The New Trump Tower

The new Trump Tower?  I sure hope not!  If he does get elected, where do you think his name will appear?

The Art of Letter Writing

     Letter writing is a lost art.  Years back, before people had smart phones, Email, Skype, Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook, they composed letters, long, elaborate letters that went on for pages, telling the latest news, professing love, discussing current events, pondering or planning for the future.  Some folks wrote in cursive, some printed, or they typed, but most importantly, they invested a good deal of time communicating with someone they deemed important, be it a family member, their betrothed, a pen pal, or a friend.  Parents wrote to their sons in the service.  Young women wrote to their boyfriends in college.  Men, young and old, wrote love letters, painting a picture with words of a blissful life they hoped to share with that special someone.  School children sent letters to servicemen overseas to lift their spirits.  Some people, myself included, mailed hand written letters to the editor of a local newspaper to voice an opinion on pertinent topics.

     As a child, I loved to write letters.  Shopping for pretty stationary was one of my favorite pastimes, and filling those pages and sending them off to my pen pals filled me with nearly as much joy as receiving their replies.  I have just a couple of those letters of mine, written when I was twelve, that I sent to my parents when they were away on vacation.  Reading them amuses me.  In my mind I  imagine my folks chuckling at my silliness, and at my compulsion to send them two letters when they were only away for a week. 
     I found a letter that my brother wrote to my folks when he was in the service.  It was written on the fine tissue paper that was popular at the time, and was sent in an Air Mail envelope.  Do they even have them any more?  I gave that letter to my nephew, as I imagined he would appreciate having a glimpse of his dad in his pre-marriage/pre-children youth.  

     I save significant text messages and voice mail messages that my sons send me.  I cherish them, but it's not quite the same as a letter..  A text message or a voice mail message is not a tangible thing-I do not have their hand written words on a piece of paper that I can mold to my heart.  I delight in following hand written recipes of my mom's and reading hand written poetry that my dad composed for her.  I have witnessed and experienced how a person of  few words can blossom when they put pen to paper.  My dad was like that.  A quiet man, he was never a conversationalist.  But he could express his devotion to my mother with the sweetest words and rhymes.  I am like him in that way.   

     I recently watched a documentary on Gloria Vanderbilt, the original poor little rich girl.  In it, she revealed a number of her treasures,  some of which might surprise you.  The treasure pertinent to this post is a collection of letters about five inches thick, in chronological order, tied neatly and tightly with string, and enclosed in a plastic case for safe keeping.  She had found them at a flea market, and was compelled to buy them.  She has never read them, and doesn't anticipate ever reading them, yet she imagines them to be love letters, and she ponders what may be written in them. (Aren't some things better when left to the imagination?)  After seeing this documentary, you guessed it, I was on a mission to find a collection of letters at the next flea market I attended.  I was not disappointed, as I purchased a bagful of assorted letters at a local flea market for just $7.00, a real bargain I might add.  However, unlike Ms. Vanderbilt, I could not resist the urge to read them.  It was a strange feeling, actually, as I initially felt I was invading that couple's privacy.  After I'd read a few however, I became invested in the characters, and I was essentially reading non-fiction.  I actually find it quite sad, as their descendants did not elect to keep the letters.   I console myself by imagining that they had someone who runs estate sales clean out an attic, and perhaps never even knew they existed.  Many of the letters were written in the 1950s, beginning in the year I was born.  The time period lent a certain significance for me, as it gave me a glimpse into what people were experiencing at that time.  They were letters from a man who was very much in love with a young widow.  He was clearly smitten by her, and they did eventually marry.  One thing he wrote, not romantic, really struck me.  He expressed a concern that went something like this: what might happen if the invention of a genius might fall into the hands of someone with the ethics of a moron, this in approximately 1957.  I know the world is and always was a scary place.  However,  I tend to look at the past through rose colored glasses, imagining that people were nicer, and that bad things did not happen.  Of course I realize these ideas are pure fantasy, but reading about past events in a history book is more abstract.  This letter was personal, and therefore more real.  Anyway, I have about thirty five letters, all in chronological order, and I plan to read them all.  There is a plastic case and a pretty pink ribbon awaiting them, and I will put them on display once I am done. As for me, I intend to resurrect my love of letter writing.  I have some friends who are relocating, and I am now on a mission to buy some feminine and ultra pretty stationary, and pen them letters as if it were the 1960's.  Nostalgia, take me away!

On My Horizon

How can I feel young

when I've just turned 61

This BD didn't hurt like 60

So I'd like another one 

(but it can take its time getting here)

     

     Okay, so I don't really feel young, but I am feeling very paradoxical this morning.  In my mind, I  resemble a young person, with my new I-Pad mini, my Apps, my newfound ability to view Facebook or my Emails instantly.  I have Apps for FB, Yahoo, TCM,  Duolingo, CNN, Google...  Today I downloaded a new App-for AARP!  So much for feeling young.  BTW-for those of you with an AARP membership-did you know that you qualify for a 15% discount at Denny's?    

