Tuesday, September 30, 2014
The last day of September
As autumn sets its withering bells and flashes
With summer truly passed
And winter fast upon us
To freeze us to our heavy wools
And dusty boots
Wood laid in
The promise of a warm book
For the gentle season
Sunday, September 21, 2014
A Crumble of Commenters
Broke rule number one of morning pages by doing a passel of other things before I put this page in front of me. I squandered the morning blush of fresh brain power by answering an email asking me for a side dish that would work with Chili con carne and Sushi. I recommended carrot and ginger salad with sesame oil.
That done, I wanked around the comments section of an article about collective nouns and coined my own to describe my behavior, at least, if not that of countless others who waste time spouting off: “a crumble of commenters” was what I came up with but I also liked “a crumbling of commenters.”
I tried to find language that brought together the notion of being atomized by the very tools that are meant to connect us and the resulting and desperate need to be heard. It’s a topic that interests me, not least because the pace of innovation hasn’t slowed – and likely won’t barring some cataclysmic change in an unimaginable future – and the internet is the communication environment in which we reside. It is a good thing to step back and look at it and the changes it is bringing to the way we understand the notion of community.
In HH’s world, interactive communications – the idea of being connected to a large, and largely anonymous, group of like-minded people – is something he takes for granted. He’s eleven now and it is difficult for me to decide how much I should be involved in what he’s doing online. There are the obvious precautions like paying attention to the sites he visits, cautioning him about trolls and giving out personal information – the standard list of horrors. But beyond the mechanics of trying to make his experience safe, is the larger question of the ideal balance between modern communications devices and the demands of traditional education.
And then there is the question of empathy, but I’ll leave that for another day.
Thursday, September 18, 2014
The Night Train from Nice
September 18, 2014
I never like to read those posts that say a blog is ending. Not that anyone reads this regularly or would notice. There are folks who drop in for a few minutes each week or so, but my entries have been so irregular that I can’t blame them for moving on. There does seem to be a large following in The Republic of Korea – I have hundreds of visits from Korea but I’ve never heard a peep from any of them. I expect it’s a bot, sweeping in and out for reasons I don’t want to imagine.
So I won’t say this is it, because there may be things from time to time that are worth taking note of. That said, I don’t think I’ll be around as often as before.
I wrote this the other day in response to an article I read about the end of Night Trains.
I was traveling solo, for lots of reasons, and arrived in Monaco in late August to visit a friend before continuing on to Viareggio.
There was a night train out of Nice and I went by in the late afternoon to buy a ticket for that night’s train. Jokingly, I asked the lone ticket agent to be certain to book me a cabin with a beautiful, dark-haired Italian girl. He chuckled, passed me my ticket, and I went out to dinner with my friend.
Later that night I returned to the station and waited for the train to Bologna. It was a warm summer night and I was looking forward to a holiday far away from my normal life and work. For some reason, when I entered the sleeper cabin I wasn’t shocked to see her sitting quietly, playing solitaire on her bed. But I was pleasantly surprised and not a little nervous.
I had been practicing my Italian for the weeks leading up to the trip but I was far from fluent. That night there were just the two of us in the sleeper cabin that could have easily accommodated four more people.
We played Briscola and Scopa – the only two Italian card games I knew. There was no romance that night. Like many young men, when confronted with the girl of our dreams, we behave ourselves. I’m glad I did because it made the memory of that night all the better.
But it wasn’t an uneventful night, although I managed to sleep through all the action.
I woke to her urgent whispering – telling me in rapid, anxious Italian that she had been robbed. At some point in the night, a thief or thieves had entered our car and stolen her bag. Mine was under my head, so hers was the easier pick.
We summoned the porter and started to search the train. All of this was taking place as the train was slowly approaching the station where she would get off to meet her parents and I would change to a train heading south. The porters hurried through the train because they knew they would lose any chance of apprehending the thief when the passengers started to disembark.
They found her bag, empty and wet, on the floor of the WC. We said goodbye there and she hurried off to meet her parents. I lingered on the platform for a time, casting a glance now and then for guilty looking characters, but mostly thinking about the young woman I had spent the evening with, someone I would likely never see again but would think of from time to time when the subject of night trains was raised.
Please don’t toss night trains on the slag heap of history. Modernity brings with it ever more efficient ways to speed us through the hours and days of our lives. I night train moves at another pace, closer to the earth, closer to the heart of travel as journey through time and mind.
Thursday, May 29, 2014
Here’s to spring
I’ve not been writing; I’ve been consuming.
I’ve been reading books for long stretches until I can barely focus, reading online for inordinate periods of time - mostly reading. But also eating a more than I should and more specifically, eating the wrong things. It’s far too easy to do when your office is in your kitchen as mine is.
The kitchen is my domain and when I’m not elsewhere reading, I’m in here at this laptop reading or writing , and almost constantly eating and drinking – coffee mostly. I also cook two to three meals a day. I love to cook. I enjoy finding the foods I want to cook in the local market and then having something fresh and reasonably tasty for my family to eat. On the other hand, even though I sit down to dinner, I rarely sit for any of the other meals I prepare. I graze as I cook, or scavenge from the left-overs after the rest of the family has eaten. I actually enjoy cooking a meal and then watching others enjoy it. It’s a bit like theatre. But I don’t think it’s the healthiest way to eat and my consumption in recent months has exceeded my output. I’ve put on weight I will now have to either lose or live with.
