Beyond Moonstone and Broken Stone

I didn't tell you the whole story.

Back in South County, along the coast of Rhode Island. The day that I stood on the seaweed and garbage-strewn edge of a chewed-away beach. Sizing it up. Whole chunks devoured. Agape, I stood surveying a wounded shoreline, gnashed and sliced with mechanical precision, a chainsaw steel-toothed-blade slashing. Here you are Lil Rhody: a newly chiseled ribbon of beachfront.

That's what she said to me, Hurricane Sandy, as she flossed her choppers. I listened further. My ears buzzed with the saw's vibration. A tinnitus. Hiss. (I wondered if her steely jaw hurt as much as mine did after a night of vigorous grinding.)

Now exposed a foot or more above the shiny, sabulous floor are three concrete septic tanks. Now an orange net of fencing assuredly tells visitors to not climb wood stairs, to not roam wood decks. We don't know what's safe. We don't know what might give under foot. Or what might topple overhead. And who knows, in this cycle of storms, how long it will take before we are able to tend to this beach's wounds.

Sandy's hiss lingered. Driving Rhode Island's roads I had noticed how all the trees, with the exception of evergreens, in the area and around the state had been prematurely shorn bare. Another reminder that our fall has not been like ordinary falls past. None of the seasons, truly, have been like those past, and there has been, undeniably, altered weather patterns throughout the year, a change in our climate, and I feel the loss. The resulting melancholy that grips me has become inescapable.

*   *   *

Out there, where the continent ends, a mob of seagulls swarmed above the churning waters, in search of... Something. Food. Companionship. Entertainment. They jostled above the smooth-stoned jetty, eyed its pummeling by the wildly relentless surf. They squawked discordantly, and hustled easily through knotty wind, steeling crab-scrap from one another. Scrap is plenty and they are a greedy lot. They are no better than ambulance-chasing lawyers, they are opportunists. (This explains their longevity, as well their repulsiveness.) Go away, you opportunistic kleptomaniacs!

Why are seagulls called seagulls when they are not confined to the sea? In fact, they do not venture far out above the ocean, and very often, they are found inland: at freshwater lakes, in the parking lots of football stadiums or theaters, or at big-boxed shopping centers that sadly occupy corner lots of every other town in America.

*   *   *

But before I'd reached the beach in South County, before stopping by at the Shopping Center in Westerly that I manage, before assessing the damage to a pylon sign, I had visited my dermatologist, Dr. Kirk in East Greenwich. There, I had the angry, seething mole—a mole that had for many summer nights kept me awake, this, the mole from which I could not vacation, a mole that had burrowed into the fold of my right armpit and maddened my mental health—excised, as well as another bothered mole that had, like any good, large-pawed mole, dug itself a home and taken a seat on the backside of the equator of my body. The waistline is not a sitting or nesting area. It is too heavily trafficked by garments of the day and evening. There, fine silks, cashmeres and cottons carouse, and stumble, get caught, on anything in their way. They do not appreciate this. Neither does the no-sitting area. So there, they are hewn down like all the trees or tree limbs that fell just days before. Or like any tree that does not bear good fruit. They are hewn almost precisely like trees, only on a smaller, more sterile scale: a numbing agent applied to the area via syringe not only numbs the mole and its underlying/surrounding skin, but also puffs it up into a small mound so that the now protruding and exposed bugger may be sliced from its nest by a hand-held straight edge blade. It is more efficient, in fact, than cutting the tree, as no stump remains, no inviting perch or tunnel.

Ocular Allusions

What it is about the seasons lately, failing to meet my expectations by, one might say—at least here in New England—continually failing to season, has ignited in me a nagging sense of loss and, well, just plain glumness. (Nagging because it's a rare Day that performs as it should within the framework of its given season; Day has become defiant, belligerent—refusing to comply, he turns away and knocks Expectation on its head. He rebels! I nag!) This is the glum loss about which I am writing in a series of poems, a poetic sequence, for a poetry class that I'm currently taking with Catherine Imbriglio at Brown Continuing Studies.

