The Child Is Father to the Man (and Woman)--A Personal Journal

My muse has been wrestling with reality lately. So far, reality has an edge in this week's match.


I have never had children.  But I am unique among my friends, in that both of my parents are still alive.  At 77 and 83 respectively, my mother and father have shown alarming symptoms of age-related decline over the past year.


I have had to reinvent myself as a caretaker of two often difficult people with difficult challenges and ailments.  There are no road-maps for people like me, known as The Sandwich Generation. *

(Although, without children, I am more of an open-faced sandwich.) 

I try my best to provide basic needs, safety and comfort to a mother whose world has finally diminished to a small space of fear and forgetfulness, of self-neglect and mindless distraction to others; and to a father who has used silence and rage in equal measure to maintain his view of life and our place in it, who has stubbornly refused offers of help or requests to discuss future plans.


In brief, there was the car accident last Spring; the trauma; my fragile mother's breakdown; my father's annoyance and denial; an initial hospitalization; treatment by electricity; frantic uncertainty; more denial, and a relapse. 


There is my father's lack of mobility due to recent falls, his rapid weight loss, and his refusal to have his injuries examined.  Cognitive decline is evident, possibly due to lack of sleep.  That is due in large part to his insistence on caring for my mom at home....


My mother is in the early stages of dementia, and chronic (maybe lifelong) depression.  After returning home last June, she had not slept a whole night, and continued to keep my father awake.  She was filled with anxiety and confusion, asked the same questions over and over, and responded with belligerence to attempts to care for her.  It had been violently chaotic. It was recommended that a hospital stay would be best.  I agreed.


In this, her second hospitalization of the year, her medical professionals have deemed her unfit to ever return home, and so tomorrow, we must look at the situation and begin to make some hard decisions.


American medicine, and our culture at large, seem unsympathetic to the helplessness and pain of old age. 


In this journal I have chosen not to dwell on these things.  I never felt that this journal's purpose was as a confessional, or as a way to elicit sympathy. I feel that unless one knows the characters involved, it is difficult to make this relevant and to foster understanding with only one or two brief entries.  There are privacy concerns as well. 


Writing this now, as a way to refocus my efforts and clear my mind for appreciation of higher culture and  the kind of writing I want to do, I realize that there is so much more to all of this. The story of my parents, as viewed through the eyes of a son who always felt responsible for making them happy, and who followed his own path with a mixture of regret and pride, is so complex, and so deep, that this could make for a novel. 


You might think you have read this story before.  But if I ever decide to pursue this and shape it artistically, and do it justice, it could be a stunner, the novel I was meant to write.  But it might be so painful, I might not recover.


At such an intense time in the life of this narrator, I felt it was helpful to share some of the events that have consumed my time and mental energy, to put them in perspective.  I intend to return to film and art and animals and politics as the rightful topics of this journal.


Perhaps, instead of avoiding this topic altogether, I might visit it with more frequency.  It would be a release for me, a therapy.  If I can write compellingly, so that others will read with keen interest, then I will grow as a writer. If I share what I am learning from the experience, it might do someone else some good.


I conclude with a brief anecdote:


My parents have never been demonstrative with their affections.  More often, as a child, I witnessed hair-raising conflict, and always felt at fault.  It was rare to see them embrace, or to hear them speak endearingly.  Last night, as I started to wheel my father from the hospital at the close of visiting hours with my mother, I saw them reach toward each other tentatively, as if to shake hands. My mother mouthed the words, "I love you".  My father replied "I love you too". 


Had they been able to do that at home, instead of maintain the horror show that was their dysfunction, I would bet that things would have turned out so much differently. 


Thank you for listening..  I will return from time to time to relate any progress that we have made.

(* If you are a parental caretaker, check out this web site designed to provide help and information, researched and written by Carol Abaya, M.A.)

A Notable Golden Globe Omission

A brief musing on this year's Golden Globe Nominations--  There is one title that is noticeably absent from the list.

After some despair this summer over a lack of mature, intelligent and original films, the fall season has exploded with movies that have appealed to me and that have been cinematically satisfying.


I'm proud that the films I chose to attend during the year are being recognized in large measure by the year-end critic's awards.  On this blog I have favorably reviewed several films that are now appearing on nominee lists everywhere: "Midnight in Paris", "The Descendants", "The Beginners", "Hugo", "The Ides of March", "Moneyball", "50/50", "Take Shelter", "The Help".  Even Films that I mostly disliked, like "Drive" and "J. Edgar", have captured some nominations. 

And I have yet to see "The Artist", "War Horse", "My Week With Marilyn" and "Iron Lady", all of which are of sincere interest to me.

But one film was completely ignored by the Hollywood Foreign Press.  And its absence has made me realize that it is perhaps the most interesting movie I have seen all year, and certainly the most beautiful. 

It is, of course, "The Tree of Life".

No film has stimulated more thought, made me see and feel more deeply, or left me with so many questions worth pondering.  It is freaking miraculous that this film was seen on American movie screens at all, and discussed favorably by so many viewers. 

