Monday Reruns: The Bully Pulpit

(original post-date: December 2, 2009)

When I hear or see the phrase, “the bully pulpit,” the wordsmith in me cannot help but do a word scramble. And the result of that is pitbull.

(But I don't also think of lipstick, a la Mizz Palin.)

The country I call home – the “good ol’ USA” – seems always to have had the best possible billing on the world’s bully pulpit, and while I question our authority and stellar positioning, I must confess that I am grateful for the passage of time…

It wasn’t even two years ago, I guess, when the news was all about water-boarding. I was listening to NPR one day, and the story included a sound byte from our then-President. I can’t claim to quote him verbatim, but his comment went something like this: “In our country,” our then-President said, “we do not torture people.”

I leapt from the couch.

I ran toward my stereo.

I spoke into the base of the sound system that was providing radio frequency.

“YOU ARE TORTURING ME NOW!” I screamed.

Because he was (simply by speaking). Because he did (simply by assuming such an important role). Because he could…

Every time that entitled son-of-a-bitch opened his mouth, I felt tortured.

Not so with Obama.

I appreciate the fact that the man thinks. I appreciate that he cares and is willing to take the time to explain. I appreciate that he has more “on his plate” than any predecessor in the Oval Office.

But, no matter my opinion of the person standing at the world’s premier bully pulpit, I remain confused. I will probably never understand international politics and the thought processes that allow it to unfold as it does. I will probably never understand why “we” think that sending 30,000 more troops to Afghanistan will get the job done.

And what is “the job,” anyway? It’s about al Qaeda, right? And the Taliban? I don’t know, but unless I’ve missed something, that group doesn’t exactly exist in ground-war circuits. That group is about belief systems. They are about psychology. And that’s a totally different kind of war.

According to what I know of the 9-11 attacks, these people want to die. The process takes them that much closer to their purpose.

So, have we asked our troops about their philosophies? Do they want to die? And if they do, do they know what they’re dying for?

It’s a shame that our country became so powerful so quickly. At first blush, we were the spoiled teenager. You know the one – who, on the same day, gets both a driver’s license and a brand new car. We’ve been speeding about quite cleverly since then, amassing riches (and more recently, debt). It seems, though, that we’ve yet to stand back and take stock of our own worthiness.

Our own worthiness… a broken public education system, marked by increasing illiteracy; hunger and homelessness on the rise; growing rates of unemployment; home foreclosures left and right; millions without affordable healthcare coverage; collectively dismal credit ratings reflecting lives outspent…

Who are we to show some other country how to behave? And, if Bin Laden and his band of merry men are really what we’re looking for, does it have to take 30,000 troops to bring them to their knees?

America – once the unrestricted adolescent – is now closer to thirtysomething.

Sure, we might have traded in that first car (a few times), and we may now be driving a hybrid, but… do we know where we're going?

On-star, are you with us?

Sneak-Peek Saturdays: Excerpt Twenty-three

A NOTE BEFORE READING: I began sharing weekly excerpts from my novel, The Somebody Who, on June 26th. If you want to begin at the beginning, go here. If you want to read the book in its entirety, head over to Amazon and purchase a copy. (There’s a button on the left that will take you there).

IV

“My God, those our huge!” Evelyn exclaims, studying the line-up of five pumpkins that Joy has placed on the kitchen counter.

“Aren’t they great?” Joy enthuses in response. “I was surprised the lot had so many good ones left.”

“Can I reimburse you?” Evelyn asks, already heading for her purse.

“Nah. I stole ‘em.”

“You what?” asks Davy of his daughter.

“I’m just kidding, Dad. You know you taught me better than that.”

“Well, of course,” Davy says, nodding. “So… what do we do—what is the next thing?”

“We’re going to carve them after lunch!”

“Are we? Are we what?”

“We’re going to carve them!”

“But I don’t know—I don’t know …”

“It’ll be okay, Dad. I’m actually kind of curious to see what you’ll come up with.”