There are twelve of us, poets (though I'd hardly plunk myself in this particular category, but I will fake it for the duration of the six weeks), casting a sequence of poems linked, for the most part, by either form or theme. And I will fake it further because I need to believe that this can be done. Six poems, or more, linked by this glum/loss theme. Belligerent Days that become belligerent Seasons that become belligerent Years!

The good news: my eyesight is improving. It's true! Maybe it's the changing light of our seasons. Maybe I really AM growing younger! When my ophthalmologist had me sit behind what she called, and what I could not then spell, a phoroptor—a word I couldn't release from my mind, what I heard as and what I quietly recited so I'd not forget: FROPPER,  FROPPER, FROPPER! (what a strange name for an instrument) (as it turns out FROPPER is a social networking site specializing in Indian dating)—she found that, within the past year, I was minus (or is it plus in phoroptor language?) .50 from the prior year's examination. That puts me at -3.25! Which means that maybe I won't need readers in the supermarket. Heh. And wasn't I happy for the phoroptor, even if I couldn't spell it, but now that I can the image in my mind has turned to a beast—a highly photogenic (and perhaps Vietnamese) dinosaur.  PHOROPTOR!

That was this morning. When I left my ophthalmologist's office I was so happy to be at positive (or is it negative?) phoroptation I decided to take a little walk so as to let it all sink in. And there, to the left, to where I turned my rejuvenated oculi, was this magnificent, versicolor (word of the day) tableau and I quick-grabbed (because Day, like a smart-mouthed teenager, can turn on me at any moment) my iPhone and shot what was, what is, undoubtedly, Day behaving like Fall! Compliant FALL!

(This is not good for my poetic sequence—which might very well be titled Ocular Delusions. And which now seems as old as a dinosaur.)

And because my disposition has shifted widely from glum to blithe and I cannot, at this very moment, be too disappointed in Day (even if he still knocks Expectation sideways), I'm going to sign out by offering one last poem (not one of mine) from yet another former U.S. Poet Laureate, which shall also serve to top off the grand callithump parade that is to come (believe what I say—it will!). 

Introducing Philip Levine (in a video of much better quality than that of which I was able to capture), all the way from Brooklyn, NY, giving us a little lesson and believing everything he says:

Black Wine

Have you ever drunk the black wine - vino negro -

of Alicante?  The English dubbed it Red Biddy

and consumed oceans of it for a pence a flagon.

Knowing nothing - then or now - about wine,

I would buy a litre for 8 pesetas - 12 cents -

and fry my brains.  Being a happy drunk,

I lived a second time as a common laborer

toiling all night over the classic strophes

I burned in the morning, literally burned,

in an oil barrel outside the Palacio Guell,

one of the earliest and ugliest of Gaudi's

monuments to modernismo.  Five mornings

a week the foreman, Antonio, an Andalusian,

with a voice of stone raked over corrugated tin,

questioned the wisdom of playing with fire.

He'd read Edgar Allen Poe in the translations

of Valle-Inclan and believed the poets

of the new world were madmen.  He claimed an affair

with Gabriella Mistral was the low point

of his adolescence.  As the weeks passed

into spring and the plane trees in the courtyard

of the ancient hospital burst into new green,

I decided one morning to test sobriety,

to waken at dawn to sparrow chirp and dark clouds

blowing seaward from the Bultaco factory,

to inhale the particulates and write nothing,

to face the world as it was.  Everything

was actual, my utterances drab, my lies

formulary and unimaginative.

For the first time in my life I believed

everything I said.  Think of it: simple words

in English or Spanish or Yiddish, words

that speak the truth and no more, hour after

hour, day after day without end, a life

in the kingdom of candor, without fire or wine.

"Friday Night Frolic" - Dance to the End

Leonard Cohen

You thought it was over didn't you? Your week dragged on and you thought the magic had ended. Poof. Kaput. Now you're looking for it, you want it back.

You've arrived at this point, at this very juncture, this Friday, feeling like all life had been sucked out of you. Leather-faced and bone-dry, you're nothing but a desert of thorny shrub and tumbleweed straight out of a Sergio Leone spaghetti western, that haunting harmonica score wailing in your achy head.