It seems fitting that "Tree of Life" is not a guest at the Golden Globe party.  It is too lofty.  It is like an eagle soaring above the common fray of activity, too concerned with more noble ideas.  Great as many of this year's films have been, the ambitions of "The Tree of Life" remove it from the realm of simple filmmaking.  To throw it into competition for a movie award feels odd, like entering Beauty and Truth into a popularity contest.

Abyss--A Sunday Journal

(I wonder if Ingmar Bergman wrote despairing journal articles before creating one of his metaphysical masterpieces... Not that there's a masterpiece waiting in any of the following...)

*     *

Imagine that someone said to you, "Come on, engage in this activity.  It's colorful, full of a variety of things to do.  You can do just about anything you want, unless others (who are more privileged/more weaponed/more unfeeling/more unscrupled) hold you back.  Part of the "fun" is overcoming all of that.  You'll know pleasure sometimes, and will laugh, and see a lot of things, both sublime and horrible.  You might even know love at some point...   You will also experience a lot of pain.  A lot of it.  You will feel pain no matter what you do to avoid it.   And sickness: that is a given.  Your friends and loved ones will also suffer, and you will be helpless to alleviate it. And the longer you engage in this activity, the more you will find that the playing field we call "the world" is even worse than you could have imagined.  And you will wonder if your attempts to make something beautiful are merely an obscenity in such a place that thrives on ugliness.   But hey, amid all of this sadness and hurt there's a lot of fun and good feeling to be found!  The only catch, the one thing you're really certain of, is that at some unspecified time during this activity, no matter how long you engage in it, you will die."

That's life.

If I knew what was required, if I were given a choice before being delivered to the playing field, I would have said, "No thanks."  Of course, none of us is given a choice.

Out Of Barren Ground...Beauty Grows

After a trying day, I took some comfort in a photo I shot this weekend.

This image spoke to me..... Some time while we were away, a petunia took root between the cracks of our patio, and grew and blossomed.

Chances are, if we had been home, we would have pulled the young shoot, thinking it was a weed, never knowing its true nature, and never enjoying its full-grown beauty.

I find the strong plant, thriving against bad odds and a seemingly inhospitable environment, poignant.

What do you think?  Is my inspiration well-founded, or am I projecting too much into a natural phenomenon?

Are we too quick to stifle growth? Do we often ignore potential?

Does this remind you of a time when you overcame a struggle, or defied an environment that told you you were not good enough, not smart enough, not strong enough, not man enough, not woman enough, not worthy, not welcome--but found your beauty in spite of it?

Arrivederci, Italia: Some Parting Thoughts--A Sunday Journal

I have enjoyed re-creating our visit to Italy, on these pages, through journal entries and original photographs, and having readers come along on this special journey.


Coming to the end of this series has left me content, but wistfully heavy-hearted; I don't want to say goodbye again.  I could not hold back tears as we prepared to board the van for the airport in Florence.


The visit was capped by our consummate experience in cooking (see post below); but even that precious idyll was but a small part of what we had just been through. 

Although the big-picture perspective of Italy lingered, that picture alternated in my thoughts with the small things we encountered at every step.  Like one of the vast and intricate mosaics in St. Peter's Basilica, it offered an overwhelming impression of beauty, which compelled me to look closer and marvel at the small moments and anecdotes that produced it.


Sort of like a glorious spray of wild caper plants growing from an ancient stone wall which, upon closer inspection, reveals the most beautiful little caper blossoms, not visible from far away...

I don't know yet all of the ways the trip has transformed me.  But I do know that the experience has changed me, even in small ways.

Transformed? Yes indeed, in various subtle ways.

First of all, I have seen a whole new style of serving and eating food. Wine, too, will make more frequent appearances at our table.

Being surrounded by wonderful pieces of art and artifacts has soothed me, at least for a while, and helped me re-gain much-needed perspective on the annoyances and outrages of everyday life.  Alas, these have not gone away...but instead, in a sense, I have.

I have always believed in the power of language; so communicating in unfamiliar tongues has confirmed that belief.


In one respect, the transformation may not be to my benefit....While Italians have their share of social and economic problems, their ways of life, perfected over centuries, still seem more full, more meaningful, than what America purports to offer. And so, my discontent is becoming greater here.


Mostly I am ever more impatient with American ignorance of world issues, the American obsession with trivial things, with technology for its own sake, for a certain sterility of imagination that pop-culture pundits and taste-makers insist is the wave of the future.  We willfully forget the traditions that make pop culture simply a necessary diversion, not the basis for our economy or our existence.

I have always had an appreciation of the way my grandparents thought and lived. Being in their native land, I felt their presence in the very air around me.

Best of all, I am a different person by virtue of the many people we met. I asked almost everyone where they were from. I had some nice conversations that way.  We met folks from South Africa to Portugal, London to Spain, Holland to Maryland, and many others.


In particular, I will never forget a family from Oslo, Norway we met on a boat cruising between the coastal towns of the Cinque Terre.  The two parents and young daughter occupied the bench in front of us, and their son, 18-year-old "O.J.", or so he was known by his friends, sat beside us.  He spoke English very well and seemed to enjoy the company of us Americans, telling us about his role as a youth-leader and mountain-climber, and his proud love for American horror movies.

