that which is missing, something you never knew--gives the novel it shape, its structure. How? The lacuna gives the word, the written piece, its meaning, which in turn, determines its structure. Helen and Carolyn blinked at this. I’d lost them here.

Kingsolver cleverly lays this out. The content of the novel comes from a series of notebooks written by HS throughout his life. Fearing entrapment from the FBI, HS hurries to burn the notebooks. He watches at the window as his secretary, Violet Brown, carries out the deed. But she doesn’t burn all the notebooks, only one, “The Potomac Academy 1933” in which HS describes his first sexual encounter with a male friend. No one needs to know this, she reckons. But the others, she stashes in her mail bag.

After burning the notebooks, HS flees to Mexico to avoid arrest and disappears. Five years later, Violet receives a trunk from Frida Kalko containing various and sundry personal items belonging to HS, among them a notebook written by HS later in his life, that recounts his discovery, at age 12, of the lacuna on the island Isa Pixol. This notebook contains the key, the missing piece that brings the whole story into focus. Upon reading of HS’s discovery of the lacuna, Violet Brown knows what happened to her former employer. He is not dead. He didn’t kill himself. Instead, he returned to the island to escape through the lacuna to a new life. Rather than die, he chose to fight. This is confirmed by a cryptic note from Frida stating that HS is gone, but ‘some else is here.’ With this missing piece, Violet pieces together the narrative that forms the structure of the novel.

There were many other interesting facets to the book, but none more intriguing than Kingsolver’s brilliant use of ‘lacuna’ as both image and structure. I add my insight, perhaps shared by the author, that the two are really one and the same.

Incident in Tucson

Lots of talk this week about Saturday’s ‘incident’--the shootings in Tucson, Arizona, that left six dead, others wounded, among them Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords. In the aftermath, commentators search for a cause, an explanation for the shootings.

Yesterday, from an NPR report on a grief/trauma-processing gathering in Tucson came this explanation. Hate! Hate was the motive. Hate drove the shooter to kill innocent people, including a nine year-old girl. The answer: Do away with hate! In the background, the voice of a woman directs attendees: Go to the table and get yur black armband then come back here and make yur pledge. Each and everyday, I pledge to smile and say a good word to the loners of the world.

Someone used the term ‘unthinkable’ to describe the shooting, which gave me pause. How can one use the word ‘unthinkable’ for something that happens everyday? Each and every day, we hear of ‘unthinkable’ acts of violence, usually committed by men with guns, somewhere in the world. Some of the violence is ‘thinkable,’ i.e. authorized, for a good and justifiable purpose, including but not limited to: The war on terror. Wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Whereas ‘unthinkable’ violence tends to be unauthorized, such as killing innocent victims, except in cases where killing of innocent victims is an exigent circumstance of killing ‘bad guys.’

Later in the day Diane Rheam called in a panel of mental health experts to explain what may have been going on in the mind of Jared L., the ‘alleged’ shooter. What caused him commit this ‘unthinkable’ act of violence? Ethical concerns prevented the experts from speaking specifically about the case, but they did offer their assessment of similar cases, this being that a chemical imbalance in the brain was to blame. Many suffer from a biological disorder, possibly genetic, which causes the brain to malfunction. The inference being: The shooter isn’t crazy. It wasn’t his fault. His brain wasn’t working right. Therefore, he is not culpable.

The FBI has a different theory, i.e. the shooter is not crazy, hence culpable. Today we learned that the FBI has called an ‘all hands on deck’ investigation of every friend, classmate, acquaintance of the alleged shooter. Every phone call made, email send, internet sites, books, blogs, talk shows, TV programs, bars frequented. As many as 500 agents across the country focused on one thing--motive. What was the motive for the crime? We await the results.

Folk singer Cheryl Wheeler has another idea, expressed in her song, “If It Were Up to Me?” from her album “Sylvia Hotel.” In considering a remedy to ‘unthinkable’ violence, she lists possible causes that we hear floated about: movies, books, bullets, real crooks, parents, high schools, teachers, music, fast food, divorce, abuse, senators, the system, radio, TV, El Niño, athletes, magazines, the internet, KKK, skinheads, art, sex, the homeless, immigrants, chemicals, ozone, ads, etc. But, I know one thing, she concludes, if it were up to me, I’d take away the guns.

Removing guns would be a good start. But it’s all dust in the wind, we’re chasing our tails, until we as a ‘civilized’ society address the root cause of ‘unthinkable violence,’ be it authorized or not--the many forms of male violence. Until we look that little devil in the eye, we’re forever chasing our tails.