Everybody wants a piece of you. All of 'em, all the characters: the kids, the boss, the job itself, the partner, the spouse—they all want something from you, don't they? But you feel like you've nothing left to give. And maybe you don't. Maybe, when you get home today (or maybe you're already home) you just head straight for bed. For a long slumber.

Or maybe not.

Maybe you can't sleep because you're obsessing. You want to know why you have to carry all the bags and juggle all the balls—you don't get this brand of entertainment. You want to know what's in it for you—what's it all for? Time is endless, yet finite. Where's the meaning? Obsession's got its twisted fingers around your neck and it's suffocating you. It's going to finish you off unless you take it down by its knees. You gotta get it straight. Flatten it.

So you turn on the light—the one with the alarmingly bright bulb that you'll never get to changing—and grab that book sitting on your bedside table. Yes, that book, the one with all the answers, or so you thought. You leaf through it and start thinking about all the characters in your life, how you oughta just sit 'em all down and have an intervention. Set 'em straight. Tell 'em you're tired of doing It. All of It.

And then you do it: you call them in and gather them 'round the edge of your iron bed. They're pretty comfortable, those characters, so what do they do? They all sit on your bed, all around it, on that nice, freshly dry-cleaned, linen jacquard coverlet. And they start yackin', a cacophony of voices you don't recognize. It's all garbled and crazy, completely absurd. You picture yourself in a Beckett play. Or maybe more like a Monty Python movie, only you're not laughing. So what do you do? You're too nice, so you offer them a beer or a milk or a glass of chardonnay, hoping that will shut them up. (There you go again—giving.) But it doesn't.

You clear your throat (loudly) and ask them what the hell they all want from you. You tell 'em you don't know if you can do It any longer. You're barren wasteland and haven't much left to offer. You're done, you say, you are tired of It.

There's a quiet in the room. Lover looks at boss, boss looks at bags, bags looks at kid, kid looks at balls, balls looks at job, job looks at all those damn dinner-time fundraising calls, and calls doesn't know where to look. They are befuddled.

And so you say, Get out! Just get the hell out. I don't know what I called you in here for in the first place. I've forgotten, dammit. I'm done with It. I can't do It anymore!

Then you get out of bed, pick up the balls and start juggling them. Now you're smiling, hey that feels good. You remember what you love—your music, your books, your work, your family, whatever it is, and that it's Friday night and you're still alive! You start to whistle and clang your tambourine, and feel as free as a gypsy.

And those things, aside from your loved ones, those things that brighten the world and make you feel alive—the collision of harmony, poetry, literature—stand before you and smile back. They're humming a poesy that makes you feel fluid:

And in your desert springs a glistening estuary that gently greets the wide open sea:

And you know you can do It. It's alright, yes all straight now, and you'll sure as hell dance to the end.

For more Leonard Cohen magic (and one of my favorites) go here.

Variable Angle Reflections

I've so many magical things for you today. Really. Little magical tricks. And yes, that illustration up there—the one that turns the world on its side—is one of them. But you're going to want to see all the magic here today. I promise.

My son penciled this sketch in response to a school project, and not the one for his Art class. The assignment was for Algebra. The directive: pick an Algebraic term (like axis, ordered pair, coordinate, slope, horizontal, etc.) and make a creative illustration of its meaning. The goal being to relate the term to something other than its mathematical meaning, while still accurately illustrating its meaning.

Had I been handed the criteria, I would have scratched my head for a long time. And then I would have drawn a tree. Or maybe a ladder. I'd probably forget to draw a straight line for grounding. And so my primitive art work wouldn't demonstrate a relation would it? It wouldn't show its horizontal axis of reflection. In other words, it wouldn't have perspective.

It would be much easier for me to just define certain angles, or use them metaphorically, as I did here (relative to age, ugh), because that's my comfort zone. I don't know if it's just me—and if you've been reading me you're aware of my mathematical limitations—or if its the fact that as we age we become a bit more set in our ways. Or maybe it's just that we like to stay in our comfort zones. We like the speed limit. We know what to expect.

