Flopsy

Last Wednesday, my wife and Aidan bought a small, white rabbit as a Christmas gift for our daughter. It was adorable, no bigger than your palm, with long, brown, ears that flopped down the side of its head. We kept it in the back house and it was visited each day.

Tonight it died. I just buried it in the back yard, holding it near my chest as I scooped out a hole. It was still warm. I felt badly putting it in the cold earth. Aidan cried when he found out, he liked it so much. Nadia would have loved it. It was a fragile thing, beautiful, but fragile.

A tree swing

A few weeks ago, or maybe last weekend, when I took my son to a playdate, I noticed they had a rope hung from a high tree branch. The kids loved to swing on it. Of course, my kids wanted one. So how did they get the rope on the high branch? Apparently they shot an arrow with a thin thread tied to it over the branch, then tied the thin thread to a rope and pulled the rope over. So I promised to make one in our back yard. That weekend, we walked around and found a good tree, with a high branch, unobstructed.

Today I went to that house again and this time they loaned me the bow and arrow and some thick rope. So when I got home I tried it. First I tied a string to the arrow and tried shooting it up. Of course, I didn't know how to shoot it, so I took a few tries to get it right. When I had confidence I aimed it up at the branch. I kept getting tangled in branches of smaller trees, coming close to the large branch but never quite. After about 15 tries the arrow got stuck in a branch. I pulled and pulled to get it loose, and then the string broke. So there is the arrow hanging from a branch, high up, and I can't get it. I hope the neighbors are watching this comedy.

Next, I tie the string to a small stone, and throw the stone up. The branch I'm trying to reach is about 30 feet up. Maybe when I was younger I could reach it on the first try, but not today. Over and over I threw the stone, missing completely. Once the string got tangled in thin lower branches and when I tried to pull it out, it broke, so I lost the nice stone. I made another. Kept trying to throw, over an d over. Missing just by a foot, my arm getting tired. Can you picture it? A stone tied to a string, and me trying to throw it over a very high branch.

Finally, as it was getting dark, I got it. The stone went over the branch! It came down low enough so I could grab it and tie it to the thick rope, which I then pulled over the branch. So that's how I left it, because I don't have a seat to tie to the rope. Also, I don't know how to tie a knot that will hold - a slip knot. I'll deal with that tomorrow. I was very happy to get it to work. But it's awfullyl close to the tree. I hope the kids don't smash into it one day.

Now in my backyard there is a rope hanging from a high, thick tree branch. And also an arrow stuck somewhere, and bits of string all over. I hope the neighbors enjoyed the spectacle. It's all about the suburbs, anyway.

Babies

This morning I was walking north on Fort Washington avenue in the bright, sunny, warm morning. It was a lovely time, not too hot and wonderful clear light everywhere. Near the park around 175th street I saw two strollers full of babies. These are strollers that carry four children each, pushed by people who work at the P&S daycare center on Haven Avenue. The babies are so cute! I love especially those with very little hair, those naked head seeming just a bit too large but still charming. And how the babies continually look around, taking in everything and trying to understand what it is they are seeing! Whenever I see these babies, my heart jumps. They are so cute, so curious, so vulnerable because they can't do anything for themselves and are totally dependent on others. It's sad, in some inexplicable way. In this case, they are away from their parents, who are working, and in the care of others who may or may not think much of them. So whenever I see these babies, I am both happy and sad. I also think of my babies, who of course now are far past being babies, and think how fleeting this nice time of life is. But everythng is fleeting, and if we dwell on that, we'll be continually sad.

So I enjoyed the babies for a bit and then moved on. I'll see them again one day. As they grow up, they will be replaced by other new babies. Not at all like babies of mine.

Checkout

Today I was standing in line at Target, waiting to pay for my purchases. In front of me was someone paying, and a woman and man waiting. As usual at Target in the morning, there were 100 closed checkout stations and one open one.

Another checkout station opened up a few lanes away. The clerk said 'Next in line', and no one moved. So I went over to check out. At that point, the woman waiting in front of me got very angry, told me she was first, and told me to wait. So I stepped back and let her go first. The cashier asked her how she was, and she replied "Been better. I believe that man should go next." And she pointed to the man who had been ahead of me in the other line, now waiting behind me.

I just walked away and went back to the first cashier line.

What is it with women? Why do they have to rule the world? No man would ever complain about someone going in line ahead of them like that. Why did she have to bother?

It really started my day in a bad way. And got me thinking about how bad women can be.

First date

Yesterday, 25 June 2006, my oldest son had his first date. He likes a girl in his karate class, someone just a few days older than he is. For weeks he has been talking about her; then last Saturday she gave him her cell phone number (she has a cell phone at 11 years old). He had the number on a pink sticky, which he said he would keep forever. This past Saturday at karate, he asked her if she wanted to come to his house for a while; she said to call her Sunday morning. When the day came, he was so nervous to call, he kept rehearsing what he would say. Later in the day he went to her house for a few hours. The funny thing is, his sister also went - she is 8 years old and gets along well with my son's friend. So the three of them played and had a great time, I heard. I think of my daughter going along as a chaperone, perhaps, or to help break the ice.

Girls and women are very nice, but he doesn't know what he is getting himself into.

Funny joke from a beautiful woman

Each month Esquire runs a feature called 'Funny joke from a beautiful women'. I liked last month's; it was told by the actress Ana De La Reguera (currently playing a nun in the movie 'Nacho Libre'). Here is the joke:

A wife asks her husband, "Honey, if I died, would you remarry?"
"After a considerable period of grieving," he says, "I guess I would. We all need companionship."
"If I died and you remarried,", the wife asks, "would she live in this house?"
"We've spent a lot of money getting this house just the way we want it. I guess so."
"If I died and you remarried and she lived in this house," the wife asks, "would she sleep in our bed?"
"Well, the bed is brand-new. It's going to last a long time. I guess she would."
"If I died and you remarried and she lived in this house and slept in our bed, would she use my golf clubs?"
"Oh, no," the husband replies. "She's left-handed."

Recess

Tomorrow is the last day of school for my children. Yesterday evening my older son announced to me, 'Today was the last day of recess for the rest of my life'. I asked him to explain. Through fifth grade, children have some time outside each day, just after lunch. Weather permitting, they go to the playground where they can expend some energy. Since Aidan is completing fifth grade this year, he won't have any more recess. Forever, because you never get any recess later in life.

I hadn't ever thought about that. I suppose kids like their routines, and especially like running around outside. He didn't seem particularly upset, but the fact that he mentioned it means he was thinking about it. The things that go around in kids' heads!

Leg hair

This morning, I put shorts on my daughter. A bit later I saw her go back to her room, take them off, and look in the drawer. So I asked her what was wrong. She began wailing, "I don't like the hair on my legs". From an eight year old! I said, 'but I have hair all over', and she said, 'but you are a man'. Then I said, 'but all girls in your class probably have hair on their legs', but she didn't care. She said she would pass the summer without wearing shorts or skirts.

