Monday, June 19, 2017

Coming and Going


Blessed shall you be coming in and going out....Deut. 28:6


"London isn't what it used to be."

"Oh my word, no. People are afraid of each other," said the husband, his monstrous camera hanging from his neck. "It's wonderful here in America. Nancy and I love Cape Cod, don't we duck? I even got a good shot of a great white shark. Just the dorsal fin, of course."

Marjorie recalled that the sign had said the waters off Herring Cove were shark infested. The sharks preyed on the seals. She and Peter had seen the seals swimming parallel to the shore, very close in. They must be skittish, she thought. Like English people riding the tube late at night hemmed in by the residue of empire. She remembered how they had walked in the great city, near Piccadilly, trying to identify the languages spoken by women in saris, turbaned men talking into their phones. Urdu, Bengali, their alphabets decorative, each letter its own universe. London was like an animated atlas, the original sound cloud.

Here, at the beach, all they heard were gulls overhead, the slapping of the surf. It was such an immense space. Not a space really, more like an expanse. Behind them, the scrub and rose hips. Under, to each side and in front of them, the sand dotted with shells, salmon-colored, pale green, mother-of-pearl. Facing them, the sea, stretching to the horizon, beyond which people in pubs, black, brown and white, were drinking their pints. The sky above was the color of cornflowers, the October sun resilient and proud of itself.

Marjorie thought of the offhand remark of the English woman, casually dropping snarky social commentary into the otherwise perfect afternoon, like a pebble disturbing the glassy surface of a lake. Fear. Fear will do that. She remembered an earlier trip to Europe, before she had even met Peter. She had only just arrived from New York, her city-girl instinct for self-preservation still fine-tuned. It was early December. Traveling alone on the train from Stockholm to Uppsala, she picked up a magazine and a container of coffee and settled down in an unoccupied compartment. Doing the continental, sitting behind the closed door of a railway compartment watching the flat Swedish scenery out of the smudged window. Marjorie leaned back into a vintage movie fantasy, something Cary Grant-ish. Then the door opened and a man entered the little room. He wore a dull brown wool jacket. He was gray, not his hair which was straw-colored, but his actual lined and pocked skin. Two watery blue eyes made fleeting contact with hers. The man was carrying a brown paper bag, maybe a bottle of aquavit. Marjorie buried her head in her magazine and took a sip of coffee. After a few minutes, she felt his hand grazing her knee. The unexpected touch rampaged through her like an electric shock. She jumped to her feet, and spilled the scalding coffee all over her skirt.

"Pepparkakor?," he asked, taking his hand out of the bag and offering her a ginger snap, traditionally served during the Christmas season in Sweden.

"I hate fucking tourists," Peter said, brushing the crumbs out of his beard from the sweet potato trutas they had picked up at the Portuguese Bakery. "They're the real sharks. The real invasive species."

"Look," Marjorie pointed. "There's another seal." She wondered if they would flipper up onto the beach if she and Peter weren't there, sprawled on the sand with their Kindles and their water bottles. Someone is always moving in on someone else's turf, re-defining the rules of the road.

Marjorie thought if you took the long view, all of human history, not to mention the sorry saga of our activity in nature, could be boiled down to people pushing ahead on line, elbowing each other out of the way. It was either people from somewhere else with less money moving into the neighborhood, looking dangerously different and depressing real estate values, or, alternatively, people with more money, waltzing up the produce aisle in country-weekend designer clothes, making an ordinary head of lettuce a major investment. It was either pesticides going after bees and butterflies or deer showing up in suburban supermarket parking lots.

"We're all just passing through. We're all migrants," Marjorie offered in her standard fortune cookie style. This was the wide angle lens she tended to use when considering the larger questions.

"Not me," Peter said, lying back on the towel they had lifted years ago from a hotel in the Caribbean and zooming in on the moment. "I've got my ass on the beach and my face in the sun and I'm not going anywhere."

......This story was originally read at the open mic, IWOW, in the fall of 2015. I was developing another piece on the archetype of arrivals and departures when I consulted my files and noticed that I already had a piece entitled Coming and Going. This must mean something.