But Max, he knew exactly what to do. Why did he know exactly what to do? Is it because he's still too young to drive, and therefore doesn't understand the concept of speed limit? Well, it's several reasons I suppose, but I think the main reason is that he's able to look at things from various angles and perspectives. And maybe that is because, at thirteen, he can't yet get his license.

So, what is magical about the illustration is that it reminds me that sometimes one has to turn a thing on its head, or its side, to really understand its meaning. It reminds me that tunnel vision is limiting. It reminds me to seek perspective through unobstructed peripheral vision. (Otherwise, I really should get off the road.) It reminds me to not take a thing for granted. To not jump to conclusions without first exploring all sides. Sometimes I need pixie dust thrown in my face for this to happen. That's what my son's illustration is. It is pixie dust. It is magic.

Hang on, more magic, the best is yet to come...

Sourced from internet

All right, the next bit of magic involves more lines, and arcs, too, and is especially for my writerly friends. BUT (big but) it is magic for ALL. It's something I read long ago, and something my friend Maria reminded me of not so long ago. Maria, by the way, is also magic. Really. She knows how to fling pixie dust. (And I'm so looking forward to getting me some of her dust this weekend!) So if you've any desire for a dusting, go see her.

Alright, are you ready? This is really exciting... pure magic... Wait. I'll give you a hint. It has to do with this guy:

Photo via www

Again, if you've been reading me, you know how I feel about this guy. *Hearts*  This guy is also magic.

Ok, here's that other bit of magic I promised you: Hocus Pocus. Don't be shy, go ahead, click on Hocus Pocus! And don't come back until you've been thoroughly doused with that silky, glistening dust, until you're entire body is sparkling.

Ah! You're back! Wasn't that awesome?!  Look how sparkly you are. Is that man not genious? Magic?

Now are you ready for the best yet to come? Voila, for my last trick, the final bit of magic:

Sourced from internet

You think I'm kidding don't you? Yes, it's a mirror. Look at it. Look into it. What do you see? Oh, you see yourself? YES! Correct! It is you. You, my friends, are the magic. You, over there on the right side of my page—my Google Friends, Facebook friends, Open Salon friends, Networked Blogs friends—and You, other friends who don't like to put your picture up on walls, but still stop by for a visit on occasion, and drop comments in the box (or maybe you don't, and that's fine, too). You, on the Blogs I Follow and My Favorites list. You, who may not be on any list, You are what keeps me coming back here, and what keeps me looking out there, to You. You didn't realize that you had pixie dust stashed in your back pocket, now did you? Well, you do.

Yup, You—the best of the magic, my friends—you who have such vision. You're perspective is important. You, we, who love to share perspectives, ideas, writing, comments, photographs, our soul, with the World. The whole World. How exciting is that? It kind of takes some guts, don't you think? I'm not necessarily known for guts, but You help. (Not to mention the internet which is also magic.) We read each other, we learn from each other, we become friends. Even if it's only in cyberspace, we still become friends.

And You and I—we know the magic of sharing. Thank goodness it's the one thing (hopefully, not the only thing) that we didn't lose when we stumbled, oh-so-gracefully, into that darker world of adulthood. We may have lost our innocence, we may have lost some perspective (but you know magic can bring it back), but we sure as heck still know how to share. We learned of its importance as a child, and we still know it to be true, effective and empowering. We know we need to share to make it all work nicely. We know that sharing can change the World. Just look at what happened in Egypt! (Not that I'm proposing a revolution, but you know what I mean.)

So keep sharing your perspective everyone. I love hearing from you, I love reading you. I love sharing you. (Hope you don't mind.) I love all of your angles and reflections. I'm so happy you share. It's nothing short of magic.

Austerity And The Art of Writing

There isn't a wisp of wind, and the snow spills briskly to the earth like flour sifted through a sieve; a pearly confection pasting the earth as thickly as the powdered sugar with which my daughter dusts her pancakes. She likes them that way. No maple syrup or jam. Just the sweet powder. Her densely sugared wheat cakes dehydrate so quickly that she has to cut them with a knife, whereas my cakes are sopped extravagantly with syrup, and better eaten with a spoon.