My encounter with this family occurred just a couple of days after the tragic massacre in Oslo that took the lives of dozens of young people. I was glad OJ and his family were away from Norway during that chaos, and were not among the unfortunate victims.

After all of the Italian phrases that I used (and misused) for over a week, perhaps my most treasured language acquisition was the 4-word phrase O.J. taught me in Norwegian:

Hyggelig å møte deg.

I'm happy to meet you.

From time to time I may return to these pages to write about a memorable incident or fleeting image from Italy .  For now, I plan to re-read the journal entries below regularly, until we have the opportunity to visit Italy once more. 

Rome: A City Of Contrasts, Contradictions...I Belonged There

The famous sculpture of Romulus and Remus, twin babies abandoned and then raised by a she-wolf.  Romulus grew up and conquered his brother, and founded Rome in the Palatine Hills. Another personal connection....I live and work near Palatine, Illinois.

(More original photographs to follow the essay below:)

Rome has reinvented herself over the centuries.

After only a day in Rome I was struck by its contradictions, its contrasts, the very old and legendary traditions next to modernity that is ignorant of history; opulent wealth next to horrible poverty; religious tradition and sexual heat. 

From my diary written one night in Rome, Friday July 22: 

"Ancient architecture and structures have been preserved, even as young graffiti artists deface them.  There is a typical Italian complacency about neatness and of the infrastructure. Italians are more concerned with relationships, and less so with the repair and efficiency of their buildings and public spaces.  Unlike Germany, whose people, while friendly, seem almost cold in comparison to the impetuous, generous Italians.

"I am a child of a German father and an Italian mother.  Seeing in myself the two very different world views that are my heritage gives me more layers of insight into my  lifelong interior struggles.  I am a study of opposites, just like Munich Airport vs. Rome Airport.  I love both countries.  The Italian way of life seems to be a better fit and will likely take over."

I tried to  capture in photographs this idea of the diversity of Rome, almost ad odds with herself at times:

Modern vehicles line up outside of a "modern" apartment/retail building, which connect to an impressive, ancient structure that is a remaining section of the original Roman baths. The ancient building now contains a restaurant and rooftop garden.

I was thrilled when I saw the word CINEMA across the street; when I ran over to see what was playing, I found to my disappointment that the "Cinema Moderno" had succumbed to hard times.

A tastefully ornate and gorgeously designed luxury hotel building takes a back seat to a McDonalds on the front stairs.

This sign reads, "SITTING ON THE STAIRS IS FORBIDDEN".  This fronts a Cathedral a block away from our hotel.

This sign in a square in Vatican City reads, in 4 languages, "PLEASE DO NOT WALK ON THE GRASS."

People seemed to respect the grass request better than the stairs request.

I noticed that there is almost no landscaping or grass along the busy streets and quiet narrow walkways of Rome. Maybe it was the scarcity of grass, or perhaps the feeling of a watchful godly eye inside the Vatican, that caused people to obey the second sign.  (Was God sleeping at the cathedral?)

While the crowds closely studied the Vatican's exquisite buildings, the buildings seemed to be closely studying the crowds.

Caffe Vaticano, just across the street from the Vatican's main gate.  Giving us this day our daily snack and coffee.

A pop-culture open-air market,  a carousel in the next plane of vision, with a stately office building in the background.  The layers of contrast are quite pleasing!

This was seen from a high plaza near the forum, looking onto the street below.  I regret not going into this shop.  I wonder who it was intended for?



A Few Emotional After-Midnight Thoughts...

I have been away from my journal for a while, owing to our storm and power failure, a nagging cold, and a mild writer's block which was more exhaustion than lack of material....


The momentum returns....


Yes, the word Midnight in the title of this post is a foreshadowing of my next review, "Midnight in Paris", which is long overdue.  The experience has mellowed, and I have grown fond of the movie and cannot wait to share my views and re-view.


My mother is home now, a relief, but a whole new set of challenges, and acceptance of her inability to remember things.  Thanks to those who have given me much encouragement.  I think we're on a good path again....

It was an emotional week for gays in this country, and especially in Chicago.  After the Windy City Performing Arts Pride Concert (See review in the post below), and on the heels of Illinois recognizing Civil Unions for gay couples, New York passed a gay-marriage law. 


What an exciting and symbolic image, to see celebrations outside of the Stonewall Inn, where gay men in 1969 stood up to mistreatment and oppression and encouraged gays to stand with them. Thus the GAY Pride movement was born.

But then, just before yesterday's Chicago Pride Parade, dozens of tires were slashed on floats stored in a South-Side warehouse.  I salute the resourcefulness of the organizers and their mechanics who purchased new tires all over town, replaced them, and got the parade underway.

We missed the parade due to other obligations yesterday.  It was bittersweet.  Now that we feel more connected to Chicago's gay community than ever, we felt isolated in our own activities.   On the other hand, we were glad to be away from the huge pressing crowds.  Until we have a chance to be in the parade itself, as we were five years ago, it might be best to enjoy the highlights shot by our fine Chicago news cameras.