Later in the car, on the way to school, I asked her where that came from. She could not tell me. But when I asked her if she wanted to wax her legs, she nodded an enthusiastic yes. Wait till she feels the pain! I'm amazed at this concern at this early age. But what do I know about girls?

Women without clothing

Some events stick in your mind forever, no matter how long ago they occurred. I suppose that is because they made a strong impression. I have many such memories. One popped back into my mind the other day.

When I was much younger, my family would spend weeks each summer at the New Jersey shore. We would rent a house near the beach, either in Point Pleasant or Manasquan, spend days at the beach and nights at the boardwalk or at home relaxing. One summer - I can't recall which, but I was somewhere around 10 - 12 years old, I would guess, we had rented a home in Manasquan. It was on the beach, but behind a row of houses that directly looked onto the ocean. Between our rented house and the house closest to the beach was a wooden walkway and a bit of sand. One afternoon I was standing on the wooden walkway, leaning against a low concrete wall that separated our house from the adjoining one. I was facing our rented house, dreaming for some time. Someone said 'Hi' from behind me. I turned to see one of the lovely young women currently occupying the rental next door. She was probably at least 16 or 17, with blonde hair and a pretty face. She covered the front of her body with a white towel, apparently having just emerged from the outdoor shower. She smiled impishly and then turned quickly to enter her house. In so doing, I learned that the towel only covered the front of her body. I was treated to a lovely view of her naked back and buttocks. She was tanned except for the white buttocks. It was lovely, and I was stunned. In a breath of time she had flipped open the screen door and disappeared into the darkness. I stood for many minutes watching, hoping she would emerge again, but I never saw her again, not on that day or on any other.

I believe it was my first view of a live, naked woman. I look back on the incident with affection; she was so pretty and it was all so surprising. I do believe this experience is partly responsible for my inordinate fondess for women without clothing.

Dimples of Venus

'Dimple of Venus' is the the name for the two dimples that may be seen on the human lower back, as shown in the photograph above. Given the propensity for women to expose their lower back on a daily basis, with low-riding pants and high-riding shirts, these dimples are now seen more frequently than ever before. Their symmetry and softness are quite lovely.

Apparently others are fond of back dimples as well: here is a website devoted to their discovery.

Hugging

I'm sitting at the kitchen table, finishing a glass of red wine and reading last Sunday's paper. I wasn't around last weekend, and haven't had time to read it yet. The paper, not the glass of wine.

I'm reading the 'Modern Love' column which I quote here a lot. It's a column by a woman who is a staunch feminist but also loves men. The picture above is from the column. I like the hair.

She writes:

"...no matter how enraged I become, I still adore men and the possibility for romance they bring. I love the smell of a man's skin. I enjoy the breathless feeling of waiting to see if he'll call back. And nothing beats the feeling of a man's arms wrapped around me. Nothing."

I guess she likes being hugged. Men like hugging, too. Or else they wouldn't do it.

Memories

I was putting my son Devin to bed the other night when he suddenly said, 'Do you know how to feel better when you are sad? Think about your good memories. Once when everyone was yelling at me, and I felt bad, I came to my room and looked at my old Winnie the Pooh stickers, and they made me feel good'.

I'll have to try it sometimes. Kids and often incredibly wise.

More Duras

A few posts ago, I recalled the story of Marguerite Duras' young years in Colonial Indochina, and her affair with the son of a Chinese landowner. This affair formed the basis of her short book, 'The Lover'. I became intrigued by this story and went to amazon.com to purchase the book.

While I was browsing, I learned that Duras also wrote the screenplay for the movie 'Hiroshima Mon Amour', the black and white film made in 1959 by Alain Resnais. Apparently this is 'a cornerstone of French cinema...one of the most influential films of all time.' It is 'the story of a French woman and a Japanese man who become lovers in Hiroshima. The film reveals the miserable and mortifying experiences of each character during the war and suggests the obvious healing properties of their relationship in the present....nothing can quite prepare one for Resnais's extreme yet intuitively accessible experiments in fusing the past, present, and future into great sweeps of subjectively experienced memory. ...audiences have never had trouble relating to this bold milestone of the French New Wave, largely because at its heart is a genuinely affecting, soulful love story.'

So I bought the DVD, too. Such is today's digital way of browsing. And it can only get better.

Booby Trap

Each night before bed, my two younger children read for at least 15 minutes. They enter what they have read into a log: name of the book, how many pages, type of book, and a new word that they learned while reading.

Tonight my son Devin wrote the word "booby trap".

He said to me, "I wrote two words, booby trap, instead of booby, so that my teacher would not think I was using an inappropriate word. It means girls' breasts. Bathroom talk".

Fack Offf

File for use in a movie:

A man and woman sit at a small wooden table, having dinner. There is a single candle on the table between them. The woman is Italian and speaks English with an accent. They have been arguing. For the woman, this is natural, it is part of her culture. She says to him 'fack off'. Instead of 'u' in that word, she pronounces it like a long 'a'. And the 'off', she lingers a bit more on the f's than do Americans. Like 'offff...' 'Fack offff'.

He says, 'I like the way you say that'.

She responds, 'Fack off. I'll say it as many times as you wish'.

My Grave

Last Sunday in 'Modern Love', a journalist wrote about how he briefly flirted with a Bengladeshi woman, a policewoman no less, during a brief stay in that country. They didn't do very much, just went to parks and such for a while. At one point, she scribbled something in his notebook. Later, after they had parted for the last time, he went back to his hotel and read what she had written:

When I will die
please come to my grave.
Don't cry for me,
only say I love you.

A Pale View of Hills

I finished reading "A Pale View of Hills", by Kazuo Ishiguro, Sunday evening. It's a beautiful book but difficult to completely understand. Perhaps I need to read it again. The switching narrative was somewhat confusing to me.

For the most part, the book flowed evenly, and I found little that jumped out at me. One exception came during a dialogue between Niki and her Mother, Etsuko, towards the end of the book. Etsuko had just asked her daughter if she had any plans to get married.

"Well, why should I get married? That's so stupid, Mother. So many women just get brainwashed. They think all there is to life is getting married and having a load of kids."

I continued to watch her. Then I said: "But in the end, Niki, there isn't very much else."

Forbidden Love

Did you know that Marguerite Duras, the French writer who spent her childhood in colonial Indochina, began an affair with a 27 year old son of a Chinese landowner when she was 15 years old? She would sneak away from her boarding school in Saigon to spend evenings in his bachelor's quarters in the city's Chinatown. Apparently this scandalous affair served as raw material for her 1984 novel, "The Lover".

As documented in an article in the NY Times of 30 April, it is still possible to retrace some of her narrative in Vietnam. The author retraced many of the lovers' steps in Saigon and the surrounding areas. I thought it was interesting that he found a photograph in the Chua Huong pagoda of the Chinese man and the woman he eventually married. Apparently the parents of the Chinese man forbid him to marry Duras. The author of the article writes: "Was there regret in his eyes? Years after their affair, he phoned Duras in Paris to tell her he would never stop loving her for the rest of her life. Perhaps that is why his wife, in her photo, looks so uncomfortable, so unloved".