And even though writing isn’t exactly exercise, it is exercise of a sort. If I don’t work the writing muscle, it becomes slack. The words don’t flow and the effort required increases – much like the muscles in my legs or my stomach or my back – all the places I feel the neglect piling up.
It is spring. Winter was long, and for me, pleasurable. I enjoy long reads on a rainy day with a steaming cup of coffee and a plate of maple-muesli cookies. I enjoy it a bit too much probably. When the first bright days of spring arrive, I close the drapes and snuggle even closer to my book. The only thing that draws me out is the garden. The garden is the other passionate pastime in my life. I don’t consider my family a pastime; they are full-time, real-time, all the time.
In the past few weeks, I have spent countless hours digging and weeding and planting. I love to see the garden come to life and I love to shape and color the spaces I husband. I see gardening, at least the type of urban gardening that I practice, as a public trust. I enjoy working a space that others will find calming, visually stimulating and probably most of all, an environment where people can wonder.
These are some of the things that have kept me from the page. The list isn’t exhaustive and there is an element of pure laziness that I am reluctant to admit – but there it is. So this post is an effort, an effort in a different direction, working a muscle that has been dormant for a few months.
Here’s to spring.
Monday, April 07, 2014
Mickey Rooney made me do it
This is a post from 2008. I have republished it today in honor of Mickey.
When I was a kid growing up in America I used to watch the old black and white films with Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland, the stories where Mickey and his pals would put on a show of some kind, stage it in a barn or a neighborhood playhouse. Something about those old films clicked for me and in junior high and high school I got involved in local productions – I think I was probably 10 when I first went on stage.
Much later while working on a film, the producer, who had been a casting director, had the idea of casting Mickey in a small but significant role. I hadn’t thought about him in decades but when the day came that Mickey was to arrive for the shoot, I was given the assignment of picking him up at the airport and driving him to the small city in Utah where we would be filming his scenes. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone of his age with so much energy. He was as intense and bright and talkative as his character Andy Hardy had been in his films of the 40’s, there was little about him to indicate that forty or fifty years had elapsed since he was the bright-eyed MGM superstar inspiring his thespian collaborators to action. It was an hour’s drive or more to the location and he did most of the talking, which certainly made things easier for me because I must admit I was more than a little star-struck.
A few years later I was producing a TV show in New York and there was an episode that called for a character not unlike Mickey to make a guest appearance. I persuaded the Executive Producer to hire Mickey for the show and again I had the chance to work with him. The cast of this show was comprised of solid New York actors, folks who worked in the theatre and did summer stock and when Mickey arrived there was a noticeable buzz in the air – he was a hero to all of them. When it came time to do his key scene Mickey bounded into the studio and after greeting all of his co-stars, proceeded to start the scene. I don’t think he had learned his lines or if he had he must have decided that they didn’t suit him particularly well so we had to do the scene a number of times. At some point the Director suggested that Mickey just sing his lines and so he did, improvising a tune that made the points his character was supposed to make and in the process charging the room with that inestimable Mickey Rooney energy – it was perfect.
Last night I performed in a concert here in Cologne. The other musicians were brilliant – I was far and away the least professional among them, but they were all very gracious and made me feel at home. It was as exciting as it had been years ago, preparing to go on stage, the billions of butterflies swarming through me, the sweat beading on my forehead as I waited in the wings to go on. Then there was the performance itself, little of which I remember. It was as if I had entered a space capsule and was transported to another realm where my memory banks were cleared before I was allowed to return to earth.
This morning, however, I am feeling a very familiar feeling, but one I haven’t felt for a long time. Anyone reading this who has ever done a play or worked with a group of other artists on stage knows what I’m talking about. You come together with a group of strangers and after rehearsing and commiserating with each other you go out there in front of a crowd and bare your soul. The bond created in such a situation is unique and after it is over, after the butterflies fly back to wherever they live when they are not torturing us, when the audience has left and the room is being swept clean, the lights taken down and the cables wrapped for storage, it isn’t just the theatre that is empty, there is also a place in your heart that hurts just a little because you know that as soon as you walk out that door and return home – it will all be over. Even if the project is a long one, a film or a TV series or a concert tour – there is always a point when the magic ends, when the audience leaves, when you are no longer a performer getting ready to step into the lurch – but you are just yourself again and you really miss all those folks you worked with on the production and no matter how difficult it was or how scared you were to go on stage or any of it – you want to do it again.
This morning I was reminded again why Mickey Rooney holds such a special place in my memory. He was the one who introduced me to the stage. And the wonderful thing about Mickey is that he has never lost that enthusiasm, he stills loves it. He still loves putting on a show and so do I.
Sunday, April 06, 2014
Does he wake some mornings and say to himself, “No, it wasn’t a dream. I was a Beatle once and I’m still alive.” You bet.
Friday, March 21, 2014
To this water
I say ‘sweet dreams my brother’ as I go.
But you are not sleeping.
You are in my memory where it rubs against my heart.
And that is not enough.
And if you are, somewhere, it is a realm I have yet to find.
So I come here, to this water.
Where others, like you, like me, inclined to quiet places, stop.
March 21, 2014