......For more on migrations of individuals, species and peoples I strongly recommend Mohsin Hamid's brilliant new novel, Exit West. mohsinhamid.com

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Monday, June 5, 2017

Paleolithic Father's Day

My mother and father slept in separate beds. Between them, a stack of detective novels and crossword puzzle books teetered on the night table. In the morning, my father would sit on the edge of his bed, fish around for his slippers and shuffle into the kitchen where my mother was boiling water for the instant Maxwell House, mixing the Minute Maid and tearing apart English muffins. Never cut an English muffin. Once he settled in at the grey formica table, he added the non-dairy creamer and the saccharine to his coffee and turned on the crackly transistor radio. He had gone all the way with Adlai back in '52, but most Americans liked Ike and some even had a soft spot for Joe McCarthy. It was best to keep your head down, go to the shop, come home from the shop, eat your dinner and watch Father Knows Best, though he could hardly identify with the cleanshaven, suburban protagonist and certainly not with the sentiment conveyed by the title. When I think about my father, the pendulum of my memories swings from affection to discomfort and back again. He was a decent man, but his animal nature, his essential wildness was somehow attenuated, left behind in a remote corner of a prehistoric past life.

While he listened to the news, my mother would lay out his clothes - boxers, sleeveless undershirt, trousers, belt, shirt freshly pressed at the Chinese laundry, tie and tie clip, sports jacket, socks and cordovans. She bought and dispensed all of his clothes. He did not say "I feel like wearing the green tie today." She managed his wardrobe like a pitching rotation, varying only in the event of injury, a
spot of pot roast gravy on the scheduled tie. In the wall-to-wall mid-century malaise of the apartment on upper Broadway, there was no room for Daddy. Everything had its place. Dinner at 6.

My father didn't drive. A few times a year on a Sunday holiday - could be Father's Day - Uncle Jerry or Uncle Leo would chauffeur us in a two-tone Chevy and head north and west, crossing the George Washington bridge into the untamed wilderness of Englewood or Nyack where people had basketball hoops attached to the sides of their garages and barbecues for roasting marshmallows and kosher hot dogs. In the kitchens, resplendent with breakfast nooks and the glossy patina of waxed linoleum, the women would arrange bowls of potato salad and dishes of pickles while in the backyards the children swatted at mosquitoes and the men tended the fire. You could see my father, eyes watering from some combination of smoke and wistfulness, staring into the blaze like Paleolithic man the day he first discovered the sorcery of rubbing two sticks together. Pinochle games would come and go. Someone would have a second drink and tell a very bad old joke, salacious enough to induce smirking, but obscure enough to leave the children bewildered. Someone else would make a thinly veiled racist remark. And still my father would be staring at the fire.

His fixed gaze left you wondering what he was looking at in there. Some vision of the hunt, a large carnivorous animal tramping around in the brush while he, Sidney Rosenberg, stands behind a leafy tree, waiting for just the right moment to hurl a rock that fells his prey and provides the family dinner. There he is in Bergen County with his hands clasped behind him, rocking back and forth on his heels, the blood in his veins mingling with the dimly remembered blood of a creature he would eat, the smell of the flesh rising to his nostrils with the grilling Hebrew National franks. He sees his haunches draped in the skins of some previously slaughtered beast. He is close to them, the animals, eating them, wearing them. Always on the look-out, his vision and hearing sharp, penetrating the deep silence of the forest, not overwhelmed by the wailing of sirens on the Avenue, the constant burbling of the television. After all, the survival of the family depends on his acuity, his speed and strength. He is his most authentic self singeing his eyebrows in front of the fire. But then, with regret, as the light begins to fade in some cousin's backyard, my father drags himself away from the embers and submits to Manhattan, a short man engulfed by tall buildings.

https://orionmagazine.org/judges-citation-becoming-animal-by-david-abram/
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Abram

seventysomething now has its own Facebook page. I will be posting the blog there as well as poetry and other work by wonderful artists. Please Like the new page.

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Monday, May 22, 2017

On Stillness

I'm sitting on a white Adirondack chair very early in the morning, peering into the distance across a quiet lake. I can just about see two geese or swans gliding along the far shore. A small girl in a pale yellow sundress is dancing dreamily on the lawn behind the family summer cottage. Further south, a man is sitting on the dock with his feet trailing in the weedy water drinking a cup of coffee. It's too early for speed boats, jet skis. All you can hear are the birds storytelling. The surface of the lake is free of ripples, undisturbed, an essential calm.