Please enjoy the review below of the June 16 Windy City Performing Arts Pride Concert.

A Question for Bloggers: How Many "Editors" Are Out There?

(...Wondering if you fellow writers have experienced the following, or shared in the process I describe in this post...)

To those of you who have ever read my blog articles "hot off the press", within a day of my having posted them: You might want to re-read them a day or so later.

That's because I am a compulsive and enthusiastic self-editor. 

I like to go back and re-read my previous writing before going on with something new.  Often I will find (aside from the usual spelling or punctuation errors that make me gag) an awkward construction, or a word that doesn't quite convey the correct shade of meaning.

So I will change it after it's "published".

Is that considered cheating?  Does anyone else out there "polish" their posts once or twice after publication? 

Usually, with my schedule, I blog late at night.  I keep Midnight as my deadline, and often miss that because of a complicated topic, or a minor blockage in my thinking. 

Writing is one of the most fulfilling parts of my day, and I have few distractions at night.  One big problem, though, is that I feel less sharp, even though my creative juices (or maybe it's just adrenaline) are really flowing...I always have been a night-person.

Struggling to find the right word, or a logical arrangement of thoughts, I fear that I will do an injustice to my topic.  Or, I rush to finish because I simply have to get to bed.  Once in a while I'll hold a piece until the next morning...but by then, my momentum is gone, the heat of the moment has faded along with my inspiration. 

So I will push to complete the piece on deadline, as any "professional" columnist would do.

I love words.  I love how different words, that have similar meaning, have created tiny variations in the pathways of my brain, so that one word expresses my idea perfectly, and all the others don't quite work.  

Often that perfect word isn't always at my command right away.  I love the satisfaction of finding the exact right word to describe what I can barely put into words...

I love sentences.  I love epic sentences, Henry James-ian clauses that replicate patterns of thought. I love stringing these sentences together in a scenic, winding pathway to an ultimate destination of meaning. 

However, I often get lost in them, in their convoluted paths that take a bump in my "road" or reach a dead end.  I find, as an "objective" reader, that I have not conveyed my meaning at all, but confused it, or went too far, or was boring.

And so I replace, break and reconstruct, at a time of day when my mind is firing on all cylinders.

Editing my work is as satisfying to me as creating it.

I never change actual content. I just find a different, better way of saying something.  I find another word, and BINGO! I expressed my mind and heart.  I rearrange a sentence, or delete a clause, and VIOLA! It is a smoother ride to the conclusion.

I have written countless film reviews that have been "edited" the next day, as well as many other pieces that improve with honest review and cutting.  On the bright side, I can read these now with some sense of real accomplishment. 

I wish I had the talent to knock out a fully-formed piece, straight from my mind's eye, and do so with perfect organization and no mistakes.  But I find my process of writing very much like that of a film editor (another activity I once loved with a passion). Take some raw materials (ideas) and try to shape them into something readable, valuable, even artistic.

I have often wanted to make this Journal a place where I and my readers can feel comfortable discussing the processes by which we create our blogs, our film reviews, our op-ed pieces, our humorous anecdotes, and whatever we love to write. 

It is now 11:45 pm, and I suppose after I get a good night's sleep, I will come back here and improve something.

Let me know if you are likely to do the same with your blogs. Are you an "editor"?   I would be glad to re-visit you for a second reading.

A Weekend Mishap; An Act of Kindness--Wednesday Journal

...For Carlos...Wherever you are...

Here's a memorable follow-up to my previous post about Saturday's Concert.  What could have been a ruinous finish to our weekend of music and good fellowship became just a minor mishap, with a restorative act of kindness.

To eliminate several trips between Mt. Prospect and the City, Mark and I took a room in Evanston for two nights.  It was a cultural mini-vacation.

Sunday morning, after the concert, it was cold and rainy.  We were dragging to pack and leave for home, a 45-minute drive.  The previous night's after-party celebration got us to bed well past midnight.

As Mark finished packing, I grabbed some bags to begin loading the car, which was parked in a garage near the hotel.  I intended to be back in five minutes to take the remaining bags.

Another man and his wife, loaded down with luggage, were leaving the hotel at the same time.  With a free hand I held the door for them.  As I approached the parking structure's short-cut side entrance, I heard the couple lugging their bags behind me.  Realizing that they had found the short cut, they followed me me inside and thanked me for saving them the extra distance to the main door.  I held the doors again, and we exited the elevator together on the same floor.

After I unloaded my bags in the car, the man, who I learned later was named Carlos, told me he was about to ruin my day.  He pointed to the car, noticing what I didn't: my left rear tire had gone flat, after having gone over a nail, which was still embedded in the tire.

"I'll help you fix it," he said.

So he delayed his family's journey back to New York to remove the bad tire and install my spare.

We shook hands, and he refused at first to allow me even to buy breakfast for him and his wife;  he eventually, graciously, agreed.

I write frequently about wonderful people who show kindness to animals, but I rarely experience the caring help of a random individual myself.  

I held the doors.  He changed my tire.  He saved our weekend.

Thank you Carlos--and all of you who have no reason to help a stranger, but do. 