Evelyn, having crossed the room and therefore standing somewhat outside of the dialogue between father and daughter, is touched and amused by what she is witnessing. Joy is treating her Dad as she always had. And Davy seems to be warming up to this person he thinks he doesn’t know.

V

After finishing her sandwich and taking her plate to the sink, Joy looks at her mother with a mischievous glance. “Okay, so now, I have to show you the other thing I bought while I was out.”

Evelyn, still savoring the last few bites of chicken salad on rye, nods her head in a way that says bring it on.

Joy dashes off to the family room and returns with a shopping bag. She places the bag on the stool next to Evelyn and trills “Ta-da!” as she extracts a Halloween costume.

“Superman?” Evelyn asks, not yet following her daughter’s course of thought.

“It’s for Dad,” Joy explains. “I thought he could wear it Saturday night while handing out candy.”

“Ooh, I’m not sure about giving your Dad that assignment. He might scare the kids.”

“Not if he’s dressed like Superman!”

VI

Evelyn stands at the kitchen window, watching Joy and Davy as they begin to carve pumpkins on the backyard patio’s table.

“I’m proud of Joy,” Claudia says, having approached Evelyn’s side and briefly observing the activities on the other side of the window.

“So am I, for all kinds of reasons. But tell me your reasons.”

“She trusts him with a knife,” Claudia replies, shrugging.

“Davy’s an artist. For him, that’s a tool; not a weapon.”

“I don’t think Marilyn would give him a knife,” Claudia states, immediately sorry that she let out this comment.

“Well,” Evelyn responds, herself shrugging, “that would be Marilyn’s loss.”

Evelyn returns to observing the creation of jack-o-lanterns, as Claudia, relieved by her employer’s cool response, resumes her search for the best pumpkin pie recipe in Evelyn’s collection of cookbooks.

VII

When Evelyn steps outside later that night, she studies the line-up of jack-o-lanterns, and doing so reaffirms her belief that Davy is still present in some way.

Earlier that evening, she had been on the receiving end of a presentation of Davy’s and Joy’s carved creations. And she was too busy absorbing her daughter’s helpful love to study the two jack-o-lanterns that Davy had carved.

Now, she looks at those two. And she turns them ninety degrees to the right so that the porch light will illuminate them.

“Oh my God,” she says. And tears well up in her eyes. Because what she sees in front of her are two familiar faces. One is she. The other is Joy.

* * *

to be continued on December 4th .

In the meantime, if you want to read a short piece about the back story, click here.

It’s a Thursday in November – Enjoy It!

Last night, I spoke on the phone with a dear friend of mine who keeps following me around the country.

That’s a joke, by the way… the reference to being followed. It just happens our paths have crossed in three states. Diane and I knew each other at prep school in Virginia (when she and my sister were good friends). Our lives intersected again in New York. And in 1998, eight years after I had made the cross-country trip with my then-husband, Diane moved to L.A. If she weren’t an actress, I might feel as if I were being stalked, but I know better than that. Anyway…

When we spoke on the phone last night, Diane talked about her decision to spend Thanksgiving alone, and she also shared how a former co-worker had responded to her plans. He was aghast, apparently. He couldn’t believe she was planning to spend Thanksgiving alone.

And what that tells me is that this friend of hers would feel like a loser if he spent Thanksgiving alone.

It’s interesting how people respond to the days when society and tradition tell us we should be with others.

I shared with Diane a story I’m sure I had already shared with her. But, I haven’t shared it with you, so here goes:

When I was living in New York, I enjoyed a variety of Thanksgivings. And one year, I decided not to make any plans. When I woke up that morning, I recognized the day as time off. And quite spontaneously, I got into major cleaning mode.

I scrubbed this, dusted that, and vacuumed all over the place. And between those chores, I dealt with loads (and I mean, loads!) of laundry.

My apartment was on the 4th floor, while the laundry room, which had all of two machines, was in the basement. So I was in the elevator quite a lot that day.