How interesting that he would still love her, unseen, after so many years. And that as a result, his wife would be forever unloved.

I have not read "The Lover". Perhaps I should.

La Perla

Un negozio a Roma, dove si vende l'intimo, 'La Perla'.

Rome

Rome is a wonderful city. It's disorganized and chaotic, but seems to work. The people are friendly, the food is wonderful, and there are endless things to see, no matter what your interests are. I spent 9 days there and I wish I had been able to post to this blog wherever I was, because there were so many things I would have liked to write about. I'm not sure I can remember them all, but perhaps looking at the photos I took will bring some of them back.

Above is a photo of my son Devin on a set of steps leading down to Via Veneto. This was taken on Monday, 17 April, in the late afternoon; it had been lightly raining for some time and the skies were cloudy. I like the photo because it's a bit surreal.

This photo reminds me of two incidents with Devin, both on a trip to Pompeii on 13 April. On the bus drive to Naples from Rome, we stopped at the half-way point for bathrooms and coffee. I got off the bus with Devin and brought him to the bathroom. Back upstairs, in a combination coffee-bar convience store, he spotted bags of animal cookies on the shelf. He asked me if he could have one, and I said yes. He was so happy, he jumped up and down. Sometimes it's just good to say yes.

Later that day, after visiting Pompeii, we were walking through a parking lot filled with souvenir stands. Devin went off on his own with a five-euro note. He looked around and selected a small plate (about 2" in diameter) with a picture of erupting Vesuvius on it. Then it was time to leave, and I called him to come. The man tending the stand asked him if he wanted to buy the plate; he thought a bit, nodded yes, and handed the man the note, who then got him his change. He did it all by himself; he's an independent guy. I was very proud of him.

Santa Lucia

I was in Italy last week; Rome, to be exact. One day, we took a trip south to Pompeii. On the way, the bus made a brief stop in Naples, where we got out to view the harbor and a nice image of Mt. Vesuvius. After that stop, we drove very near Pompeii, stopping at a restaurant for lunch. It was a large place, well suited to receive the contents of many tour busses. Nevertheless, the food was very good.

Once we were seated, two older men playing guitar and mandolin circulated among the tables, playing Neapolitan songs. I paid little attention to them. At one point, they began singing. After a few bars of the song, I looked up because the singer was very, very good. I was surprised to see a Korean man, from one of the tour buses, singing along with the two Italians! He was singing 'Santa Lucia', and boy, was he good! He had a near-operatic voice. As he went through the song, everyone stopped eating, looked up, and listed. When he was done, he received a great round of applause. What a wonderful performance!

When I came home, I just had to find the lyrics of this song; I also downloaded a version by Enrico Caruso. Yes, I plan to memorize the song and sing it until I get it right. I'll never have an operatic voice, but perhaps I'll be able to sing it in tune. Then, one day, I might be able to sing it in a Neapolitan restaurant. Maybe even play guitar as well.

Santa Lucia is dedicated to the city of Naples and to the Santa Lucia area which faces the Gulf of Naples. The lyrics are the words of a boatman describing the view from Santa Lucia: It is night and the moon is reflected in the sea. He tells us of the indescribable magic that one can feel while watching the boats in the sea; how they sail softly, driven by gentle breezes. The boatman invites people to board his boat saying how you will admire the sea and the city of Naples.

Naples is described beautifully in this song as, "suolo beato, ove sorridere volle il Creato" (holy soil, smiled upon by the Creator). The Santa Lucia quarter is called "impero dell'armonia" (the empire of harmony).

It's a wonderful song; the words are lovely and the melody is memorable. Since my maternal grandparents were from the area of Napoli, I remember it well from my youth. Hearing it brought back memories.

SANTA LUCIA

Sul mare luccica
L'astro d'argento
Placida è l'onda
Prospero il vento;
Venite all'agile
Barchetta mia;
Santa Lucia! Santa Lucia!

Con questo zeffiro
Così soave,
Oh, come è bello
Star sulla nave.
Su passeggeri,
Venite via;
Santa Lucia! Santa Lucia!

In' fra le tende
Bandir la cena,
In una sera
Così serena.

Chi non dimanda,
Chi non desia;
Santa Lucia! Santa Lucia!

Mare sì placido,
vento sì caro,
Scordar fa i triboli
Al marinaio.
E va gridando
Con allegria:
Santa Lucia! Santa Lucia!

O dolce Napoli,
O suol beato,
Ove sorridere
Volle il creato,
Tu sei l'impero
Dell'armonia,
Santa Lucia! Santa Lucia!

Or che tardate?
Bella è la sera;
Spira un'auretta
Fresca e leggiera;
Venite all'agile
Barchetta mia;
Santa Lucia! Santa Lucia!

(T. Cottrau - Longo 1835)

On Beauty

From domai.com, a website about beautiful women. The webmaster promises:


1. never to my willful knowledge let a beautiful girl pass without enjoying the sight.
2. never to speak slightingly of or underestimate the importance of beauty and grace, and always support it in conversation when needed.
3. to keep beauty near my heart and always be aware that it is what is keeping us happy and content, and much of what makes life worth living.
4. never to let merely intellectual pursuits, important as they may be, distract me for any undue length of time.
5. to keep in mind that beauty is a spiritual thing, no more and no less.
6. to always keep a pure mind when seeing beauty, or, failing that, at least take pleasure thinking what I am thinking.
7. to remember that seeing is the only form of having that is actual. Thus, what you can see you can have. The reason for possessing anything is to prevent others from having it too, a pointless exercise.
8. to not be bothered when they go away. There will always be more.
9. to enjoy life and what it has given me, and in return to support life and be constructive.

How to get girls to like you

This evening my son asked me how to get a girl to like him. Apparently there is a girl in his karate class that he likes. So I suggested he talk with her, write her letters, be nice to her, do things for her (like help her carry something), buy her a granola bar (at which he frowned, and I said, well, chocolates would be good, but in case she doesn't like chocolate), take her to a movie or out for ice cream, or call her on her cell phone. At which he responded, Dad, I'm only 11, I don't think I can take her places. But he did like the other ideas.

I saw a movie preview recently where a boy is sitting on a bench in Central Park, and asks his Dad a similar question. The Dad answers, 'I don't think I'm the right person to ask that'. I could have answered the same, but I prefer to give my children some positive answers.

But truly, you can do all of the things I told Aidan, but in the end, it's YOU that the girl or woman will respond to. The other things just give opportunity for her further study. If she doesn't like you, you are out of luck.

Spring

Spring arrived last week, but the weather remained cold until late this past week. It became possible to wear a light coat, and not feel frozen at night. Plus, the sun rose earlier and set later; at least going to and from work does not feel as confining. While I do like the night, there is something unsettling about darkness starting and finishing the work day.