But the snow eventually turns to a steady drizzle, and our street begins to resemble the remains of our breakfast, a path cut clear down the center of the course, and sorrel, gritty granules dredged to the side. A muddy mess of slush and slop, and everyone scraping hard to clean it up.

It's all making me feel a little gloomy. Or maybe that's the lack of sleep. Or maybe it's the fact that I put on an extra ten this morning and I can't budge from my seat. Really, what it is, is that austerity sucks. And because it really, really sucks, I won't be taking a writing class this semester, thereby causing a bit of consternation (how will I stay focused?), and worse, thereby missing an opportunity to take a last workshop with Thomas Cobb—word being that he's retiring from his teaching gig (or is it maybe that I'm retiring from my student gig?). But I don't wish to proliferate or perpetuate rumor. Word being, nothing more.

I've taken a lot of writing workshops, but I have to say, none better than the one taught by the affable and unassuming Dr. Cobb. Aside from the fact that the man is genius, Dr. Cobb gave me a gift that I sorely needed: a little faith in myself. To be clear, I once had faith, but it was long lost on daily grind and housekeeping, on a barren stretch of colorless convention. Dr. Cobb doesn't know this, but with his guidance and kindness, my wayward faith was restored. He taught me about McGuffin, and reminded me to read Carver and  Gardner and Bukowski. Without his encouragement—subtle, at that, I may even have misread it, in fact, perhaps just a jolly delusion—I probably would have buried my little chimera (I've so many), certainly wouldn't have dared to blog (not that I should). I wouldn't have had the courage.

My rock-n-roll-n-trippin fifth grade teacher, Mr Sawyer, was the only other teacher (aside from my father, who also taught English) who ever encouraged me to write, and I never properly thanked him for it. I don't know if he's still alive, or if he's living somewhere in the hills of New York, but a thank you has always been in my heart, Mr. Sawyer.

And while I can, a warm thank you to Dr. Cobb, for helping me clean up my slop, and straighten my spine. Happy travels, or happy whatever-it-is-you-plan-to-do-with-all-that-free-time. Who knows, maybe I'm entirely wrong. Maybe I'm feeling all sad and forlorn for naught, and I'll be seeing you 'round campus whenever I can afford to get my pancake-enriched ass back there. In any event, I'll miss you this semester. I'll be thinking of that class. But I'll keep writing. I'll plod along, I damn well will.

The power of a teacher. They can sure widen, and brighten, the landscape.

"God Damn It - You've Got To Be Kind"

So says Kurt Vonnegut to the babies. 

These past few days my heart's been bled dry, my mind near numbed by Saturday's massacre in Tuscon, AZ. I've no relation to any of the victims, but yet, I do. I feel immense kinship toward them, and I'm sporadically driven to tears. One does not need to be intimately involved to feel the impact. We all grieve this loss. We grieve for the families of those killed and injured, the little girl, who could have been mine, at any supermarket, in any state. We grieve the loss of civil days and civil discourse. We are reminded not only of the fragility of life, but how staggeringly dangerous this world is; how insanely violent and destructive humans may be. The utter randomness of things.

But was this event entirely random? Could it not have been prevented? What kind of steps will we, as individuals and a country, take to prevent these senseless (and too numerous) tragedies from occurring? Is there nothing we can do? I'm afraid of the answer, because I fear that this slaughtering will bare little consequence, will not move this nation, its people, to change. 

As details of the story unfold, the twenty-two year old gunman is described as mentally ill, a ticking time bomb whose motive remains unclear. The shooter most likely would have perpetrated violence no matter the reason. He's the same guy who shot up Columbine High School, bombed Oklahoma City's Alfred P. Murrah building, riddled Virginia Tech's campus with lead. He needs no motive.