The girl in the yellow dress, the man drinking coffee, the birds, even the lake itself are all inventions. I go to that place when the sheer volume of the political static demands an exit strategy. When the pace of events becomes untenable. Sometimes, this fantasyland appears in my mind unbidden. If, for example, the person posing as our president decides to play Monopoly with the Saudis, I might suddenly find myself staring at the distant horizon, taking in a wider geometry. I know this place like I know my grandchildren, their smiling, their crying. It's a comforting, elemental rest stop I will always recognize, but for some reason I do not choose to visit it as often as I could. I remain as yet mostly in the noise, both the external noise and the internal noise. Comey, Comey, hear me, see me.

We are always excavating the waxy build-up of our own concerns and regrets. But now, there is so much more to worry about. Not only are we responsible for our own sanity, we're on the hook for the safeguarding of the rule of law, the survival of the planet. It's a one-two punch every day, the political right jab, the personal left cross. Stillness is a matter of self-preservation. Stillness and mercy.

Stillness is precious and fragile. It needs loving protection, old blankets to wrap around the ancestral crystal. It is easily damaged. The stories that barge into my mind uninvited when I give them an inch are boorish and self-important like Trump. They aren't mindful of the pain they cause, bouncing off the walls, knocking over anything that gets in their way. They are willful, infantile and grandiose, demanding their say. You know the type. They shout over everyone else, convinced of their own rectitude. I'm right! He's wrong! At the same time, the flavor of my old persistent stories is sweet and nostalgic like chocolate pudding. It's not the bad taste that lingers after a day of consuming retrograde Republican fast food. It's the pleasure of scratching an insect bite till it bleeds. I wouldn't open the door for these stories, these thuggish guests, if I didn't somehow enjoy having them around. Even in my dreams, some surly narrative is always elbowing ahead of me to get to the bar. To resist the hostile takeover of the American enterprise, I will need to fortify myself with stillness, a merciful stillness that furnishes a safe house for righteous anger. Without it, the rage will tear right through me.

The other day, I sunk down into a lower level of silence. I sat in a funeral home for several hours watching over the casket of a man who would be buried later in the day. This was in fulfillment of the Jewish observance of shmira, or guarding. People who sit shmira take turns attending the deceased person through the night and into the next day from the time of shrouding to the time of burial. I didn't know the man. He was not a friend or a family member. My role was simply to keep him company and witness the deep silence that enfolds us when the noise of life has run its course, the peace that can be so elusive while we're here on hold, listening to the canned playlist. Every now and then, I could hear a phone ringing, a murmured conversation far off in the building, but mostly nothing. The shouting match, the name calling, the physical and verbal violence and the lovemaking end in a carpeted hush.

And I thought....What was all the fuss about? Do our minds maintain a constant carping chatter just to distract us from the galactic silence that waits for us? And is that what he's thinking about, somewhere on the back porch of his non-awareness, when he's up tweeting before sunrise?

Something special from my friend Deb Koffman
http://www.debkoffman.com/tag/mindfulness/


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Monday, May 8, 2017

On Impermanence

We all wanted to be Joan Baez. It wasn't about the vocal range or the political passion. It was the hair...that long, straight, black hair. We all had jewfros, nests of uncontrolled frizz burgeoning out of our overworked brains, as if the electrical impulses of precocious literacy and self-consciousness had gone haywire. We suffered the cartoonish antics of hair springing off the head of someone with her finger in a wall outlet. Some girls put their heads on ironing boards and pressed their curls into a flat, singed stink. Some took it a step further. I got off the Broadway local at Times Square and climbed a steep, garbage-strewn staircase to an enormous salon that specialized in straightening, the only white person in the room. The treatment was like something that should have been outlawed by the Geneva convention, a thick paste applied at the roots that scorched the skin right off your scalp. You had to submit to this torture for a length of time, flipping through old copies of Ebony. The goop gave off the same odor as the stuff they would paint on to send your hair in the opposite direction. If, let's say, you were getting a permanent, replicating the style of a famous model or actress. Apparently, whether you were going from frizzy to straight or from lank to curly, the punishment was intended to be equally painful and sulfurous. A season in hell for the sin of failing to be satisfied with who you were.

