Slumps & Starts

I know it's a holiday in England, but I consider Boxing Day, December 26th, to be one of the worst on the calendar. The gifts, abundant and attractively arrayed throughout the month under the tree, have been opened, leaving a heap of torn wrapping paper and ripped ribbon. Everyone seems to have gained five pounds in 24 hours. Half a dozen Pyrex dishes need washing. Bustling, eager shoppers have turned into lengthy lines of sour-faced discontents holding the literal bag. The radio station that played Christmas tunes for six weeks goes back to broadcasting soft rock, an oxymoron for lousy music. Pine needles litter the floor. It's time to painstakingly wrap all the delicate ornaments and put away the cheery mementos your kids made when they were in preschool.

After an eventful fall packed with festive occasions (Halloween, Thanksgiving, Hanukkah and Christmas) and great football, against a backdrop of beautiful autumnal leaves, we face the stark, cold month of January when we all resolve to make improvements: lose weight, join a gym, quit smoking or give up some other nagging vice. The credit card bills arrive in the mail. The party's over. It's time for stalwart action. By mid to late February most people abandon their resolutions and go back to overeating, puffing those coffin nails and spending more time on the couch.

Years ago I read of a man who did not make a New Year's resolution of his intent to meditate every day, he made it a vow. Taking a vow, as anyone who's gotten married or joined a convent knows, is a bigger deal than resolving to do something. There's a spiritual, serious aspect to it. It's supposed to be for keeps. It takes a sort of discipline unfamiliar to most of us born in the middle of the last century up to the present. Ask any teenager if he's willing to give up his Xbox, Facebook or iPhone for an extended period of time. Few, if any, could meet such an abstentious goal for Lent, let alone a whole year. We live in a culture that, for a price, will satisfy our demands before we're even aware of them. Because we're surrounded by limitless possibilities, it's all the more difficult to deny ourselves something we think we need, when in fact we're burdened by the weight of these desires, satisfied or not, as any good Buddhist will tell you.

So what am I willing to do without in 2012? I have the usual laundry list: more exercise, less crappy food, more books and less TV. But I have a rather lofty intention, one I've postponed innumerable times, that is crying out for my undivided attention come January 1st. To finish my novel. I'm making this declaration on my blog so that I'm actually going on record. Hopefully, the eventual eating of humble pie required by not meeting my commitment will be incentive enough to spur me on. Sure, I want to be skinny, healthy and more literate. But I can't live with myself if I don't vow to complete something decades in the making. My mother, a journalist who made her living by writing, often declared over cigarettes and Chardonnay, "Just wait till I write my novel." After many years of hearing this proclamation I asked her where her novel was. She said, "It's in my head."

She is no longer with us and no novel lives on in her absence. Her unfulfilled promise is part of what dogs my days as a fiction writer. I was once quite determined not to chalk up my story to the "dreams deferred" category. The older we get the harder it is to muster the drive that seized us in our youth. We're all too willing to leave our neglected objectives unmet, especially with society telling us we're over the hill. Charles Frazier, author of Cold Mountain, the 1997 National Book Award winner, once said prior to his novel's publication that if nothing else, he wanted to have a finished manuscript he'd be proud to tuck away in the attic. I doubt I'm destined for the bestseller list, but I hope my long-languishing opus will someday see the light of day.

A Day in the Life

"I read the news today, oh boy..." When this anniversary rolls around every year it reignites the unforgettable grief and rage we felt over losing John Lennon. The tragic irony of a man who"advertised" peace via the Bed-In, War is Over, his anti-Vietnam protests, gunned down by a fat loser when John was at the most fulfilling stage of his life. It's the bad dream that never stops aching. But Lennon's legacy of hope, idealism and activism continues to inspire. I recall reading a quote from John about how his penchant for peace developed. It was an admission that he was inclined towards bad behavior and a turbulent temperament from an early age. He said, and I'm paraphrasing, it was the troublemakers that ultimately turned to peace. Because he had lived through abandonment and turmoil he had come to appreciate non-violence. John will always be the upstart art school non-conformist who lived life outside the margins.

When I look at old footage of the Fab Four's arrival on our shores, that first press conference right off the plane at Kennedy Airport, I'm struck by what Beatle historians have called Lennon's "lacerating wit." When asked by one of the reporters if they'll sing, John replies, "No, we need money first." It was John who had the audacity to compare the popularity of the Beatles to that of Jesus, generating a fiasco of misunderstanding, outrage and record-burning. Years later, only the very daft could fail to see the point: rock and roll music speaks to young people in a way that the church does not. Not exactly a newsflash today, but scandalous at the time.