The rides amused me. Every time I went down or came back up, I shared the small moving cubicle with several others, and I didn’t glean a good mood from any of them. Whether they were coming or going, their energies seemed the same: what a hassle; what an obligation; why are you wearing that; I hated sitting next to so-and-so; it’s your fault we were late; why did you say that to my uncle; I know I’ve forgotten something; we should have gone to a movie; I bet we won’t get a cab; I ate too much …

And there I was, in the middle of it all. Whether I was carrying a dirty load to the basement or a clean load back up to the 4th floor, I kept getting the same impression: Of all the people in this elevator, I am having the best day!

Have a good Thanksgiving… whatever your plans.

Monday Reruns: In Gratitude

(original post-date: November 24, 2009)

It’s the day before Thanksgiving, and I know I have much to be grateful for. Minor difficulties crop up constantly, but that’s to be expected. I try not to dwell on the small hurdles. And while I also try not to give too much weight to those moments that seem magical, there they are nevertheless. They consistently tell me that I’m doing the right thing – that if I can give thanks for nothing else, I can appreciate the path I’ve walked and the road ahead.

The essay that follows fell onto my keyboard in March of 2002. Which is to say, this piece of writing is older than the keyboard I am currently using. But it remains one of my favorite tales of faith and of fate. I share it now in the spirit of Thanksgiving…

Life’s Magic

The other night, I was in one of those moods. So I opened the hall closet, and I scanned the possibilities: a stack of journals dating back to 1972; scripts from sit-coms, plays, and movies; starts of novels; short stories and essays; loose-leaf journal entries; just plain chrons…

I decided to pull down from the shelf a small, unlabeled box. I didn’t know what was in it, but I knew I’d find a treasure or two. Once I opened it, I saw the little composition books that I filled when I was probably 26 and 27.

At the time, I was reading voraciously. And although I didn’t realize it then, the authors I had been drawn to – Henry Miller, Hermann Hesse, Richard Adams – wrote from a metaphysical perspective.

I was so moved by what they wrote that I always had a pen handy when I was reading. I would use the pen to star paragraphs, to draw lines in the margin, to provide some reminder to myself: Return Here.

After reading the first two or three of these novels, I decided to take it a step further. And so, in little composition books, I began recording the lines and paragraphs that were particularly resonant. It was a relaxing, meditative task, sitting there on my couch/perch, holding the fountain pen that had become my lucky charm. I think, too, that I thought the task would serve me ultimately. I believed that if these writers’ magical words traveled through my magical pen, I would elevate my ability to write. I would absorb not only their wisdom, but also their eloquence.

+++

And so the other night, I came upon the little composition books. I opened one, and I began to read. This particular book began with passages I had copied from Hermann Hesse’s Magister Ludi.

Even after reading most of the passages – and I must have copied 50 or so of them – I couldn’t completely recall the book. I did remember that it was obtuse; certainly heavier than Richard Adams, and not nearly as prurient as Henry Miller. And I kind of got a recollective sense of the plot – a boy goes to an other-world prep school, where he learns wisdom, where he learns the meaning of life and what matters.

As I read the passages that I had rewritten in my own pen, I came across a reference to the Glass Bead Game, but that first appearance didn’t strike me. I simply remembered that such was the name of the game that was played – and mastered – by disciples of the Magister Ludi school.

I kept reading.

As I continued and nearly reached the end of this group of entries, the phrase appeared again, this time as the title of a poem: “The Glass Bead Game.”

This time, it stood out.

GLASS BEADS. God, I know what they are! Glass beads. They had entered my life a few years back. They became part of my life – toward what end, I could not know.

With unexpected intrigue, I read “The Glass Bead Game” – the Hesse poem that I had recorded nearly 20 years before:

“We re-enact with reverent attention
The universal chord, the master’s harmony,
Evoking in unsullied communion
Minds and times of highest sanctity.

We draw upon the iconography
Whose mystery is able to contain
The boundlessness, the storm of all existence
Give chaos form, and hold our lives in rein.

The pattern sings like crystal constellations,
And when we tell our beads, we serve the whole,
And cannot be dislodged or misdirected,
Held in the orbit of the Cosmic Soul.”