     I came to a realization this weekend, or maybe I was just reminded of my own reality, that I need to continue working on myself and building a new life.  I have allowed myself to fall into a rut of working, going to school, studying, and binge watching movies and television shows.  Somehow over the last year, I have stopped engaging in some of my favorite activities.  I haven't been to New York City in ages.  My social calendar is fairly empty, and it's my own doing.  Even my writing has suffered over the last year.  The poems I've written have been amazing (not including the opening jingle to this post), but they've been few and far between.  Blog posts have been consistently dwindling in number.  Of course I have an excuse for that too.  My antique desktop computer, which I prefer to use when I write, is on it's last legs.  Before it will function it's got to warm up for quite a while, (just like my car, which is equally old).  The utter waste of my time causes extreme frustration on my part.  This morning, while the old Dell warmed up, I used my I-Pad to check FB, the news, and my Emails. (Do you think that qualifies as multi-tasking?) I was done in a New York City minute, not nearly long enough, so I made breakfast and watched The Pioneer Woman, allowing the damned thing ample time to become functional. (Did I mention that I have to close the door to my office to drown out the sound of it's motor?  It sounds like my car engine when it's determined to stall as I zealously rev the engine.)   

     I do tend to make excuses for myself-I'm tired from working all day.  The commute was grueling.   I have too much studying to do.  However-do you remember this?  "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy".  Isn't that brilliant?  Words of wisdom from the brilliant Stephen King (The Shining).  So plans for some fun are on my horizon.  This summer I have reservations for a few days at the beautiful Jersey shore.  I plan to see a Broadway play, and a trip to Chicago is planned for the not too distant future.  Sounds like a good start to me!

The Dress I Didn't Buy

     For the second time in one year, I went shopping for a Mother of the Groom dress with my 2 best girlfriends.  A fun expedition, it afforded me time well spent with my BFF's, as well as sharing the joy derived from another of my sons being set to marry soon, and the prospect of my family expanding again.  Upon arrival at the store of choice, the young lady at the front desk initially expressed horror when she thought we were there seeking wedding dresses.  (The thought of that causes me horror-ever marrying again, anyway).  Our young stylist was considerably more gracious, enthusiastically leading us though crowded aisles, pulling dress after dress from the racks, dresses that were either downright revolting or  that met with my approval.  "Are you looking for a dress with bling?" she asked.  "No" I replied, in my ignorance, "and I don't want a lot of sequins and baubles either"!  Cognizant of the communication gap inherent in our age difference, she sought out dresses that were not overly ornamented.  A sojourn through the mothers' dresses resulted in but 2 possibilities, neither of which I was crazy about.  The stylist then suggested looking through the bridesmaid's dresses, which I found a little startling.  That resulted in two more mediocre possibilities.  Then it was my turn to express horror when the stylist suggested looking through... the Prom Dresses!  I don't want to look ridiculous, I firmly opined.  (I imagined I would look ridiculous enough just being in that section, at least without a teenager in tow).  She persisted, and felt there just might be something among those dresses that I would find appealing.  Quite frankly, I found most of them to be too revealing, and some just ridiculous.  I am not into those feathery looks.  I don't want to attend my son's wedding resembling an aging ostrich.  Much to my surprise, I did find a dress in that section.  Of the five varied dresses that I tried on, it was a toss up between it and the other  dress of a certain color, that I might never have considered if not for a stylist with vision.  It was a tough choice, as I tried them on repeatedly, back to back, trying to ascertain which was the most flattering.  I felt the black and white had a uniqueness to it that would not be repeated, unless one of the younger set decided to wear her leftover prom dress.  (The only thing that could be worse than both Mothers wearing the same gown, would have been me and a teenager in the same dress).  Neither of the dresses possessed one matronly looking fiber, which was one of my priorities.  I really liked the black and white, but oh! The other one..  So I did not choose the black and white.  If only I had another wedding to attend!

Lab Life

He wore Blue Velvet.... Did I mention that it's a curtain?

Three Men and a Piano

If you are a fan of the movie, The Piano, you may enjoy this interpretation which I wrote for my Introduction to Film Study class awhile back:

Three Men and a Piano

     Five people are seeking control of Ada McGrath’s life: Ada’s father , her husband, Alistair Stuart, her potential lover, George Baines, Flora, her daughter, and Ada herself. The bulk of Ada’s story will play out in 1850’s New Zealand, where she is compelled to relocate to in an arranged marriage.