But one cannot deny that political (or otherwise) vitriol is fuel for fire. All hate mongering is, and vitriol in any form is nothing short of this. Still, in the aftermath of last weekend's tragedy, the rhetoric continues—partisans denying blame, flinging accusations; using the event to discredit each other. However, whether the assassination attempt and killings are politicized is beside the point. It happened, as this kind of wickedness inevitably does with many a loose cannon. It would have happened in or outside of this particular framework.

The point, quite simply, is that there is too much ugliness in the world; so much so, that we ought to behave in such a manner as to diminish as much odiousness as possible. We ought to act more civilized. We ought not tolerate vitriol from our elected officials, our national representatives who speak for our country, are our face and voice, the embodiment of who we are as a nation. You and me. 

Can you imagine what people think when they see bullseyes painted on a map of the USA, and are told by a former governor—a celebrity and hero to some—that the areas (and their politicians) marked by a bullseye are targeted, prepare to lock and load? Some may think nothing. Some may laugh. Some of us are so desensitized that we don't flinch when we see the graphics or hear this kind of rhetoric. Some are in denial, think our words and actions have no effect. But others, others are appalled. Others are concerned and angry, because they understand how this conversation, these actions, divisive declarations, chip and fray and corrode the moral, ethical elements of this nation, and of each other.

The fact that this particular dialogue has been accepted doesn't mean it should continue. It needs to end. And I've one thing to say to these politicians: You may have the liberty to exercise Free Speech, toxic political rhetoric, under the First Amendment, but you have the Free Will to not do so. Choose wisely, please. 

I cry as I write this, I cry when I see the quizzical expressions on my children's faces, when they beg for answers where there are none. None. I want to offer them the same advice Kurt gave to babies, I want to say, Just be kind, damn it. No matter how much it pains you, be kind. It won't fix the evils of the world, but at least you'll know you played no part in them.

A nation's culture resides in the hearts and in the soul of its people. 

~ Mahatma Gandhi

2011: Prelude (or - My Conversation With Einstein)

Yes, I'm a little behind the eight ball, but I have made a resolution for the New Year as if I had an IQ of 200+ (why not shoot for the stars?): Solve/complete/prove the Grand Unified Theory. Why? Because what I want most this year is the same thing I want every year: peace on earth and less facial wrinkles. The Grand Unified Theory (the merging of three non-gravitational forces into one theoretical framework) as a viable solution to the world's (and my) wrinkles is not pie-in-the-sky, even if purely theoretical, the fact that I'm entertaining it as succor is a major shift in my universe—pragmatically speaking. 

However, I don't have an IQ of 200+, so you see, there are serious limitations to meeting my 2011 goal. It's January 3rd, and I wish I were smarter and younger (but I'm not on both counts), and I've already set myself back by two days. This means only one thing: I need to meet with my old acquaintance, Mr. Albert Einstein. Fortunately, he has graciously accepted my invitation to lunch.

Einstein joins me at my round kitchen table, a large leaded glass bowl of fruit before him, and comments, "'A table, a chair, a bowl of fruit and a violin; what else does a man need to be happy?'"

"Oh, about the violin, Mr. Einstein," I reply, "I must confess I don't actually have one. 

Einstein shrugs his shoulders and looks up at the matte-white ceiling. "Humph," he snorts. "At least you've got mango and kiwi," he says, as he slips a slice of the silky tropical fruit through his pursed lips. 

"If you would be so kind, tell me if you would, Mr. Einstein, in layman's terms—if that's possible—more about your idea of unifying your theory of relativity with electro-magnetism, this particle adventure of yours, so to speak. But first, Al," I continue (as if it's imperative I get it off my chest), "I want you to know that my day didn't start so well, with an awful lot of troubleshooting in fact, prompted by a phone call from Shalita the Bully at Bank of America, announcing that my Line of Credit was past due to the tune of $5.77, which, mind you, conflicts with the zero balance noted on recent statements. And did I care, she asked, to ruin my credit rating for a mere $5.77?

"As you can see, Al, BOA has an accounting—not to mention "communication"— problem, which is why BOA is also known, at least by me, as BOAP: Blatantly Ominous Accounting Problems. 'No, it is not me who is delinquent Ms. Shalita the Bully,' I wanted to say to her. Sheesh, it's these types of nonsense events that force me to resort to purchasing expensive moisturizers, Al!"