The warm weather is nice, and everyone gets excited about it, but in a month we'll already be used to it. Furthermore, when it is very hot, we'll all be looking forward to fall. We're just never happy. I think the excitement at spring is just a matter of the change to warmth after the long winter months. After all, no one gets so excited when summer comes, or when fall or winter arrive. It's only spring that seems to wake people up, and then for only a few weeks. Then they slide back into their routines.

It's a rather down way to look at spring, I know, but it's how I feel about it.

Flat tire

I was driving from NYC late on the night of 30 March when I ran over a construction plate on Ft. Washington Avenue. As soon as I did it, as soon as I heard that noise of the tire hitting the corner of the plate, which was raised about two inches, I knew the tire was gone. I cursed loudly. I was not paying attention, I was tired and distracted. But I got onto the bridge and drove as fast as I could, and just as I reached the other side, the noise began. I limped onto route 46 where I knew there was a gas station and pulled into it. I could not have driven another hundred yards. The tire was flat; amazing that it held enough air to get me over the bridge. I went into the station and asked if I could change the tire there; it wasn't a full service station, just a gas pumping one where what used to be the station is now a convenience store. There was a young man who didn't speak English, and the girl at the counter; she told me it was ok. I went out and started, and the young man came out and gestured that he would help. He began to loosen the bolts while I jacked up the car. Unfortunately, a customer came in for gas and he had to attend to that. By the time he was done I had changed the tire. But he did tighten the bolts, and I noticed he was careful about it. So I gave him $20. I felt I was such an idiot that I had to do something right.

My hands were filthy and they made the steering wheel dirty. The next morning I cleaned the steering wheel before touching it. A lot of dirt came off.

I hate getting flat tires. But it always happens, at least twice a year. I suppose it's because I drive so much. But can you imagine if I had not been able to cross the bridge? I guess I am lucky.

Simple sugo rosso

Here is a great recipe for a simple, quick, and delicious red pasta sauce.

First, put on the water to boil for pasta. Be sure to salt it liberally, but not too much. The best salt to use is the large-grained sea salt, like 'Baleine'. By the time the pasta is cooked, the sauce will be done.

In a large frying pan, put enough olive oil to cover the bottom, and a few slices of garlic, salt, and pepper. Heat until the garlic sizzles. Then put in about a dozen small tomatoes - about two inches in diameter would be best; the smaller grape tomatoes will do also. Cook until the tomatoes have fallen apart; you may press them now and then with a wooden spoon to accelerate the process.

By now you should have put the pasta in the water. When it is al dente, drain. If the tomatoes are now completely fallen apart, you can add the drained pasta directly to the sauce. See the photo above for what it should look like at this point. Mix and serve. Best with grated ricotta salata on top.

Very simple, very good. Quite often, simple is best.

You Don't Know Me

Nat King Cole wrote a wonderful song entitled 'You Don't Know Me'. I came across some of the lyrics this past weekend in the newspaper, and tonight Iooked up the rest of them. It's a lovely song. If you have a category on your iPod called 'love songs', this one should be in it. You can pick your artist, though; it's been covered by many, many singers over the years. I can't say that I've sampled them all, but Diana Krall's version with Ray Charles is particularly nice.

YOU DON'T KNOW ME

You give your hand to me and then you say, "Hello,"
And I can hardly speak; my heart is beating so.
And anyone can tell you think you know me well,
But you don't know me
No, you don't know the one who dreams of you at night,
And longs to kiss your lips and longs to hold you tight.
To you I'm just a friend; that's all I've ever been,
Oh, you don't know me.

For I never knew the art of making love
Though my heart aches with love for you.
Afraid and shy, I let my chance go by,
The chance you might have loved me, too.

You give your hand to me and then you say goodbye;
I watch you walk away beside the lucky guy.
You'll never, never know the one who loves you so,
No, you don't know me.

For I never knew the art of making love
Though my heart aches with love for you.
Afraid and shy, I let my chance go by,
The chance you might have loved me, too.

You give your hand to me and then you say goodbye;
I watch you walk away beside the lucky guy.
You'll never, never know the one who loves you so,
No, you don't know me.

David Smith

One of my favorite sculptors is David Smith. The Guggenheim in New York is running a centennial exhibition of his work until May. I cannot wait to see it.

I was first introduced to Smith by my postdoctoral mentor, David Baltimore. It was 1981; I had just moved back to New York and was attending a meeting in Washington, DC. Baltimore was at the same meeting, and when it was over, he asked me if I wanted to see the David Smith exhibition at the Hirschorn. I went, and I was hooked. He told me that he always wanted to buy a David Smith for the Whitehead, the research institute he had started in Cambridge, MA.

After seeing that exhibition, wherever I went, I looked for Smith sculptures. Fortunately there are a few at Storm King, just upstate in NY. This should be a great exhibition at the Guggenheim.

Some Smith quotations:

"Art is made from dreams, and visions, and things not known, and least of all from things that can be said. It comes from the inside of who you are when you face yourself. It is an inner declaration of purpose; it is a factor which determines artist identity."

"If you ask why I make sculpture, I must answer that it is my way of life, my balance, and my justification for being."

Above is a photo of Cubi XXVII, which Smith made from brushed aluminum in 1965. His works in this style are among my favorite.

Borrowed Time

On Saturdays, when I bring the kids to karate, I have two hours to read the newspaper uninterrupted. With that kind of time, I read it slowly and carefully. It's the sort of activity that should be done in the quiet of one's home, with a cup of coffee. But I don't have a quiet home, not with three kids, at least it's not quiet during normal hours. And there are always interruptions. For example, it's now 10:29 AM on Sunday, and the two young children decided to start making a racket as I began this entry.

But I digress. On Saturday I read a review of a book by Robert Goddard called "Borrowed Time". I was completely taken by the story line. It begins when a hiker in Englad comes across a woman on the trail. She says to him, "Can any of us ever stop being what we are and become something else?" She invites him to walk with her but he declines; later she is killed and he regrets not going with her.

Here is the quote again, because it's terrific: "Can any of us ever stop being what we are and become something else?".

I think about this all the time. I often think about being something else. I find the prospect of being one thing scary and boring. Society today encourages being the same, so it takes effort to change. But I don't doubt that I can be something else. I just need to decide what I want to become. It's not easy because there are many interesting possibilities. But once I decide, I have no doubt that I will be able to change.

Frittelle di mele

To make frittelle di mele, select hard yellow apples, peel and core, then make 1/4 inch slices perpendicular to the core. Prepare a thick batter of flour, eggs, milk, salt, grated lemon rind, sugar, and baking powder. Dip the apple slices in the batter, then fry in hot olive oil until golden brown. Remove to a towel and sprinkle with sugar.

Here is an Italian version I found on the internet:

Preparare una pastella abbastanza densa con farina, latte, sale, zucchero e Rhum. Sbucciare le mele, togliere il torsolo e tagliarle a fette sottili. Immergerle nella pastella poi friggerle in olio bollente. Servirle subito, cosparse di zucchero a velo.