+++

I could not have known, when I held my magical pen and recorded those magical words, that nearly two decades later, I would play my own glass bead game. I could not have known then how profound Hesse was.

When I first embarked on what I have come to call “the unbearable lightness of beading,” I knew full well that it was meditative. I knew it was settling. And I knew, even though my bank account would dispute it, that it was moving me forward. I couldn’t prove it with facts; I could only feel it in my soul.

And now, I am realizing it. The beads were not about making jewelry or launching a website or becoming some sort of designer. The beads were about getting back to me and my destiny. The beads were about welcoming my right brain back into the world that is my Self; allowing the artist in me to have her space.

The right brain is back now, and she is not fighting with the left. There is balance between the two. Balance that allows me to do what I do well – for myself and for others. Balance that allows me to absorb the magic of life and the blessings I have been given. Balance that allows me to learn constantly and to recognize those moments and those people that make the learning happen.

The glass bead game… at the moment, I feel that I’ve won.

But, I am a process person.

And so I know, this game ain’t over yet.

+++

Postscript: for an abridged look at my experience with the “unbearable lightness of beading,” please visit my etsy shop.

Sneak-Peek Saturdays: Excerpt Twenty-Two

A NOTE BEFORE READING: I began sharing weekly excerpts from my novel, The Somebody Who, on June 26th. If you want to begin at the beginning, go here. If you want to read the book in its entirety, head over to Amazon and purchase a copy. (There’s a button on the left that will take you there).

CHAPTER SEVEN

I

The note on the kitchen counter is the first thing Evelyn notices, and because the house feels remarkably still, she fears the missive will tell her of Joy’s decision to head back to Brooklyn that morning. She approaches the note slowly and with a sad feeling of dread, but her mood quickly changes as she reads the lines. And she smiles at the cheerful, easy handwriting.

Good Morning, Mom!
Dad said I could borrow the car (ha-ha).
Anyway, I’ve taken it to the pumpkin
patch and will return soon (it’s 9:00 now).
Love, Joy

“The pumpkin patch?” Evelyn says aloud, feeling confused.

“Halloween, Evelyn,” Claudia replies, her quiet re-entry into the kitchen taking Evelyn by surprise.

“Already?” Evelyn asks, looking toward the desk area and the wall calendar.

“Saturday night.”

“Oh, well,” Evelyn sighs, heading for the coffeemaker and preparing her first cup of the day. “That totally snuck up on me.”

“Good thing Joy came to visit, huh? Otherwise, you would have had egg all over your house this weekend.”

“No kidding. Of course, they’ve had the candy in the stores since Labor Day, so I should have seen it coming.”

Evelyn leans against the counter. She is in a relaxed mood, happy that Joy is visiting and hoping her daughter’s apartment will never be ready for her return.

“Davy in there?” Evelyn asks Claudia, gesturing toward the family room.

“Where else?”

“Sleeping with the television,” Evelyn says. She then shakes her head and strolls out of the kitchen.

II

Sitting on the front steps of the house, a light jacket draped over her shoulders, Evelyn takes in the view of the street that has been home for thirty-five years. She remembers when the trees in the Fosters’ yard across the way were saplings. Now, they tower above the house and create a protective shade.

She didn’t know the Fosters when they lost their son to that drunk driver. It happened a month after she and Davy—then with only three children—had moved in. And she didn’t even learn details of the tragedy until a year or so later, when the Fosters, emerging from their private hell, became a friendlier type of neighbor. Evelyn was pregnant with Adam then, and her neighbors’ tale of losing their son made the pregnancy more difficult. She didn’t want to bring another child into the world if it meant losing him to some stranger’s dangerous path.

Perhaps it was that fear that created Evelyn’s reticence around the Fosters. Perhaps her hormonal state, compromised at the time by hearing a painful, first-hand account of a parent’s ultimate lack of control, is what prevented her from becoming close friends with Valerie and Don Foster.

Perhaps that experience also is the reason Evelyn is sitting on the front steps now, waiting for Joy to return safely from the pumpkin patch.

She sips her coffee and listens for the next car.