This, then, became the paradigm. Whatever you looked like, you wanted to look like someone else. Whatever gifts had been bestowed on you, they were the wrong gifts. Whatever club included you, it meant automatically that you wouldn't be caught dead belonging to that club. What does that even mean....."caught dead?" Maybe it means finding yourself in the irreparable situation of arriving wet and cold on the far shore of your life and discovering, too late, that you have expended your time here masquerading as another person altogether, hoping to be admired in what was at one time called a bathing costume. Once, in my early twenties, I ventured too far out in the surf at Montauk. A predatory wave knocked me down and snatched my bikini top. I took in a gallon of salt water. I could have drowned going back under trying to find it, but instead I ran up on the beach topless. In spite of the exposure, in spite of the shame, I chose the naked alternative. This is the story I'm telling myself now, my midrash on the biblical dictum, Choose Life. Be naked, be frizzy. Occupy yourself while the house is still standing.

This is especially true when I am writing. People who write, draw, dance or any of the other divine mimicries are especially vulnerable to self-doubt. There's not much point in doing it if you're dressing up as someone else. The role of playing Zadie Smith has already been cast. Richard Ford has cornered the market on Richard Ford. I have to rescue my stories from the undertow and bring them up for air. Once my words are out there, they are no longer mine. I can't swaddle them. I can't keep them safe. There is always potential for misunderstandings, for damages. I was struck recently by the comments of a friend who is now showing three-dimensional drawings, fragile paper sculptures. What if they get torn, I asked her? What if they get dirty? Maybe they're supposed to be impermanent, she explained. Maybe I'm making them just for the pleasure of making them. It would be, I thought, like cooking a meal to be enjoyed and consumed, like writing a blog. You make it, you offer it up, you let it go. Doing this is practicing a radical theology.

The spirit that sustains all of life never rests, I remind myself. Creation is ongoing, giving birth to new apple blossoms, new words, new poems. It is constantly recycling old songs, old thoughts, old versions of the self. Not only am I not Zadie Smith or Joan Baez, I'm not even the person I was last week. I am a swarm of words, a frizz of awareness, getting acquainted with impermanence, the truest friend.


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Monday, April 24, 2017

Invoking the Ancestors

My great-grandparents, the Lobelsons
We invited our grandparents to the seder and they came, in steerage, carrying bundles. My great-grandmother in the photograph on the right hides her silver candlesticks in her skirts during the long journey from Romania. Now, they sit on the seder table. Our grandparents came from Budapest and Moldavia. From Santa Margherita Belice in western Sicily and from Minsk, it goes without saying. From Limerick and Calabria and from Lodz, though the last could not be remembered as they were in life. Only their names could be offered, a spectral after-image of the people they were before they perished in the Shoah. Still, they were with us. They were all with us. Our minyan of ten, a few still in their sixties but the rest seventysomethings, crowded together at the table, sharing the haggadot, reaching over one another to get to the charoset. Remarkably, there was still more than enough room for our ancestral guests.

Both of my grandfathers died before I was born. One, the patriarch of a large family, flourished into the Depression as the proprietor of a dry goods store on First Avenue. The other, Grandpa Louis, died all the way back in 1923. I inherited from my mother an ice cold antipathy for him, a man I never met. In the only photograph of him that remains, my mother works at being playful for the camera, sticking her head out between her parents. He is dapper in white shoes. You would never know that she always used the words stern and austere when describing him. But who can say? He might have been affectionate if he'd known me. He might have been the kind of grandfather who came to visit with candy bars and jump ropes in his jacket pocket, the kind of grandfather who would stroke your hair and kiss your forehead. Instead, he's a cipher who left behind nothing but a sour dread. Seders on my mother's side were led by my uncle who mumble davvened for hours on end, not seeming to care whether anyone else understood the escape from Egypt, the matzoh and maror.

My Hungarian paternal grandmother died when I was five and left me with only two memories, both pungent. In the first, she answers the door of the railroad flat on 107th street, a dense thicket of antimacassars and porcelain figurines. We ring the bell, the door swings open. There she is with her arms spread wide, ready to engulf us, shrieking "who's who in America?" No austerity on that side of the family. Everything about them was deafening and supersized. In the second memory, she's sitting on the terrible, scratchy needlepoint sofa in our living room. I'm on her lap. It's a good thing because it protects my little girl legs from the aggressively abrasive upholstery. But after a while, I start to suffocate in the surround of her enormous breasts. Sitting on the sofa unprotected would be better than having my face pressed into her perfumed cleavage. Seders on my father's side dispensed with the praying altogether in short order and went on to loud and insistent demands for soup.