Love her or hate her, Yoko Ono became the driving force behind Lennon's evolution from a Beatle into a political activist, feminist and ultimately, a househusband. John got a second chance at hands-on parenting, giving his son Sean what he failed to provide for Julian, his child by his first wife Cynthia Lennon. As a mother of three, one who sacrificed many artistic ambitions to raise kids, I think Julian is spot-on when he gripes about how cheated he felt over his father's devotion to Sean, having come up short as a dad in his twenties. But the thing about John is he was always evolving; he gave up a rock superstar lifestyle to change diapers and bake bread. Which makes it all the more heartbreaking that when he did get back in the studio and created "Double Fantasy," he was murdered before he could enjoy his musical reemergence.

In the wake of Lennon's death there was a haunting refrain from one of his songs, "the dream is over." In 1981 I clipped a fan's quote from Rolling Stone Magazine, "the dream is still alive. Long live the dream." I have a 21-yr-old son who, like his brothers, was schooled in classic rock from an early age, the Beatles being the quintessence of the genre. He composes and plays original songs that don't conform to commercial standards. He's also a visual artist, a cheeky lad and a rebel. When I hear rough cuts of his latest tracks, I'm proud when I detect a trace of Lennon in his style and vocals. Imagine that.

My Day with Denzel

I recently worked as an extra on the film "Flight," filming in Atlanta, directed by Robert Zemeckis and starring Denzel Washington, Melissa Leo, Don Cheadle and John Goodman. I hadn't been on a movie set in a long time. I'd forgotten how tedious the whole process can be, but was grateful for the work. I showed up in a downtown parking lot at six AM wearing business attire and carrying a garment bag with two alternate outfits. Buses ferried some 250 people to the holding area, a ballroom at the Marriott Marquis Hotel. We were screened by wardrobe and make-up. I was told to change my shirt and tone down my lipstick. Clustered around tables, the actors waited a few hours before one of the ADs (assistant directors for background) called the first group of us to the set. Breakfast was provided (oatmeal) and lots of people were chowing down, knowing it would have to last them till a late lunch.

I use the term actor loosely, as many, if not most of these folks had no major experience in the profession. A couple of people sitting with me were taking acting classes or otherwise trying to round out their thespian resumes. But the majority were just along for the ride: schoolteachers, landscapers and line cooks. Plenty of them were no doubt on unemployment and saw the gig as an easy way to pick up some extra cash. The prerequisites were simple: send a picture and vital stats to the casting director. The parents of some of the twentyish kids who had worked on "Vampire Diaries" were among the crowd. I spoke to one woman about my age who appeared to be a pro at this sort of thing. I was networking, digging for information about other local jobs. She gave me the names of some contacts, then admitted, "I've only been doing this for five months."

Eventually I ended up in a line comprised of people "born before 1975." Off we went to the set, a large conference room with rows of tables and chairs. We were surrounded by guys hanging and adjusting lights, cameramen and make-up artists. Assistants began distributing props: notebooks, manuals and Dell computers. We were told to remain quiet, but an insufferable man behind me maintained a running monologue that lasted all day long, innumerable details of this jerk's "career" in the movie biz. The stand-ins for the stars were in their places while the crew fine-tuned the atmospherics. Finally, about 11 o'clock, in walked Melissa and Denzel. Two Oscar winners whose characters were at odds during the scene. Denzel was every bit as gorgeous as he is on celluloid. His role was a pilot who saved an airplane from crashing. Melissa played the head of the NTSB board, questioning Mr. Washington like a prosecuting attorney.

Denzel looked and behaved like a total professional, a class act. It was clear as he sat in the hot seat that he was in character, repeating certain movements, mannerisms and tics before the cameras even started to roll. Melissa did vocal warm-ups and stretched. Then we were rolling and heard "Action!" Our job was to react to the riveting footage playing on jumbo screens, a reenactment of the crucial moments leading up to the safe landing of the aircraft. We listened intently as Melissa probed Denzel's decision-making process during the almost-doomed flight. This went on, with the exception of a couple of five-minute breaks and a half hour for lunch, for fifteen excruciating hours.