(Tomorrow: Alan Arkin as a Russian Sailor.   Friday: The film "Maurice" looks at a world of past oppression we must not forget.)

When The Muse Fails--A Friday Journal

It happens to all writers...the desire to say something, to write something meaningful...and nothing comes.

I'm sitting in a coffee shop in the Andersonville neighborhood of Chicago, with all kinds of topics lined up, but lack the creative spark to do them justice... 

Chalk it up to Friday night, and the desire to hibernate after a troubling week....

I have to remind myself that sometimes it's all right to say nothing... That being quiet doesn't mean that my writer's light has burned out for good....

It's hard to accept that the blogosphere will not collapse if I can't contribute to it for a night, or two...

I can also blame the failure of my muse on the need to relax the mind.  Finding a compelling topic each day, one that is interesting enough to research and to do justice in the writing, and one that others find worth reading, requires a lot of mental energy.

I want to write about the abominable behavior of our congressional "leaders"; the "controversy" over taxpayer funding of NPR, as unscrupulous muckrakers are lauded as heroes, while other whistle-blowers (with important public information) are mistreated in prison or brought up on ridiculous charges; the ongoing abuse of the environment and its living creatures; the endless pontificating about our educational system while children fail; an ignorant culture that idolizes a pathetic sitcom actor, while thousands around the world face homelessness, nuclear disease, military annihilation, and political terror...and on and on. 

But, apart from my desire to be profound, nothing comes. 

I want to immerse myself in the arts for solace, to remind myself that there is another culture that reveres beauty and aesthetic pleasure.  I long to make an original statement about a work of art, or the perfect interpretation of a film or book, or piece of music, or painting....Or to just have fun as I find creative ways to discuss the movies I love, the musicians that inspire me, and all the rest...

But tonight seems too ordinary, or too shadowed by the frustrations of an absurd world.

When the mind and heart are overloaded, sometimes the best response is repose....  Leave the heavy lifting for the next day, after the batteries are recharged.

Reinvention is a journey, a road trip, that  requires occasional rest stops. 

This weekend: I'll be back to highlight the new Windy City Performing Arts concert; a nod to movies for St. Joseph's day; and maybe a word or two about the absurdity rampant in the news.

Thank you for reading about my inability to come up with anything to say.  

What If I Lost Everything?

What would I do if everything I had was washed away in minutes?  If everything around me was swept away by a horrifying wall of water? If I were lucky enough to escape, what would life be like from that moment?

While seeing the televised images of the growing disaster in Japan, it was nearly impossible to imagine the answers to these questions.  To help me understand, I contemplated walking out of my house and wandering into an unfamiliar deserted field somewhere, far from home with no way to ever return.  Even something so simple raised feelings of panic and helplessness.

I would have nothing but the clothes I was wearing. 

Although I was alive, searching and surviving would occupy my very being for an unknown period of time.  After many hours of walking and becoming tired, I'd realize that I had no home to return to for safety or rest. The higher pleasures of life would for a time become meaningless.

When I felt hungry, I knew that I had no refrigerator or cupboard from which to grab food or drink, like I can do now without even thinking about it.  If I needed to buy something at the store, or go to a favorite spot in town, I had no means to get there except my own legs, since my car would have been washed away and lost.

And if I could get to a favorite shop, or a newsstand, or even a place with a chair to sit in, these would be gone too. 

Unless I found a place that escaped damage, or a kind person who had enough to give, I might weaken as pangs of hunger and thirst would loom.  I would be cold, and perhaps wet from trying to escape the dangerous waters.  I would feel uncomfortable inside clothing that I would have to wear constantly without laundering maybe for days, and have nothing clean and dry to change into. I would not have a razor, or a toothbrush

Once I found that undamaged place, hundreds of unfortunate souls like me would be lined up waiting for the same things I needed: water, food, dry clothing, kind words.

If I had the need to eliminate, I might find no buildings with restroom facilities, nor working plumbing.  I would have to make the best of it, unaccustomed as I am to performing bodily functions or personal hygiene out in the elements.  

Without the company of people I knew, or kind strangers who were strong enough to provide support, there would be no one to comfort me through the awful uncertainty about the fate of those I loved.  I would be alone to contemplate the deaths of friends and family.  Animals, too, would be lost, never understanding what was happening around them.

Maybe worse than the physical discomfort would be the emotional weight, the panic,  hope giving way to mourning.

All that would help me survive in this impossible situation would be the reflexive instinct to assist others (maybe those more helpless than I if that were possible).  In periods of sudden disaster, I sometimes find sources of strength I didn't realize were there, and I snap to without thinking. Only later, overcome with sheer exhaustion, are my defenses broken, and I am able to confront the personal losses, and the idea that everything by which I  had defined my life would be gone.

The home that was my life's center would disappear, without sentimental departure.  Photos, mementos, gadgets, things of personal value, gone. 

My books would be forever lost.  No laptop computer. No blogging.  No movies to watch, and review, and discuss tirelessly.  Would I miss them? Would something that fulfills a more abstract need be important in such a situation?  Maybe my capacity to remember, to replay the movies and books in my head, and derive some pleasure from their memory, would give me the strength that need to assist the more unfortunate.