All but one of the grandparents we invited along with Elijah to drink too much and eat copious amounts of food were born in Europe. They crossed the Atlantic, reading Yiddish newspapers, speaking in Sicilian dialect. They were small businessmen, glorified peddlers. They were tailors and plasterers. They lived in tenements and brownstones, inhaled garlicky air and drank homemade wine and bathtub gin. My Romanian grandmother, Anna, the only one of that generation I really knew, used to like to tell me about pogroms in Jassy when she was a girl. How they tossed rocks through the windows of the Jewish households. How in 1892, hundreds of Jewish shops were closed down, tradesmen driven out of the city. The following year, Anna and her family made pesach in New York.

The essential story.....the fleeing, the pursuit, the crossing, the wilderness, the illusion of arrival, goes on and on up to this moment. Everything is and has always been provisional. Roots are for trees. Our origins are fluid, our stories oceanic and subject to changing tides of interpretation, the interventions of history. They say my grandfather Louis became unhinged in something called the Panic of 1907 when he lost what little money he had. The financial upset in the year of my mother's birth and its attendant sense of failure and foreboding impacted the entire family saga. It's an elusive, but mesmerizing narrative...One of the many fragments floating over the seder table when we gathered our ancestors around us, not for the sake of nostalgia, but in the service of deep memory.


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Sunday, April 9, 2017

Empowerment Epidemic

Courage has always been contagious. In Biblical times, there was a man named Nachshon, unremarkable in every respect, who took the first step into the water before the Red Sea split. After he got his feet wet, the entire Israelite nation followed him into the sea, a miraculous event we now celebrate at Passover. Courage is still contagious. You can see it spread like an unruly virus through a room full of otherwise ordinary people determined to craft a response equal to the dimensions of the outrage we all feel. The anger and disbelief launch an older woman out of her seat at an anti-Trump mixer organized to introduce all the scattered progressives in the neighborhood to each another. "I'm from Swing Left," she says. "We're gonna take down John Faso in the New York 19." "I'm from Bridge," an African-American woman tells the crowd. "We're working on Safe Communities, keeping ICE out of our towns." I'm feeling it too and even though I'm not an imposing presence, indeed shrinking with age from my full height of five feet, I jump up and turn to face the standing room only gathering. "I'm Susie Kaufman from Stockbridge. We need to get our Democratic congressman, Richard Neal, to do a town hall in the Berkshires. We have something to say and we expect him to listen."

I am not now, nor have I ever been, a member of anything. But this is different. The miasma of mid-century Europe hangs over us, spectral and threatening. A storm is coming, our nightmares tell us. Complete with storm troopers. The sense of foreboding and the pressure to resist impacts everyone and filters down to the most seemingly inconsequential local situations. At the community center, where remarkably I have been taking a senior women's exercise class for well over a year, there is discontent. The young woman who leads our class in the winter is about to be replaced by an older guy who returns from Florida in May and expects to resume his teaching gig. We don't like his tasteless jokes and the way he singles people out for praise and criticism. Vulnerable seventysomethings have developed sore shoulders and lower back pain because he doesn't seem to know what he's doing. We petition the director to keep our female teacher in place and it works.  Speaking up has caught on. It's all the rage. The more you do it, the more you do it, and the more you do it, the more other people are influenced by the example of your bravery.

The same is true for writers and performers. Suddenly, there's an explosion of local talent, people reading, delivering monologues, storytelling, making music. At first, they're so frightened I can hardly hear what they're saying. They stand in front of the audience hunched over and whispering, hoping it will all be over soon. But now I see countless people just marching out to the edge of the precipice, raining their art down on us, an act of sublime generosity. Some of it is tender, reflective, but some of it is propelled by the energy of the fury. They are reluctant rockets of prophesy, these people. Their pronouncements are cutting straight through the swamp gas we are all breathing. Women, in particular, are refusing to play dead. Women flooded the streets of Washington and many other cities on January 21st. They prayed with their feet, as Abraham Joshua Heschel said in Selma. Now it's our turn to shout NO WAY. This is not armchair politics. People are asking each other, what are you doing in the resistance?

The gravity of our situation is bringing people out of hiding, reminding each of us that when the Passover haggadah speaks of slavery, it is both a metaphor and a newsreel. It is a metaphor for our entrapment in self, for our fear and an everyday reality on the ground. Syrians are enslaved, assaulted by chemical weapons, made into pawns in a satanic political game, Trump and Putin executing the daylight play. African-Americans are enslaved, vulnerable to violence on their way back from a 7-11 with a bag of Skittles. Palestinians are enslaved, on this the 50th anniversary of the Occupation. Women are enslaved by panels of men deciding their reproductive future. Pharaoh is ruthless and powerful, but every day a new Nachshon arrives at the Red Sea, casts off her cloak of invisibility and puts her foot in the water. It's an epidemic.