      When we meet Ada McGrath initially, she indicates that she has not spoken since she was six years old, adding that no one knows why, even she. Her father attributes her muteness to a dark talent, which would include her strong will and her extraordinary ability to play the piano. It is obvious early on, however, that her muteness is one of the few things in her life which she herself could control. Ada is a single woman with young daughter who is married off to a man she had never met, by her father. This is a blatant demonstration of the lack of control which she has over her own destiny.  In the only scene in which he appears, Ada’s father is attempting to drag a reluctant horse which is carrying his granddaughter. This is representative of Ada and her daughter, and their subsequent move to New Zealand, where they will reluctantly take up residence with Alistair.

     Ada does not consider herself silent, as playing her beloved piano is her mode of expression. In a scene just prior to her departure to New Zealand, we are witness to Ada’s awesome ability to play. Her strong display of emotion is akin to that of an artist who expresses himself through painting or sculpture, or a writer, whose means of expression may be poetry or prose. Although when the time for departure arrives, she abruptly ceases playing the piano, and her facial expression transforms to that of muted dread.

     Stormy seas upon arrival in New Zealand are indicative of the stormy relationship that will exist between Alistair and Ada. Sitting on the beach awaiting his arrival, Ada slowly plays a sad melody on the piano, while her daughter sleeps peacefully in her lap. A sudden wave disrupts the quietude, symbolizing the effect Alistair’s arrival will have on their lives. While en route to retrieve Ada and Flora, Alistair pauses to view her picture.  Holding it in rough hands while combing his hair is a prelude to his treatment of her. Gentleness will be nonexistent, yet her affections sought after.

     Flora is a reluctant participant in this ill conceived of arrangement, and expresses to Ada that she will not even look at Alistair.  She has an alliance with Ada with which she is happy, that is of being the sole recipient of her mother’s love before, as well as during, the loveless marriage. That changes later on however, when Flora feels she is in competition with George Baines for her mother’s affection, whereas there was no competition between she and Alistair. Hence Flora betrays her mother, an act she comes to regret when she realizes the dire consequences it has.   

     Ada’s status as a non person is demonstrated throughout the film in the manner that she is treated by her father, husband, the natives, and the Aunties. For example, upon her arrival, Alistair does not even acknowledge her, except to orchestrate the transport of her belongings. Ada was consumed with the destiny of her piano, and Alistair completely ignored her concerns while discussing completely unrelated matters. As they are traveling to Alistair’s home, a native woman takes Ada’s shawl and wears it triumphantly. One of the Aunties dons Ada’s wedding garment, dancing around in it as if Ada herself is invisible. Ada’s status as a nonentity is further exemplified in a discussion Alistair has with Baines when they agree to swap the piano for land. Alistair refers to it as merely “the piano on the beach”, rather than Ada’s piano.  Conversely, he referred to it as her piano when informing her of the swap, an indication of his control over her as well as a reinforcement of her insignificant status in the relationship. Alistair subsequently commits to George that Ada will provide him with lessons, stating that he has in a letter that she plays quite well. Interestingly, Alistair would rarely hear Ada play the piano, although she played freely in George’s presence.  

    In a letter written prior to the marriage, Alistair misrepresented himself to Mr. McGrath as being noble in relation to Ada’s muteness, whereas this attribute was an attraction to Alistair, given his controlling nature. The instant they meet, a tension quickly becomes evident, as Alistair does not hide his disappointment.  He wastes no time in displaying his insensitive nature, as he expresses his contempt of her small stature to George Baines, a neighbor who is destined to become Ada’s lover. Alistair viewed Ada as no more than a silent workhorse, an assessment he shared with Ada’s father, which is alluded to in the aforementioned opening scene.

     George’s sensitivity is immediately discernable, as he indicates to Alistair that Ada appears tired. He exhibits a good deal of sensitivity later as well, when he accompanies Ada to the beach so she may play, and later on, once he assumes possession of the piano, by arranging to have it tuned, and additionally in the tender way he cares for it, realizing how Ada values it. Conversely, he too attempts to control Ada as he barters with her for possession of the piano, suggesting she may “earn it back”.  Contrary to Alistair, however, George’s motivation is not born of malice, but by a lack of self esteem. He is a poor, illiterate man, who came to love Ada very much, although he did not deem himself worthy of her. His low self esteem is subtly perceivable on the beach, when he looks at Ada, then turns and hangs his head as if in shame, and then turns and sheepishly looks at her again. Initially Ada did feel superior to George, but he eventually won her over. The opposite of Alistair, George utilizes the piano as a means of gaining her affections, whereas Alistair employs the piano purely as a means of control.

     The variance between the two men is also represented in the landscape where their homes are situated, as it is barren and dismal by Alistair’s, and lush and peaceful by George’s.  The brief encounter George has with his horse is also in direct opposition to Ada’s father, as George is gentle, and his horse, content.