III

“I’m not sure what to do.”

It is Davy, standing behind Evelyn in the opened front door.

She turns around and looks up at him. “You could sit here with me,” she says.

“But can I do it?”

“Sure!”

“But what if it—you know…”

“I think it’ll be fine, sweetie. Just come sit down,” she says, patting the front porch surface to her left.

Davy sits.

“This is very nice,” he says.

“It’s always been very nice out here,” Evelyn replies. “Especially this time of year.”

“Yes. Yes it is.”

When the sound of a horn honking peals through the air a few moments later, the expressions on Evelyn’s and Davy’s faces are altogether different. Seeing Joy pulling the family sedan into the driveway, Evelyn looks relieved, then overjoyed. She waves enthusiastically.

“What’s that?” is Davy’s less enthusiastic, somewhat irritated response, as the car disappears into the garage.

“Joy,” Evelyn tells her husband. “She bought pumpkins!”

“Pumpkins?” he asks. He then begins to laugh. “Well, that’s just silly.”

“Come on!” Evelyn says then, jumping up. “Let’s meet her in the kitchen!” And Evelyn then re-enters the house, confident that Davy will follow her through the front hallway, if only to understand the purpose of their leaving the porch.

* * *

to be continued on November 27th .

In the meantime, if you want to read a short piece about the back story, click here.

Acting Out

For a few consecutive years, beginning in early 2002, my neighbors and I had a routine. It took place on the stoop in the courtyard of our apartment building. It involved Heinekens and raucous laughter. And it would go on and on, into the wee small hours. My then-boyfriend was part of the mix, and he’d occasionally add his guitar to the scene. So there would be strumming and… singing.

Often until two in the morning.

We didn’t care that we were loud. We were in our own world. And so, we only smiled and shrugged when we were scolded by those older, quieter neighbors whom we had woken. (Okay, we also said “sorry,” but doing so never prevented a repeat performance.)

It took me two or three years to step away from that self-involved behavior. It took me that long to realize how it had come on the heels of 9/11. It took me some perspective to believe that we were simply acting out.

I remember a thought that would occur to me during those years: I miss my country.

And by that, I meant that I missed the country I thought I knew.

… When I was in the first grade, we were let out of school early one day. And the mood was somber.

It was November 22, 1963.

I remember walking down the blacktop toward the parking lot. I remember embracing that sense of somberness, but not really knowing why. I remember hearing one third grader whisper to her peer: “Don’t tell the first graders,” she said. “They won’t understand.”

I resented condescension even before I knew the word, and so what I overheard that day will always stay with me. I’d also love to track down that third grader. I’m guessing she’s now 55.

So tell me, whoever you are at 55: how do you explain the Kennedy assassination? (From what I overheard that fateful day, you understood.)

… Last weekend, I took myself to the movies, but not because I’m a great date. I just felt like getting out, and I’d been intrigued to see Inside Job, the documentary about what led to the financial crisis of 2008.

So I took advantage of my local theatre’s still-reasonable matinee price and I forked over $6.50 for my ticket.

As I took in the film’s message, I can’t say that I was shocked. Rather, I was informed.

(And frankly, nothing shocks me anymore. I’ve done my “acting out,” thank you very much, and I’ve come to accept that we are all totally screwed.)

Watching the movie, though, I came to understand a bit more about the “derivatives” that NPR has talked about for the past year. And I saw how those bundled packages helped to create the mess that’s led to so many foreclosures. I also got a sense of how “credit default swaps” contributed to the meltdown.

As to what really brought on the meltdown? Well, it isn’t news that the groundwork was laid by Reagan, when he green-lighted deregulation. The first Bush kept it going, and Clinton was right there, too, cheering on the banks as they successfully lobbied against any suggestions for oversight. During those years, the game sort of worked. There were some minor financial crises, but we bounced back until…

It all began to really come apart after 2001, and here’s my theory: The banks were acting out. Located on Wall Street, where they lost their people and their towers, they just freaked. They didn’t know what hit them, but they realized their world was not the same. It would have to be every man for himself. And so, because it was their modus operandi to pursue the almighty dollar, they began to pursue it with a vengeance and with no regard for who might get hurt (or lose a job, or lose a home) in the process.