Einstein says nothing. Looks oddly at me and sucks on a grape.

"So anyway, Mr Einstein, take a look at my face—that's gravity for you. Why is it that we haven't yet solved the problem of gravity? Why is it the BOAPs of the world can operate in outer space, while I'm relegated to the earth? I suppose if the problem at hand were solved, big cosmetics and personal care companies might be painfully pinched by the abrupt drop in Deep Wrinkle Moisture sales."

Einstein shifts in his chair, pulls a compass out of his vest pocket and inspects it. I'm afraid I'm losing him. "Excuse me, Mr. Einstein, I diverge. I apologize, I'm just venting. I understand that gravity is precedent to keeping us grounded. I just don't like it."

Einstein gets up from the table, juggling an orange in one hand, grabbing a piece of chalk with the other, and hacks away at the kitchen blackboard, white powder drifting to the wood floor. "Call me Al," he says. "And it's all right, I'll knock out a few equations for you."

"You know what they say," he reasons, "'If you can't explain it simply, you don't understand it well enough.'"

"So true, Al," I nod. I'm not very good at equations. I look at the slate and see foreign formulas floating from it in 3D, like an animator whipping out a cartoon series. 

"Where are we now?" asks Al. "Oh, yes, the Grand Unified Theory." Al spells it out on the board: GUT (as we know it today). 

"Is this like String Theory?" I ask. "And never mind, Al, that you didn't quite solve the GUT riddle, I think it's remarkable that you even thought it—unifying forces and all."

Al blushes a bit, sits back down, pulls on a grape cluster, and tells me that this theory actually sprung from his fear—or denial—of quantum mechanics. "Very interesting, Al." I cup my right hand over his, which is perched limply on the table, and sympathetically say, "You know this idea of yours lead to an understanding, by our modern day scientists, of high energy electromagnetic and weak forces as aspects of the same force? This ought to bring us closer to the meaning of life, don't you think? Maybe even to everlasting life? So you see, in the end Al, you didn't quite lock yourself into hopeless scientific problems."

Al digs a thumbnail into the orange and a citrus spray erupts, droplets landing on the tip of his large-pored nose, and says that I may be getting ahead of myself, but he's glad we're lunching together; and I agree.

I glance up at the blackboard. "You're telling me that this GUT thing combines three of the four fundamental forces—strong nuclear force, weak nuclear force, electromagnetic nuclear force and gravitations force—into one single equation? Why three forces? And what about the fourth force: gravitational force? Wait, don't answer that. My kids would tell us it's because all measurements, all things in fact, come in threes.  Small, medium, large. Fahrenheit, Celsius, Kelvin. Richter, Moment Magnitude, Mercalli. Judicial, Legislative, Executive. Stratus, cirrus, cumulus. Gas, solid, liquid (but they forget plasma). The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. The three wise men. There are three types of lavas and even three types of lava flow. But you already know all that, Al, don't you? If this is true though, can you tell me why the water temperature options on my Whirlpool duet are cold, warm, hot and super hot? And why are the spin speed options low, medium, high and extra high? And why no super cold or extra low?"

Al tells me to call Whirlpool as he fingers a strawberry, and I thank him. "That's a good idea," I answer.

"You know, a chocolate fondue would be marvelous with this," Al suggests as he pops the berry into his mouth.

I look at Al, straight into his dark, dilated pupils, "Anyway," I say, "You have to separate gravity from just about everything else, now don't you? Gravity: it's a force unto itself, Al." I'm not so sure he wants to hear this. He  peels a ripe banana, takes a bite and chomps, a banana bit clinging to his mustache. "Again, just take a look at my face. Physical gravity and mental gravity, both despairingly heavy-handed, don't you think? And you know this is precisely why I need you here, why I called upon you, for a breakthrough. We need to get to GUT, because if we get to GUT, we can throw in the fourth force, gravity, and move on to the next theory: the Theory of Everything!" 