     Various other scenes in the film are symbolic. For instance, three teacups on Alistair’s table, a large one opposite two smaller ones, represent the division between the three family members. He smashes the smaller one, which symbolizes the manner in which he rules, which is through sheer force. The lonely piano on the beach is representative of Ada’s isolation.  Without her beloved piano, Ada has a very limited outlet for her emotions.  Her anger is evidenced when she tears her wedding garment, and her sorrow, by her silent tears while she stands in the window pondering the state of the abandoned piano, which is subject to the elements.  

     The arrangement between George and Ada portrays him in a negative light. However, his sensitivity prevails as he interprets Ada’s emotions, realizing how unhappy she is. He is a direct parallel to Flora’s father, who didn’t require that Ada speak, “as she could lay thoughts out in his mind like a sheet”.  Ada was obviously unhappy with the arrangement, but was highly motivated.  After a number of visits, it becomes apparent that Ada is falling for George also, as his appreciation for her playing and his sensitivity and gentle nature win her over.

     The climax of the story comes when Alistair finds out about the love affair, and Flora allies herself with Alistair. In a final, desperate bid to control her, Alistair takes an axe and chops off one of Ada’s fingers, knowing this was the ultimate pain that he could inflict on her. He ultimately realized that her will is strong and insurmountable, and asked George to take her away, which he did, by boat.  Ada subsequently demanded that George discard the spoiled piano.  As he throws the piano overboard, Ada purposely tangles her foot in the rope and gets pulled under. Her will chooses life, and she manages to free herself.

     In conclusion, Ada McGrath is a strong willed woman who is willing to sacrifice all for her piano. However, once she is secure in George’s love, she has him discard it Ada slowly teaches herself to speak again, as George provides the love, support, and most importantly, the validation she always wanted. In her closing dialogue this is reinforced when she talks about her dream of floating lifelessly above the piano.  She indicates that it is a strange dream, but it is her own.

Mothers' Day

     Considering Mothers' Day is just weeks away, I feel it necessary to broach a subject that most folks don't want to believe or acknowledge.  There are bad mothers.  Not just the mothers you read about in the news who do horrible things to their children, but mothers we know.   Mothers in our families, mothers of friends, acquaintances.  Women who don't commit crimes against their children that warrant criminal charges, but nevertheless perpetrate abuse, which takes on many shapes and forms.  

     Just being a mother doesn't qualify a person for any special accolades.  Having given birth doesn't automatically relegate a woman to impending sainthood.  I find it tiresome reading ridiculous posts on social media indicating the marvelous phenomenon associated with being a mother.  Women who are inherently bad do give birth, and they do raise families.  Perhaps people are hesitant to believe that a mother can actually possess undesirable characteristics such as dishonesty or cruelty, but some do.  

     As children, we tend to grow up believing our mothers to be infallible.  As adults, we look back and realize they were only human, as we are.  However, being human doesn't excuse a mother from treating her child in an unkind manner.  Humans make mistakes.  The difference between being human vs. being an abuser is defined by the ability to admit having made mistakes and ask forgiveness, something the abusive mother will never do.  

     A mother's job is to, first and foremost, love her child.  How many mothers were disappointed in their child, and not disinclined to let the child know it?  I know of a mother who did everything in her power to destroy her daughter's sense of self esteem, and she was very successful at it.  She used cutting words to demean. She blatantly demonstrated favoritism to others.  She controlled.  She sabotaged.   She demonstrated an utter lack of respect for her daughter, as well as instilling that lack of respect in other family members, insuring that her legacy of unkindness would live on.  The resulting wounds run deep, and the effect lasted a lifetime.  The hypocrite put on a good show in front of others, as hypocrites do.  If her victim were to divulge the injustices that were heaped upon her in her formative years and beyond, who would believe her?  But ponder this.  How many abusers do you know that advertise it as if it were something to be proud of?   They don't.  In public, they overcompensate, creating an illusion, ensuring that their victim would never be believed when attempting to expose their abuser.

     I once read a post on social media which indicated that just because your mother didn't demonstrate her love for you, didn't mean that she didn't love you, only that she was incapable of showing it, for any number of reasons.  To that I say bull!  People make conscious choices.  Why make excuses for them?  Perhaps that post was written to make victims of maternal maltreatment experience less emotional pain.  Personally, I believe in facing facts.  So maybe she didn't love you.  That was because of her, not you.  Consider this.  Quite possibly you were raised in an abusive environment,  despite which you've grown into a fine upstanding human being, and are a wonderful parent yourself.  What does that tell you?  That you are a person of integrity. That you are resilient, strong, and determined to break the cycle of abuse, or whatever it was that you suffered at the hands of your mother.  That clearly demonstrates that the problem lies with her, not you, her unfortunate victim.  So this Mothers' Day, I propose we give credit where credit is due, an ambiguous challenge...

     One final thought on the matter: if a person chooses not to sing her mother's praises, maybe, just maybe, she has a valid reason, or perhaps she has many.