All I know, thinking about it now from within the warmth of my little house, surrounded by the things that make me comfortable, and in front of the glow from my computer screen, is that if I ever found myself in this situation, I would hope that people of compassion would help me back on my feet, providing me with the basics that I was unable to provide for myself.

What is important?  Is life merely a room full of objects it took me a lifetime to gather and save?  If I am privileged to exist in a state of higher functioning, can my enjoyment and appreciation of things like movies and books, art and music, writing and thinking, serve something better as well?

Most of us want to do something to help.  I found one way to provide a small donation (there are many others).  Even $10 can help when multiplied by thousands.

I found a web site (Mashable.com) that offers creative ways to lend support and aid to those in Japan who need it urgently:

The American Red Cross has once again launched a texting campaign to raise money for relief efforts in the Pacific region. Last year, the Red Cross was able to raise over $20 million for Haiti relief through simple text donations.
If you would like to donate to the American Red Cross for Japan Earthquake Relief, just text REDCROSS to 90999. Each text will provide $10 towards the Red Cross’s humanitarian efforts.

Shirley Booth in "Come Back, Little Sheba", 1952 Oscar-Winner

This is not a review.  It's not even a true analysis.  It is a discovery...how the work of one actress in a performance from 1952 has meaning for one viewer in 2011.

As part of  it's annual "31 Days of Oscar", Turner Classic Movies screened the domestic drama "Come Back, Little Sheba".

Shirley Booth...Wow.  Her performance here is essential viewing to anyone who cares about great movie acting, and who appreciates those times when Oscar got it completely, marvelously right.

Booth reprises the role of Lola, the disheveled and unhappy wife of an alcoholic, a performance that also won her a Tony award. This was Booth's first film, and, at age 54, was the oldest person to date to win the Oscar for Best Actress.  (So unforgettable was her portrayal, that she was also honored by the Golden Globes, New York Film Critics, National Board of Review, and the Cannes Film Festival.)

Lola--"pretty Lola" as she was known before life diminished her--pines for her lost dog Sheba, and yearns to return to happier days with her husband "Doc" (or "Daddy" as she affectionately calls him).  Booth successfully paints a portrait of a desperately lonely woman who is unaware of how unhappy she is.  She smilingly, tentatively, tries to connect with anyone around her--anyone who will listen.  Her neighbors..her mailman...the college girl who rents a room in her home as the film begins.

See how Booth carries her arms, her hands...bent askew, her thumb smoothing her dress, as though she instinctively must protect herself from blows...physical ones, or the more painful, verbal ones she endures from her disappointed, resentful husband in a drunken rage at the film's climax.

Booth learned how to temper her expressions for the intimacy of the camera.  Watch her struggle to maintain a loving and "normal" countenance, a look of naive contentment. Notice how she unwittingly opens her husband's old psychological wounds, forcing him to recall painful memories of giving up his dreams, reminding him of his alcoholism and his year in AA, destroying his coping mechanisms even though she means to encourage him,  probing him with an innocently pleading expression.  Notice the panic register on her face as she realizes that Doc is in trouble again.

Her tears of worry and regret are sincere, real.  Her resolve to improve herself and her life with Doc are heartbreaking.  Her dreams, in which she finds the lifeless body of her little white dog Sheba, and not being able to tend to the animal because she is told she must "move on",  hit me deeply...

I knew instinctively that the image of the lost dog represented a lifetime of missed opportunities. Even as a literal plot point, it moved me so much....I identified with it profoundly.

Abandoned even by her own mother, to whom she finally admits on the phone how unhappy she is, she tearfully promises Doc that she will never leave him because he is all she has.  The many levels of meaning are communicated by her halting delivery, and a look of resignation--or is it hope?  We want to comfort this woman.

And here's where it gets real personal...

Except for the accent, Lola, as embodied by Shirley Booth, a woman so worn down by life that she can't face getting dressed, so desperate for human connection that she reaches out inappropriately and says too much, is a touching reflection of someone I actually know...an uncanny representation of someone whom I have known since the day I was born. 

And Lola's characteristics, concentrated in Shirley Booth's potent and very moving performance, helps me appreciate and strengthen my emotional connection to this person, her "well-meaningness" and simple carelessness, her attachment to a past that was kind to her, and her emptiness because of the things she lost: almost all of her loved ones, a lifetime's worth of "Little Shebas", and, most of all, her youth.

I think true art is a thing of beauty that can help one come to terms with life's unanswerable questions.  Shirley Booth's Lola to me is cinematic art.

A Life Devoted to Animals--A Saturday Journal

A quick detour on Golden Globes weekend, for the sake of my animal friends...

I have been away from home, dog-sitting since December 27.  Right now I'm with Shayna, a Border Collie who I have cared for many times.  It is a long time to be living away from home, in spite of my being only a few miles from our house.  

I miss my routine.  I still have to juggle my household responsibilities with Mark, work my regular job a the College, and provide quality time for this loving animal.