These are wonderful, hot or cold. They reminded me of a sweet that my Nonna used to make, which she called 'frittelle'. It was pizza dough made into small flat pieces and fried in hot oil, then sprinkled with sugar. I loved them, but have not had them in years. My Nonna was from Caserta, vicinio di Napoli. Actually not Caserta, but a small town nearby called Puccianiello.

Human partnerships

From the NY Times article today on why men get married, then after a number of years, their gay identity emerges and they leave their wives for other men - the 'Brokeback Marriage'.

"Helen Fisher, a research anthropologist at Rutgers University, said in an interview that human partnerships are shaped by three independent neurochemical brain-body systems, responsible respectively for sexual attraction, romantic yearning and long-term attachment.

"The three systems are very fickle. They can act together, or they can act separately," Dr. Fisher said. This, she said, helps explain why people can be wildly sexually attracted to those they have no romantic interest in, and romantically drawn to — or permanently attached to — people who hold no sexual interest.

"Once the system is triggered, it's so chemically powerful that you can easily overlook everything about that person that doesn't work for you," Dr. Fisher said. "Even straight people have fallen in love with people they could never make a life with," she said."

Shared misery

From the 'Modern Love' column in this past Sunday's NY Times':

"My head held high, I passed them, noting, with satisfaction, as I did, that they were neither holding hands nor standing particularly near each other. I thought about happiness, about how shared misery wasn't the same thing as intimacy.

"I had yet to entertain the much more radical notion that perhaps they weren't miserable, that whatever their difficulties (and clearly they had them) there might be something there worth preserving, that relationships were complex, imperfect systems. And that people were imperfect, that you might not have to be perfect to be loved, that you could be loved in spite of your imperfections or sometimes even because of them".

it may not always be so; and i say

it may not always be so;and i say
that if your lips,which i have loved,should touch
another's,and your dear strong fingers clutch
his heart,as mine in time not far away;
if on another's face your sweet hair lay
in such a silence as i know,or such
great writhing words as,uttering overmuch,
stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;

if this should be,i say if this should be-
you of my heart,send me a little word;
that i may go unto him,and take his hands,
saying,Accept all happiness from me.
Then shall i turn my face,and hear one bird
sing terribly afar in the lost lands.

ee cummings

i have found what you are like

i have found what you are like
the rain,

(Who feathers frightened fields
with the superior dust-of-sleep. wields

easily the pale club of the wind
and swirled justly souls of flower strike

the air in utterable coolness

deeds of green thrilling light
with thinned

newfragile yellows

lurch and.press

-in the woods
which
stutter
and

sing

And the coolness of your smile is
stirringofbirds between my arms;but
i should rather than anything
have(almost when hugeness will shut
quietly)almost,
your kiss


ee cummings

Un-reality

I've been working on my grant application all weekend. I was up until 2 AM both Friday and Saturday. I think I've lost track of reality. It's not much fun doing only one thing, and nothing else, especially when that one thing is difficult and stressful. Your eyes get bleary, your brain doesn't function well, and you wonder what the world is about, anyway. It makes one realize how important it is to have pleasure - however you may take your pleasure. Without it, life becomes dreary and a chore.

Or, to quote a line from the film "Blue Velvet", "It's a strange world".

But there are some things I would not mind doing for days at a time, to the exclusion of everything else. These activities, however, involve pleasure, and for that reason and would not cause the same symptoms as grant-writing for days at a time. On the other hand, they would probably have me wishing for un-reality.

i like my body when it is with your

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like,, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big Love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you quite so new


ee cummings

Grant?

It's 10:17 PM on Tuesday night. I'm supposed to be writing a grant. It's a big one; the future of my lab depends upon it. But times are hard, and money is scarce. Even if it's great, it might not fly.

So I'm making an entry in my blog. Go figure.

From "Modern Love", NY Times, Sunday, 19 February 2006 (written by Veronica Chambers):

"I didn't want to get married. I'd never been angling for a ring. What I had wanted all through my 20's was a really great boyfriend: someone who called when he said he would, who would get up early and go running with me over the Brooklyn Bridge and who would jump at the chance at weekend getaways in the Berkshires. I wanted someone with whom I could read the Sunday paper in bed, who would sit next to me during foreign movies, who would bring me chicken soup when I felt ill, who would send me flowers on Valentine's Day and sometimes for no reason at all."

Back to work now. Well almost....one more bit of fun writing to do.

Predictions

Tonight I ate Chinese food. Here is my fortune:

"You will always have good luck in your personal affairs".

And while we are on this sort of prediction thing, here is this months Capricorn horoscope from Vanity Fair:

"After months of feeling like a total troglodyte, you have regained your social confidence and are back in the race. You actually feel beautiful again. You're still a Capricorn, however, so you can't spend too long just looking gorgeous. It's time to look squarely at your finances and not shove the checkbook, unpaid bills, and statements into a drawer. Your stock may have gone down, but it's not hopeless. Just find a new angle. You're good at that".

Hmm. It's true, I haven't paid much attention to the bills lately.

And my stock has certainly gone down lately. So I'll find a new angle.

And it's always nice to have good luck in personal affairs.

Isn't it interesting how these impersonal predictors sometimes ring true?

Morning

I usually don't have any morning issues. No matter how late I go to sleep, I can get up if I have to. I take a shower, have a cup of strong coffee, I wake up. I don't ever mind getting up. It's particularly nice to get up early, and sit alone in the kitchen, sipping coffee and looking to see whether the sky will be blue or gray that day. It's always better when the sky is blue.

Lately I have been drinking Illy caffe, which is an Italian blend intended for espresso machines. In fact it works very well in drip coffee makers. It has a wonderful taste, much better than the French roast I usually have, and very little acidity. Grazie mille.

Yesterday, I didn't want to get out of bed. The first time in who knows how long. I'd like to think it was because there was no school, and a lot of snow, and cold, but these things never stopped me before.

Pleasures of the text

I bought a new cell phone back in December, and for the first time began to use 'text messaging'. I have found it to be both useful and fun. Therefore I was glad to read an article by Charles McGrath in the Sunday's Times magazine two weeks ago called "The Pleasures of the Text: Text-messaging liberates communication from intimacy and substance. No wonder we love it".

Here are some interesting quotes from the article:
"...you can conduct your entire emotional life just by transmitting and receiving messages on the screen of your cellphone. You can flirt there, arrange a date, break up and - in Malaysia at least - even get a divorce".

Apparently, America is lagging behind the rest of the world in text-messaging, because we don't have a single, national phone company. Here, voice calls are still far cheaper than text-messaging, unlike in the rest of the world.

Chinese lends itself very well to text-messaging, since in Mandarin, the names of the numbers are close to the sounds of certain words. To say "I love you", just press 520. For "drop dead", it's 748.

Furthermore, in China, people think it is rude to leave voice mail, and it's a loss of face to make a call to someone important and have it answered by an underling. Text messages preserve everyone's dignity by eliminating the human voice.