They didn’t care. They had watched colleagues leap to their deaths from fiery buildings, and they just didn’t care.

Acting out.

… Today, the same people who were there for the meltdown – and who let it happen ­– are still in charge of our government’s financial dealings. The Treasury Department and Obama’s circle of economic advisors are filled with guys (and a few women) who were once the “deciders” at such failures as Goldman Sachs and AIG. They were there when Bush II was our pitiable president, and they are still there. According to Inside Job, they’ve been kept on because it’s “too complicated.”

It’s too complicated, they say.

I feel like that first grader again, with the third grader whispering, “they won’t understand.”

Screw you, third grader!

I don’t believe it’s too complicated. It’s simply too inbred.

And until we start over with completely new leadership (something I hoped for, when I voted for Obama), we will continue to be treated like first graders.

I didn’t like it when I was six, and I don’t like it now.

Monday Reruns: Laughing at OCD

(original post-date: November 18, 2009)

I appreciate that, for some people, obsessive compulsive disorder is no laughing matter. In one manifestation of OCD, an afflicted individual must constantly stop his car, get out of it, and check to make sure he didn’t just run over some formerly living thing. In another, the disordered person is compelled to wash her hands so frequently that the skin becomes raw and is rid of its capacity to stave off bad bacteria.

I feel for these people. I really do. A brain disorder can disrupt personal freedom in a big way. It can become the monster in the room that breaks deals and thwarts growth.

My manifestation of OCD, however, is downright comical, and my former husband (whom we’ll call Ben) knew how to make us both laugh at it. Once, when we were shopping at Ralphs together, I tossed a box of tampons in our cart. “Did you check the date?” he asked, with deadpan delivery.

An hour or so later, after we had returned home and put away the groceries, I went into the living room. Ben stayed behind in the kitchen to make a sandwich. We had just bought peanut butter, jelly, and bread, so how could he resist?

After a few minutes, Ben entered the living room. He was carrying the jar of peanut butter and wearing an expressionless face. He approached the couch, where I was sitting. And as he slowly opened the jar, he asked, with feigned concern, “Do you think this is okay?”

He then held out the opened jar. Written into the smooth top of the fresh peanut butter was the word, “DIE.”

Quite a card, that ex-husband o’ mine. With the tine of a fork, he could make me laugh at myself.

These days, I share OCD laughs with my neighbor and friend, Neil*. We are afflicted by similar manifestations of the disorder. Which is to say, we both tend to check things multiple times (particularly things that might catch on fire). And we share the concern that otherwise edible foods and beverages might be tainted.

One afternoon a few years ago, I was returning home, and Neil heard me approach the courtyard we share. Before I’d had a chance to head upstairs to my apartment, he flung open his door across the way. He had that deer-in-headlights look – clearly upset about something.

He then explained that his cat had just walked across his desk, and when she did so, her tail brushed against his teeth. He wondered if…

Neil didn’t need to explain. Adapting a comforting tone, I said, “I’ve got some Listerine upstairs. Do you wanna come up and have a quick gargle?”

He thought that was a good idea, and so we headed up my stairs together.

Once we were in the kitchen, I pulled a small glass out of the cabinet and filled it with about a quarter-inch of Listerine. I handed it to him. Then, like two athletes in some relay event, we crossed paths. He headed to the sink as I went in the other direction.

But my eyes widened in a big way when he reached for the cold-water knob and began, “I’ll just dilute—”

“Not THAT water!” I screamed, interrupting him.

With no further ado, we both doubled over laughing.

Neil’s concern for what his cat’s tail might have left on his teeth was trumped in that moment by my fear of unfiltered L.A. water.

Crazy advises crazy. Nuts is there to provide solace to nuts. Our fears are absurd, and we both know it. But they’re our fears. Our often humorous fears. We own them, and we’re there for each other.

We’re there to laugh together at the people we just can’t help but be.

+++

*not his real name