We didn't wrap until shortly before nine. Then we had to stand in line another thirty minutes to have our vouchers signed so we'd get paid. What was frustrating about the experience was one of the actors, who shall remain nameless, flubbed lines, mispronounced words, lost track of where we were in the script and generally kept screwing up. This star gets several million for the picture, while I sat in the peanut gallery earning a whopping $8 per hour.

I drove home that night knowing that the ultimate test of an actor is working in the theater. When we make mistakes we have to ad lib our way out of the glitch. We don't have the luxury of unlimited takes. Our pay rate is far below what we're worth. But we act in real time, show up prepared, with one shot at getting it right, eight performances a week. We work, like daring acrobats, without a net.

Somthing's Happening Here

There are no signs that the Occupy Wall Street movement is going away soon. It has inspired offshoot protests in major and minor cities across the nation, as well as sparking a global outcry. It's tapped into a worldwide vein of frustration and anger with I'm-mad-as-hell-and-I'm-not-going-to-take-it-anymore fervor. The movement has attracted the unemployed, the foreclosed-upon, the laid-off and the uninsured. It's served as a magnet for people of various political stripes, all united in their identification as the 99% who aren't benefiting from bail-outs, or reaping colossal financial rewards by playing fast and loose corporate games. Parents who marched for social equality, participated in anti-war demonstrations, or otherwise lifted their voices against the status quo are bringing their children along for the ride. It's the quintessential teachable moment. Tykes too young to remember they attended will one day tell their kids they were there.

Scenes from the front lines are reminiscent of the late Sixties, complete with cops trying to quell the mounting momentum with tear gas, mass arrests and conflicting accusations of violence on either side. My twenty-three-year-old son went to the Occupy Boston gathering last week. He was surprised at how well organized the event was, complete with job assignments for sanitation and safety & security. Also ongoing yoga and meditation classes. As for the news media's assertion that there was no consistent message coming from the movement, he said, "I think there's been a willful misunderstanding by the media as to the unifying statement emerging from the protesters. It's clear they're against an economic structure that serves the top 1% to the detriment of everyone else." Regardless of the disparate reasons that have drawn the participants into the mix, there is a striking commonality of purpose: We are the Little Guys and we're getting stiffed.

The hue and cry is long overdue. All the talk in the last presidential election about putting the concerns of Main Street over those of Wall Street has amounted to zilch. The average working Joe is still struggling against increasingly insurmountable odds, while CEOs of mega corporations continue to rake in obscene profits. None of the scoundrels have been prosecuted for ripping off the American taxpayer. No one has gone to jail. Jake Tapper of ABC News asked Obama about this fact at a recent news conference. Obama's tepid response on the question of accountability for Wall Street executives was that "a lot of stuff wasn't necessarily illegal, it was just immoral or inappropriate or reckless." Well, it's time for those immoral, inappropriate people who've been reckless for so long to answer for their unbridled greed.

We don't know exactly where the Occupy Wall Street phenomenon is going, except that it's growing in size and scope on a daily basis. In viewing photos from the events I came across one that struck me: the sight of a young woman waving an American flag. The movement is rooted in our oldest constitutional traditions of peaceful assembly, freedom of speech and dissent. Any calls on the Right for action to stop it should be met with renewed passion and solidarity. The ignored and shafted have-nots are rebelling. The whole world is watching, again. Something's not only happening here. Something's gotta give.

Turn and Face the Changes

With apologies to David Bowie for paraphrasing his hit song, here are some thoughts on change... Sometimes the smaller, more subtle ones are harder to deal with than big, seismic shifts. I grew up addicted to soap operas, in particular All My Children, which was yanked by ABC a few months ago. I watched the last episode but it just wasn't up to par. The Seventies and Eighties were the heyday of Pine Valley; Erica Kane, Tad & Dixie, Phoebe and Langley, and Richard Simmons' aerobic workouts at the town gym. Another female favorite, Oprah (a late afternoon staple of the days moms aren't shuttling children to every imaginable activity) no longer appears at 4 o' clock.

In 2011, as recently observed with the passing of Steve Jobs, cutting-edge devices and gadgets make their debuts only to be upstaged by "smarter" newcomers within weeks or less. Facebook and Twitter keep the population in endless, frenzied commentary on what's happening to everyone at every moment. No sooner have we adjusted to the "very latest," a fresh take on what we've just absorbed rushes in to alter the previous impression. I find all this institutionalized chaos hard to abide. Sure, I buy into some of technology's split-second sound and sight strobe light. Much of it I avoid, abstain from, or generally disdain. Call me Luddite Lite.