Al sits up straight in his chair, throws the banana peel on his napkin, and clears his throat. I offer him a glass of water and he takes it.

"By the way, have you heard about the cupcake boutique on Rue Saint-Sulpice? You should check it out, Al, you'd love it."

Einstein admits that he really can't explain GUT, or anything else for that matter, in layman's terms. "It's alright," I assure him. "Don't sweat it. I've got my own theory. It's kind of like the everything that goes up must come down thing. Now I know back in October I started my fiftieth year by imagining life as linear, and you may or may not have agreed with that; but I know that life is really a concentric circle, and we're all aiming at the center target. And I also know that no matter how good a thing looks, tastes or smells (Veuve Clicquot and Ring Dings, for instance), eventually it's going to be exposed as foul-scented substance resembling crap. Is this all life has to offer, Al?"

"That's sort of a pessimistic view," says Al, "but you may be on to something there."

"Anyway, Al, It's all relative, so to speak, now isn't it? My gravity is actually different from yours, and the guy seated next to you. Hey, was he invited? At least from my scientific observation point." 

GUT. Alchemy. An eloquent description of the meaning of life. I wish it all. 

"Imagine if the world were unified, and every problem could be solved with one single equation," I remark. "Have I set my goals too high? Is it too much to ask—peace on  earth, good will to men, slow the aging process, and get BOAP off my back?"

"'I have just got a new theory of eternity!'"Al suddenly announces. "But I need to go now. Mind if I take this apple?" 

I sense my eyebrows shifting upwards. That was a little random, I think. Al slowly lifts himself from the chair, shuffles to the the door with the ruby Empire in hand, and nods his head—a silent thank you.

Not another theory to ponder... "Oh, by the way Al," I shout after him, "look what I got for Christmas—remember how I scalded my last teapot?—it doesn't have a whistle but it's shiny and new..."

Al smiles—a mischievous grin—waves his hand in the air, and snuffles, "So lange."  

"Dankeschön, Al," I smile back. "Glückliches neues Jahr!" I cheer, as I survey sparkly particles fluttering in a vaguely organized manner, tumbling into the empty glass fruit bowl.

There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle.  The other is as though everything is a miracle.  -Albert Einstein

Feeling Negative, Anxious, Frustrated... Change Your Trailer

Feeling low, negative, anxious, suspicious, angry, frustrated, intimidated, trapped, misunderstood, paranoid? Dr. Wayne Dyer (and who doesn't love Dr. Dyer?) talks about paradigm shift, casting away conscious and unconscious crutches, taking a look at old habits and excuses and recognizing the absurdity of these crutches. Once one has acknowledged ones vices, one is freed to turn it all around, alter the path. Well, that's only a smidgen of Dr. Dyer's philosophy, in a bitty brown nutshell, but it's healthy advice and good therapy. 


I've been feeling a little defeated lately, unsure of the direction in which I'm headed and whether I've got the tools and chutzpa to get me there. A little concerned about this semester's writing workshop which starts tomorrow (haven't got a single idea in my head, completely, utterly blocked). And then I saw this—a bit of unconventional therapy and inspiration (click on the arrow!): 





So there you go...  think of your life as a movie (oh, the drama—or maybe it's more like Monty Python, in which case you need not read further). How's it playing? Having fun? Waking up with a bright smile on your face or dread hovering over your head? Feeling like it needs a little recalibrating, take a few things out, move some items around? Here is another mode of paradigm shift:  Change your movie. Change your movie's trailer (after all, do we not review our life as a series of snippets?). Edit and tweak until you are beaming with benevolence, have affirmed your self-worth, inner-goodness. Re-write the whole damn thing if you have to, but make sure its ending is heartwarming. Change the soundtrack, too—to something that makes you want to clap your hands and roll your shoulders. Let the revised version play over and over in your head. Self-affirming trailer.


Oh, happy Sunday. Glorious, rainless, staggeringly brilliant day. Absurdly bright. Shining. A hummingbird breezing about my hanging fuchsia. Today, is the perfect day for a hike up Solsbury Hill, a paradigm shift, a trailer transformation...