My "tenure" ends this coming Friday with the return of the dog's "parents". Then I can return home, and continue our winter "nesting", safe in our little house, getting through the snowy season and making our plans for the summer.

Spending time with animals in this way reminds me that I had once considered a career in animal care of some kind: veterinary medicine, veterinary technology, dog-training, and other career directions. 

Life has a way of moving in odd ways.  You move with it to keep up, and tug in other directions to create movement, in what Ruth Gordon in "Harold and Maude" called "the cosmic dance."

But reinventing one's self offers an opportunity to sort through old decisions, and see which ones are still feasible. I realize that it is still possible to re-explore making a living devoted to animals.

Until I "shed my skin" and emerge fully committed, I seem to have found other ways to satisfy my craving for animal care and companionship: in-house dog-sitting as I described; volunteering at the Buddy Foundation; becoming involved with "Mercy for Animals"; and writing about it all. 

And maybe, this spring, bringing a new dog home to stay...

Also, I enjoy reading books and web sites to learn about new trends in dog care, as well as personal anecdotes from those who love their pets and other animals.

I recommend a very informative web site called

Vet Tech :

  "Vet Tech is the combined work of Tina Marconi and Joseph Morris. With more than 15 years of experience in the veterinary field, we share our educational experiences and knowledge with prospective veterinary technicians in order to shed some light on this very rewarding field." 

For anyone thinking about entering the veterinary tech. field, this is an excellent resource.  It's also invaluable for those wishing to know as much as possible about the health of their pets.

The journey continues....As long as there are animals that need help, people to know, loved ones to love, books to read, movies to discuss and debate with friends, and topics to write about...then the way is paved for the cosmic dance that leads to reinvention...

~   ~   ~   ~

COMING UP: 1970..the year...the movies..the Oscars!

"Hannah..." Revisited--Woody Allen and Reinvention: A Monday Journal

I wanted to turn my life into a grand opera...  But I think I will have to be content with a tone poem.

When I sought to "reinvent" myself, I had a vague notion that I wanted to achieve some great things.  Perhaps I would develop my life experience into playwriting, or create some novels.  I would add to my collection of short stories.  Maybe I would teach, and preserve the legacy of classic film and literature.  Or I would use my words to champion for helpless animals.

I channeled my myriad activities--reading, learning what I could from radio, Internet, and immersion in the culture of Chicago, travel, and widening my circle of interesting people--into a blog, and into other writing.  I became involved in learning a new language, and taking care of homeless dogs and supporting animal advocacy in many forms; in between my duties as a partner, a son, an employee, and a colleague.

It was easy at first, the broad-based approach, because it allowed me to rotate among a variety of activities.  While it took me longer to sharpen my focus, I was at least not bored.

Soon, time and the world seemed to cast an early shadow on my dreams. Time was running out before I could create my legacy.  I had far too many obligations to take the necessary time to lose myself, to endure the painful birth of my creativity.

Like yesterday:  we still had a glimmer of Daylight Saving Time, but overnight it seemed that days were growing shorter, and darkness came more suddenly.

It felt like I was leaving the party before it got started.  It felt a little like discouragement.  It felt impatient; like there was nothing new here, and I had to rush to an unknown horizon to find who-knows-what.

I questioned everything...and did not like what I saw of the larger world, the politics and corruption and pain....I even wondered if I had seen too many movies to keep my mind open...and it started to bleed into my work, so that the pure enjoyment was diminished.  Was it merely the end of naivete?  Can one dream and not be naive?

And soon, for a couple of hours, art was imitating life:

I re-visited Woody Allen's "Hannah and Her Sisters", which has been one of my favorite films, not just a favorite Woody Allen film. It's a sentimental story, beautifully woven and written, character-driven, and very funny.

I call it an epic of the intellect.  Allen's characters are like great, sweeping landscapes of ideas, each filled with treachery and beauty and humor.  "Hannah and Her Sisters" is a story of marital love and infidelity, the meaning of art, the fulfillment of performance, the search for spirituality.  Each character is looking for something; each life is ripe for change, usually involving the potential for loss and sacrifice.

Michael Caine is married to a warm and giving Mia Farrow, but wants to create a life with one of her sisters, Barbara Hershey.  Hershey's character has been molded by the attentions of  an older artist (Max Von Sydow), but feels suffocated, and needs to spread her wings and risk alienating her sister.  Farrow senses the alienation all around her, and begs for understanding that she is a woman of enormous needs.

Diane Wiest, the neurotic other sister, can't find her identity, and haplessly turns to drugs, auditions for impossible stage roles (she can't sing), competes with her poised and intelligent best friend (Carrie Fisher) for the attentions of an intriguing and romantic architect (Sam Waterston), and tries to write a play.

All of these actors reach career highs in this film, none more than Wiest.  Last week I watched her in "Bullets Over Broadway" and I was delighted by her portrayal of Helen St. Clair, the Broadway diva with the throaty voice and booming delivery ("Don't SPEAK!").  This was Wiest's masterpiece, made even more remarkable by her contrasting, mousy complexity in "Hannah".  (Wiest remains the only actor to win two Oscars in films by the same director.)