In the following week's Times magazine, there were letters about this article. Here are a few I found amusing:

"I recently dated an avid texter. Initially, I didn't see this as much of a problem. But the texting was used far more than calling. I liked the sound of this man's voice. I liked getting calls. Soon it became ridiculous. I'd get the 2 AM drunken text and the midday nonsense text, but, alas, no sweet evening call in which we could discuss our days. It got to the point that if I texted him and didn't see a response within 15 minutes, I would worry: Is he breaking up with me? Is he with another girl and can't text in front of her?"

"As a single woman, I notice that dating communication these days is often via text. As your writer noted, texting forces you to be haiku-brief, and therefore, to flirt, you must be very clever".

Venezia

I just finished reading "The Thief Lord" by Cornelia Funke. It's a childrens book, written slightly below the books of JK Rowling. Nevertheless, I find it fun to read. This book takes place in Venice, where a group of wayward children live in an abandoned movie theatre. They get by on the thievery of the Thief Lord, also known as Scipio, who steals from wealthy homes to provide for the younger children.

I like the book because of its dreamy portrayal of Venice. It made me want to live there, either in the old town, or on one of the many islands just surrounding the city. However, I have been told that Venice is not an ideal place to live. During the summers, when the weather is nice, the city is overrun with tourists. There are fewer tourists in the winter, but then again, many of the residents also leave.

I had imagined living in a flat overlooking the water, with large windows. Spending the days leisurely, writing, reading, or walking through the town, perhaps meeting friends in obscure cafés. Drinking grappa late into the morning. The typical Hemingway dream, I suppose. But shattered by reality.

Have to find another fantasy, I suppose. Perhaps warmer? I'll let you know what I come up with.

Tonight at Noon

"Tonight at Noon" is the name of a book written by Sue Mingus, wife of jazz great Charles Mingus, about their improbable love affair, marriage, and his death. I have always thought that their story is special. Here is a description of the book:

"The widow of the legendary bassist, band leader and composer Charles Mingus tells the story of their improbable love affair and marriage. They were an unlikely couple, a debutante from a proper Midwestern family and an antiestablishment maverick from the Watts section of Los Angeles, "jazz's angry man." When they met in 1964, she was puzzled by his anger, outrage and tempestuous life, so different from her own, which had been founded on order and decorum. Yet she was not intimidated by his volatility and ferocious temper. Together they organized a small mail-order record club to market Mingus's work, his way of getting back at the major labels that had cheated him. The author was soon "trapped in the middle of his vast appetites and imagination, his sexuality, his angry intelligence, his nonsense and his pain." After years of an on-and-off affair, they were married in 1975".

And some words from the book:

We walked for a few blocks and caught a cab in front of the Plaza Hotel, where he said it was easier to find a driver who overlooked the color of your skin in favor of the green inside your wallet. In the middle of our ride, Mingus changed his mind about dinner and said there was something important he needed to show me first. He ordered the driver instead to Grand Central Station. When we arrived, he jumped out of the cab and swiftly led me downstairs, hurrying through the halls and corridors until we reached a corner that echoed our voices along a wall. I waited at one end of the long wall while he spoke in a low whisper from the other side, unexpected words of tenderness that roared across the room, shy words of love that slid along the grimy walls of Grand Central Station as distant and unreal as the graffiti they swept past.

"I love you," he was saying. "I want you to be my woman." I laughed off his words. They were sounds in a station from a man I hardly knew. Still, I went on listening.


As I related earlier from John Cassavetes work, you never know what life is going to do. And you should always believe.

Hawks

Sometimes I can see hawks flying outside my office window in New York. I have been told by bird-lovers that these are red-tailed hawks who live in the structure of the George Washington bridge. They hover at the level of my window, which is 13 stories from the ground. It is quite beautiful to watch them, hovering with their wings extended, moving not at all as they ride the thermals, the rising waves of hot air. They are usually looking for prey on the ground - rats, squirrels, and other small rodents. Amazing that they can see the ground from so far up!

This morning, when I went down the driveway to fetch the newspaper (in a very long coat, so no one can see my pyjama bottoms) I saw a hawk flying down the street, carrying a squirrel. I'd never seen a hawk with prey before, so close to the ground.

Sometimes I see hawks along the New Jersey Turnpike, sitting high in trees at the side of the road. They sit there patiently, waiting for prey in the meadowland grasses. So incongruous, a beautiful piece of nature next to the roaring mechanical vehicles.

Cassavetes

This past weekend, I read a review of the book "Accidental Genius: How John Cassavetes Invented American Independent Film". Reading it made me remember how much I like Cassavetes' films, which I have not seen in years - my memories of him are from my post-college years. Cassavetes died in 1989, but only now are his films receiving critical acclaim.

I was particularly fond of the film "Minnie and Moskowitz", which is about a museum curator who falls in love with a crazy parking attendant. In this film, two average people try to find love in a world where relationships are very confusing. A great line from the film is from Moskowitz, the parking attendant: "I think about you so much, I forget to go to the bathroom!"

Of course, one cannot think of Cassavetes without appreciating his role as an actor in "Rosemary's Baby". Fabulous movie.

The review of the Cassavetes book stressed how he changed filmmaking to be more spontaneous, less planned. Here is a memorable line from the review:

"...this director's chief legacy was an astonishing set of films that invite a different relationship to being in the moment, and in which the mystery of human behavior dictates that anything can happen at any time to anyone."

I really like that last part: anything can happen at any time to anyone. If you do not live by this mantra, life will be very mundane.

Coccolare

The Italian verb 'coccolare' means to cuddle. While the English word is cute and sounds a lot like the act that it describes, the Italian version is so much more evocative. But that is what the Italian language is all about - it's not just for communicating, but it is also an art. Something to be savored for its beauty and its utility. Unfortunately, I don't think that English is very beautiful - it serves well for communicating but doesn't roll off the tongue in a way that Italian does.

Another meaning for 'coccolare' is 'to spoil'. How interesting that the word should have such divergent meanings! But then again, perhaps cuddling and spoiling are not so very different.

Tendons

We all have a past, some of us longer than others. Mostly it is buried in our brains, and never resurfaces. Sometimes memories are released, by a smell, an image, a sound. Suddenly they are there in perfect clarity, as if they had happened only yesterday. I like blogging because I can capture these memories when they resurface.

Here's one.

I was in college, Cornell University, winter 1974. My senior year, living in a house perched on the side of a gorge, with three other guys. I slept in a room with my good friend, Tom. We used to talk a lot. I was into photography, took pictures all the time, and wanted to do it for a living. Tom and I were talking about photographing women; I had just shot a model for a photography class.

I said to Tom, you know what I really like about a woman's body? The way tendons look under the skin. Such as the tendons behind the knee, on the sides of the neck. They show you what is really beneath the skin.

He looked at me an smiled. Now I really understand you, he said.

The only time anyone has ever said they understood me. Because I certainly don't.

Il cognome racaniello

If you search google for 'Racaniello', you get a post (see below) from the Italian wikipedia site which provides the following information. If you are interested, paste it in Google translate to read it in English. Looks like the Racaniello name dates back a long time, to a noble Umbrian family.