Please share seventysomething with other interested parties. I welcome your comments on email, facebook or on this blog. If you do not have a gmail account, comment as Anonymous, but please tell me who you are in the body of the remarks. Click on comments (it will say how many there are), select Anonymous from the drop-down menu, enter your comment and hit publish. If you do comment, I will respond on the blog, so please check back so our conversation can continue.


Monday, March 27, 2017

Roll Over Beethoven

When John Lennon was shot in 1980, I had a dream that he was sitting in a circle in heaven with my father and my Uncle Jerry, two fabulous small Jews who had only just died in the late '70s. He seemed to be giving them some valuable pointers about how to get along in the new neighborhood. Mind you, I don't believe in heaven in the angels-with-harps sense of the word, but there he was with one mustachioed New Yorker on either side of him, holding each by the hand and OM-ing away. It was a great comfort to know that my father, a non-believer, and my uncle, a conventional shul-on-Yom Kippur Jew, would be supervised in the world-to-come by someone with spiritual chops. I'm thinking about John because just recently Chuck Berry and Jimmy Breslin left us and it reminds me that the older you get, seventysomething in my case, the more you experience celebrity loss as well as personal loss. The people who have most impressed themselves on my awareness are at least as old as I am and are, in the nature of things, shriveling and dying off like garden lettuce in mid-summer.

It's always noteworthy when two famous figures die within a few days of one another. It causes a shift in the planetary angle of inclination. Certainly, Carrie and Debbie had that effect. Or Robert Mitchum, the compelling noir actor, whose obituary was vacuumed off the page by Jimmy Stewart who died the next day. The public can only digest one forkful of nostalgia at any given time. At the moment, I imagine Chuck and Jimmy in some smoke-filled celestial backroom chomping on cigars and telling outrageous self-aggrandizing stories. I don't know if Chuck Berry was aware of Jimmy Breslin, but you have to think that Jimmy appreciated Berry's high-wire act on the guitar. Celebrity deaths have the same day-glo vibrancy as unexpected celebrity encounters in life. I once saw Mohammed Ali walking down Seventh Avenue. Not only was he the most enormous person I had ever seen, but the wavelengths he radiated didn't seem to belong to the normal visible spectrum. He was literally larger than life.

Ordinary, finite beings like us are fascinated by death because it's where we go to play catch with the infinite. Otherwise, we have to settle for contemplative practices and certain chemicals that give us a taste of the vast, boundlessness from which we came and to which we will all return. But most people sober up the next morning and go to work or the dentist. Life on this plane imposes a great many demands. Because we don't have the luxury of time to consider death as a philosophical construct, our ideas remain under-cooked and tough from the urgency of fear.

People seem to think of themselves as separate units of consciousness and death as something wholly other, a complete departure from life that comes at the end, in the bottom of the ninth. This is the temporal equivalent of flat earth theory which is enjoying a comeback. You just keep going until you fall off the edge. The story I tell myself is different. I imagine one all-encompassing, integrated web of life and death with colors and forms transmuting in and out of kaleidoscopic designs. Strawberries and tigers come and go. Birds, friends, mothers, rock musicians and journalists. I saw this in another dream some years ago. I'm standing in the middle of a field and all the people I have ever known are flowing past me from the right and from the left like a complex traffic pattern. They keep gracefully arriving and departing. They keep sprinkling me with the fairy dust of their natures. I am the hub of this particular wheel, one of an infinite number of wheels. I am also ephemeral, like you, like all the people coming and going in the dream. Like Chuck Berry's last squealing guitar riff. But the reverberations of that insistent sound, the bridge that it builds out of Beethoven and over the troubled water will go on and on. Moonlight Sonata meet Maybelline.


Please share seventysomething with other interested parties. I welcome your comments on email, facebook or on this blog. If you do not have a gmail account, comment as Anonymous, but please tell me who you are in the body of the remarks. Click on comments (it will say how many there are), select Anonymous from the drop-down menu, enter your comment and hit publish. If you do comment, I will respond on the blog, so please check back so our conversation can continue.