Most complex of all is Woody Allen's character, divorced from Mia Farrow after learning that he is "sterile" and can't father children with her, a hypochondriac who is certain he is dying of a brain tumor, a Jew who seeks life's meaning in other forms of spirituality.  His "conversion" to Catholicism makes for some of the film's biggest laughs.  Slipping into despair, he decides that life has no meaning whatsoever.  He buys a rifle.  He ineptly bungles his own suicide.

Wandering the streets in a panic, he finally ducks into a movie theater.  There, with the antics of the Marx Brothers unfolding before him, Allen decides that even if the worst is true, and life has no meaning, that it is still an experience to be a part of, and that it isn't all a drag.  In the presence of zany humor, he begins to enjoy himself.

Somewhere, a person in the throes of melancholy may encounter "Hannah and Her Sisters", maybe for the first time, or maybe for the tenth.  That viewer may, like Allen did with the Marx Brothers, find comfort in its humor and in its encouragement to find enjoyment in whatever pleasures life may offer (be they movies, or books, or dogs, or writing?)  Maybe, like Allen he will be surprised to find, some time later, that his life is not "sterile" after all.... 

"Honoring" Gay Teen Suicides? A Tuesday Journal

I'm afraid this will not be easy.....

Out of sympathy for the families who lost gay loved ones to a series of recent, highly publicized suicides, I plan to join in an initiative called Spirit Day on Wednesday.  People are asked to wear purple, to remember the gay teens who felt hopeless to escape the impossible situations that homophobia had made of their lives.  I make this simple gesture to raise awareness of the particularly troubling stresses placed on young gay people, who are still forced into frightened silence, threatened with cruel humiliation or violence, or abandoned by their families.

I say "still" , because these things are not new.  Gay people have been bullied and ostracized in America (and the world) for centuries.  Gay teens are far more likely to kill themselves as their non-gay peers, and many gays have, for decades, chose suicide out of despair, of profound feelings of isolation and of no escape from ostracism and self-hatred.  However, many others who have been subject to the same pressures and cruelty through the decades, have not chosen to end their lives.

I don't want to make light of the tragic consequences of homophobia, nor of the terrible effects the desperate act of suicide has on the survivors, and others who contemplate the same fate.  But I am uneasy.  Something inside me tightens up when I read statements like the following from Lambda Legal:

 "Tomorrow, October 20, has been named Spirit Day, and supporters across the country will wear purple in honor of all of the LGBT young people who have committed suicide."

While I think that suicide is a personal decision not to be lightly considered, nor encouraged, I likewise  believe that suicide is not an action to be honored;  nor is the rash of highly publicized gay suicides (a disturbing trend, but not new) an appropriate form of protest even against the irrational and continuing hatred of gays. 

Will I wear purple to commemorate the deaths out of compassion? Absolutely.  Can it be seen as a symbol to encourage allies, from schools to the military, from Congress to the wedding chapel, to stridently oppose homophobia, and demand civil treatment of gays? Of course. 

Yet it seems wrong to hold these tragic young people up as martyrs, who are likely to be emulated as heroes by an impressionable age group.

Believe me, I do NOT mean to appear unsympathetic.  I am merely dealing with what my instinct tells me could become a misguided gesture.  I, too, know the terror of loneliness for being different, and the fear of being shamed or hurt, and not being able to tell a single soul.  Maybe my coping mechanisms were less than healthy, but I coped,  I hurt no one, and maybe even helped others;  and millions like me did the same. 

Young people have been, over the years, just as likely to have been bullied, humiliated, beaten by their parents, as by their homophobic peers.  Institutionalized homophobia must be addressed and eradicated to be sure; but violent mistreatment of kids (physical or emotional) whether it is driven by homophobia or not, must be confronted and opposed and punished.  There are many reasons why a young person may end his or her life. 

Spirit Day draws attention to a pervasive message that still makes it okay to harrass a yong person for being gay.  To battle institutionalized homophobia, we first have to loudly oppose political hatred that is wrapped in the flag; and second, we have to be aware of insidious attitudes, speech, and media images that hide behind the aprons of the Constitution.  We must be willing to fight these. 

Most difficult, however, is that we also have to accept that, sometimes, we unknowingly exacerbate the problem by trying too hard to show our understanding.

Consider:

If that poor college student, who jumped off a bridge for having his same-sex liaison secretly recorded and posted on-line, was instead recorded having sex with a girl, I believe that he might not have killed himself; and that the perpetrators might have been dismissed as typical college pranksters.  But the pervasive attitude that having gay sex is somehow more taboo makes for a sensational media story, and our focus on the same-sex aspect of it inadvertently perpetuates an attitude that gay sex is shameful in a way that "straight" sex is not.

The student who killed himself certainly felt this way, and it is for that reason, and not because he took his life, that well-meaning people have to fight hard to change attitudes and laws, and define what is acceptable.

Maybe I, too, am perpetuating this notion by wearing purple.  At any rate, I wanted to state my motives in my own way, to say that I do this because I do care, that I want to draw attention to the problems that create an atmosphere of despair, while not creating heroes of the unfortunates who succumbed to that despair.