I wonder if we are related, albeit distantly. It would be great one day to try and track my family as far back as possible. I am sure this would require an extended trip to Italy. Perhaps I should first start in my father's town, Castelgrande.

"Racaniello, famiglia nobile di origine Umbra di cui parecchi membri ebbero cariche pubbliche in Todi. Un ramo di essa si trasferì nelle puglie nel 1412 al servizio del vescovo Dondei di Bari. Un'altra parte della famiglia si trasferì nel 1405 sotto la protezione degli Albizzi per i quali con Ludovico Racaniello capitano di Montecchio svolse il ruolo di procuratore di Arezzo (1419).

Ludovico Racaniello fu un capitano di ventura ( Todi 1352 – Montecchio 1441), primogenito di Riccardo e discendente da una nobile famiglia umbra.

Dopo alcuni anni dedicati, sotto l’indirizzo del padre, agli studi di legge, nel 1376 alla morte di lui, si trovò sulle spalle la responsabilità della famiglia. Abbandonati gli studi, si mise allora al servizio di Ercole I, dedicandosi così alla carriera militare che, grazie ad una notevole abilità di comando, lo vide in breve raccogliere numerosi successi.

Nel 1380 si sposò con la Giulia Albizzi figlia di Maso Albizzi, assicurandosi in tal mondo i favori della potente famiglia che in quegli anni aveva conquistato il potere a Firenze.

Nel 1385, un anno dopo l’acquisizione di Arezzo da parte di Firenze, Racaniello divenne capitano della rocca di Montecchio, base di un potere sempre più grande che, negli anni a seguire, lo videro espandere la propria influenza nell’intera val di Chiana.

Nel 1397 entrò in conflitto con la famiglia dei Casali per il possesso di Cortona, conflitto che si protrasse per più di quindici anni, fino al 1411, anno in cui il territorio passò sotto il controllo di Firenze e rientrò nel ducato di Racaniello. Nel 1419 Rinaldo Albizzi gli affidò la carica di proconsole di Arezzo.

Firenze nel 1434 passò sotto il controllo dei Medici e Racaniello dimostrò di essere oltre ad un ottimo condottiero anche un eccelso diplomatico. Nonostante gli anni passati al servizio della famiglia rivale nel controllo di Firenze, infatti, riuscì ad ingraziarsi la famiglia medicea, che non pretese nessun ridimensionamento dei territori amministrati dal ducato di Racaniello e lo riconobbe come garante del potere della signoria fiorentina su quelle stesse terre.

Rule of the day

Now and then I frequent a rather irreverent website whose main function is to make fun of celebreties. I won't post the link because it's not family-friendly. Today I found something interesting there that I'd like to share. Now and the the webmaster publishes a 'rule of the day'. Here was todays:

"...for the ladies, and get this through your head, if a guy cheats on you, it's because he is not committed to you. If you dump him and he begs to get you back, it's only so he can dump you later. It's a power play. Ask Sienna Miller. In the end, you will thank me."

No further comments are necessary.

Second childhood

When I was much younger, I took years of clarinet lessons. I was quite good but never really connected with the licorice stick. Then towards the end of high school I decided to be cool and took guitar lessons. I did this for a few years; I loved it but my guitars were all poor quality and I never developed much talent.

Last year I saw that Fender made an inexpensive electric guitar, less than $200, and in red, no less. So I bought it. Now I'm trying to teach myself to play again, not only chords but picking notes. I want to get really, really good so I can stand outside, turn up the volume, play and have people turn their heads.

Last night I was playing "Go Your Own Way", an old Fleetwood Mac song which in the end is comprised of only five different chords. Very easy. I turned the 'distort' on in the amp and put the volume high. I was having a blast. Then my son Aidan came down and said to me, 'Mom says you're going through a second childhood'.

Perhaps. Does that mean I get to do everything over again? With the benefit of hindsight? Now THAT could be fun!

Balanchine on Ballet

In yesterday's post on ballet, I paraphrased George Balanchine, the creator of the New York City Ballet and choreographer extraordinaire. The nature of the exact quotation has been bothering me all day, so tonight I sat down with "Balanchine A Biography" by Bernard Taper (Times Books, 1984) which I had read many years ago. After some searching I found the quotation I had remembered after all these years.

It comes in the first chapter of the book, which describes how Balanchine created a ballet and taught it to his dancers. Here is the entire passage:

"While Balanchine was working on his choreography and transmitting it to the dancers, he concerned himself little with nuances of performance. The last few days before the premiere, he usually concentrated on that aspect: Getting his ensemble to approach his idea of perfection. Balanchine's style demands unusual precision and energy, and as he worked on his dancers' performance techniques he could be constantly heard exhorting them to more vigor, to more clarity in their attack on every movement. "Audience must be made aware that leg is your leg and is going right there!"...Balanchine's intense vision of beauty as the end result of all this was always present, however, and no one was permitted to forget it. "Isn't it selfish of you," he chided one corps de ballet member, "to expect three thousand people to sit and watch you lift your leg if you're not going to do it beautifully?"

It should come as no surprise that Balanchine's most famous statement is "Ballet is woman". Nearly all his ballets said it, just as they also said that the only way a man can achieve or approach the liberation of his soul is by the homage and devotion he shows woman.

I fear my soul has not yet been liberated....but it isn't too late to start now, is it?

Ballet

This post is not really about ballet, but about Wendy Whelan. She is a principal dancer at the New York City Ballet. In the 1980s, when I lived in NYC, I went to see the City ballet often, and I saw Ms. Whelan dance many times. She is a wonderful dancer. She fulfills George Balanchine's credo: that ballet be beautiful. He used to say to his dancers, when you dance, you always have to look beautiful. If you raise a leg, make sure it looks beautiful going up and going down. I loved his ballets because there were no plots; just beautiful dancing set to music.

Back to Ms. Whelan. She is now 38, and having danced for 20 years at the City Ballet, the question is how she will know when to stop. This is the topic of a NYTimes magazine article today. The article explores her growth into ballet, and also explores her relationship with her husband, an artist. They married last September; the article calls him 'her longtime boyfriend'. Here is the part I liked. They met in 1993, when he first asked her out. Then:

"That fall, like dancers in any pas de deux, they glimpsed their future but returned to separate lives on opposite coasts and got distracted in other relationships. They kept in touch; four years later the timing was right, and they moved in together. They were engaged in Venice in 2004."

It's nice to know that they glimpsed their futures but still did other things and even got distracted, but in the end realized their initial feelings were correct.

I suppose you could say they believed.

i carry your heart with me

I remember reading the poetry of ee cummings when I was in high school. It was my mother who explained to me that he used the arrangement of words on the page to enrich the message of the poem. My Mother, so conservative, got it! Now and then she would surprise me.

Today I was looking at some of ee cummings poetry when I found this one, which I particularly like. It seems to strike a chord with me these days. Hai capito?

Remember, the arrangement of words (missing spaces, lower case letters, funny grammar) is part of the poetry. That's why ee cummings was a master.


i carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

by E. E. Cummings

Trial and Error?

This past Sunday I read an article in the NY Times magazine entitled "Trial and Error". Its thesis is that the scientific publishing system does little to prevent scientific fraud. I happen to agree with that; but another part of the article I strongly disagree with.

The author writes: "John Ioannidis, an epidemiologist, recently concluded that most articles published by biomedical journals are flat out wrong."

Che cazzo dici!

I am sorry, John, but your research is what is wrong. I do not agree that most articles are 'flat out wrong'. I have spent my career reading articles about viruses and I can tell you that most of them are correct. You just do not know how to do an experiment, John. You cannot possibly have sampled all the biomedical disciplines to make this conclusion, because you simply do not know enough about each one to determine whether the article is right or wrong. You probably never even looked at an article about viruses! Look at my publications - I would say most of them are right! I'm not trying to boast, it's just correct!

This is the kind of garbage that makes the public distrust scientists. It doesn't matter if the conclusion is patently ridiculous; the public cannot distinguish. They come away from reading the article thinking we all publish junk. Thanks a lot, NY Times. Nice work.

Believe

At the end of the movie 'Matrix Revolutions', Seraph says to the Oracle, 'Did you always know?' He is referring to the saving of Zion. She replies, 'Oh no... No, I didn't. But I believed... I believed.

I believed.

It may seem like drama, but in our everyday lives, believing is everything. If you do not believe you can do something, it will not happen. If you do believe - in yourself, in your abilities, in anything at all - you are on the right path. We cannot know the future, but we can believe.

I have always felt this way, and try to apply it subconsciously to every aspect of my life. For some reason, in the context of this movie, it made a particulary strong impression on me.

Cracked Cup

This morning, I was drinking my cup of coffee alone in the kitchen, as usual. I was using a large coffee mug, made of ceramic with nice blue designs on it. I used to have three of these mugs; then a few months ago one cracked. This morning I noticed the coffee was leaking from the bottom. So I took out the coffee and looked at the bottom of the mug, trying to find the crack.

I noticed stamped on the bottom of the cup: "P.B. Made in Italy".

I found the crack on the side, and threw out the cup. It made me quite sad. The reason is quite personal.

But there is a happy ending. Later my son saw the cup in the garbage, and asked me why I was throwing it out. I told him. He said, 'Why not use it as a pencil holder'. Great idea! So I rescued the mug, and now it sits on my desk, next to the monitor, full of pens.

Don't you love happy endings?

Heartbreak

A few weeks ago my daughter Nadia asked me what heartbreak is. I tried to explain it to her with some examples.

A friend of mine read my last post ('After') and told me that I really cannot tell Nadia what heartbreak is, because I have never experienced it.

I had not thought about that. I guess I was telling Nadia what I had read about in books, or have seen in movies. Not the real thing, of course. I am not sure I want to learn about it.

After

I stumbled across a blog by Doran Damon called 'Come Again'. He writes some very nice poetry. I was particularly struck by the following piece:

After
Doran Damon

Look at my hands.
See how they shake,
How they tremor?

Do you know
What it takes
To forget you?

But my heart will repair
In time.


I wonder...if you are truly in love, can your heart ever repair? Maybe when you do repair, it is because you were never in so deep to begin with.

I can't say that I have ever had to heal in this way. No one I cared for ever left me; I have always done the leaving. It's not a boast, just a statement of fact. I've been lucky, I guess. I hope I never have to experience the hands shaking and tremoring.

Masterpiece

Masterpiece

He drew small pictures for her
Each day
Scribbles on napkins
And notebook covers.

He said,
If I were an artist
I would draw you a masterpiece
Every day.

She said,
But you are an artist
and these are my masterpieces.

What Friends Are For

Each morning, I drive my two younger children to school, where I park and walk them to the front door. Most parents drop their kids off, but I like to walk them - we chat a bit and the kids like it too. And once these years are gone...

Today our daughter was unhappy - she did not like how her pants fit; they were too low on her hips, and her socks were falling down. She was in a foul mood for breakfast, and during the walk to school, she freaked out and started crying. All because of the pants and socks. I picked up her backpack and put my arm around her tiny shoulder, and told her I would fix her socks at the school entrance. But on the way, one of her little friends came by; and my daughter smiled, the tears stopped, and she ran in without further assistance from me.

And that is what friends are for.

Aimee Mann

In my last post, I put up the lyrics of an Aimee Mann song that I like. Afterwards I remembered when I first saw Aimee Mann. It was in a small bar in Boston, called Cantones. This bar was a restaurant in the financial district by day, and a punk rock club by night. I worked at MIT from 1979-1982, and during that time I often went to hear music with a colleague of mine, Ihor Lemishka. One night we went down the the financial district to Cantones to hear the 'Young Snakes'. We sat in one of the restaurant booths while the band played just a few feet away. An odd arrangement, but very cozy and effective. The band was not bad, but I remember very well the lead singer, a lovely blonde with a killer voice. A few days later I bought their record - vinyl - which I still have. And the young lady was none other than Aimee Mann at the beginning of her career. Later on I watched while she moved to other bands and became famous. But I'll always remember that night in downtown Boston when she was but a few feet away.

She's still as good as ever. Just look at those lyrics!

Mr. Harris

I spent more time than I wanted these past four days, painting my son's bedroom. So many other things to do with precious free time....but it's for a good cause; he does appreciate it.

I'm told that I am good at 'mindless work' such as painting. It's the same with plaque assays: I'm never bored because I think about all sorts of things.

But while I was painting the last few days, I decided to listen to music. When I was much younger, I used to do that all the time while doing 'mindless work'. And it made me realize why I like music so much: where else can you find wonderful poetry set to a terrific tune? What is more, you always seem to find lyrics that apply to you in some way. While painting I listened to Alanis Morrisette, Aimee Mann, Black Crowes, Maroon 5, and Counting Crows.

I was struck particularly by one of Aimee Mann's songs; I have not listened to it in years but I recall it striking a chord long ago.

By the way - I'll be 53 tomorrow.

Mr. Harris - Aimee Mann

So he's retired
lives with his sister in a furnished flat.
He's got this suit that
he'll never wear outside without a hat.
His hair is white but he looks half his age.
He looks like Jimmy Stewart in his younger days.

And honestly, I might be
stupid to think love is love
but I do
and you've waited so long and
I've waited long enough for you.

My mother's calling
from where she's living up in Troy, Vermont.
She tries to tell me
a father figure must be what I want
I've always thought age made no difference.
Am I the only one to whom that's making sense?

And honestly, I might be
stupid to think love is love
but I do
and you've waited so long and
I've waited long enough for you.

The day I met him he was raking leaves
in his tiny yard.

Of course I know that
we've only got ten years or twenty left
but to be honest
I'm happy with whatever time we get
Depending on whichever book you read
sometimes it takes a lifetime to get what you need.

And honestly, I might be
stupid to think love is love
but I do
and you've waited so long and
I've waited long enough for you.