In terms of the Big Picture, change is, as we've all been reminded by parents, mentors and drinking buddies, the one constant. Ain't no getting around it, even if one manages to subvert change or distract oneself from it, you never leave home without it. And home, in both the elemental and Thomas Wolfe way, is a staging ground for the changes we often wish would never come. To wit, how is it that two of my trio of merry pranksters, with skinned knees and uncomplicated dispositions, have grown into what we call, after they hit 21, adults? "Just stop getting bigger," I beg my 17-year-old, remembering the wide-eyed optimist who now wrestles with adolescent angst.

From the vast amount written on the subject of the maturation process, be it a child-rearing guide, midlife crisis self help book, or philosophical tome, one would think Homo sapiens would have mastered it by now, evolutionarily-speaking. Which is not to disregard those who actually have a handle on maturity. Some rare folk are born with a tendency toward it or acquire a knack. But in my humble opinion, a majority of people have few clues. That's why humans have goals like self-actualization or becoming a boddhisatva. Most of us fight change tooth and claw, and are therefore deemed stubborn, while those who embrace it get labeled visionaries. Change is the ultimate double-edged sword. Its benefits or deficits are seldom realized in the short run, making us dodge the unknown with clever or clumsy tactics.

What springs to mind is the psychiatric list of the top ten life stressors: Death, divorce, moving, changing jobs, etc. Nobody sails through any of these unscathed. For those who weather such upheavals with grace, my hat's off to you. For me, I greet many transformational life events with equal parts dread and ecstasy, sometimes simultaneously. At a relatively ripe Boomer age, I've discovered that when we at last surrender to a variegated, thorny metamorphosis, we frequently breath a sigh of relief, pat ourselves on the back and utter, "Well, that wasn't so bad after all." Meanwhile, I admit, since it's Friday, you'll find me anchored to the sofa tonight, surfing through the MLB playoffs and bad cable movies. A mere lump of protoplasm. Tomorrow it's time, as Bowie sang, to "turn and face the strain" of those "ch-ch-ch-changes."

Before Everything Changed

Recently one of my poems was published by an online magazine, Epiphany. It's called "Before Everything Changed" and it deals with adjustments we all had to make once our nation was shattered on 9/11. With the tenth anniversary of the attacks just a day away, I'm weighing in with my own recollections of that horrific event, although the poem probably does a better job of capturing my thoughts. You can see it at www.epiphmag.com.

Tuesday, September 11, 2001 began early for me. I had to get my middle-school age son to jazz band at 8 o'clock and drop my youngest at elementary school. On the way we listened to Breakfast With The Beatles on a local radio station in the car. I held forth with memories of growing up in the Sixties, when life for a pre-teen seemed limitless and carefree. The boys and I sang along. When I got home I saw my oldest boy off at the bus stop while taking my morning power walk with the family dog. Back at the house I gathered several notebooks full of writing projects, determined to spend the day working on my novel. I'd had a birthday the week before and vowed, as I do every year, to tackle the pages with gusto.

Shortly before 9 o'clock the phone rang. "A plane collided with the World Trade Center," my husband Paul told me. I went straight to the TV and, like millions of viewers across America and beyond, began watching the shocking spectacle unfold in real time. I called my loved ones. First my parents and then my sister and brother in-law. The five of us exchanged terrified words as the the second plane hit the South Tower. Then the third jet crashing into the Pentagon and finally, Flight 93 going down in Shanksville, PA. The media feverishly covered emerging details. I begged Paul to come home from work. David Bloom of NBC said one of the intended targets was believed to be Atlanta. Such false or speculative reports unraveled fast and furious, as I thought about going to pick up my kids at their schools. I decided against it, recalling the day in 1963 when teachers informed students of Kennedy's assassination. I reasoned that it was crazy to think my children were in danger. But it nagged at me all afternoon as I awaited their safe return on the school bus. I continued calling Paul, bewildered that his bosses and co-workers were going on with business as usual while the homeland was under siege.

That night my oldest son's basketball practice was still held and that weekend, during the game, I noticed how subdued and quiet the people in the bleachers were. Everyone was in a state of shock, stupefied that such an all-out assault on this country could have been carried out with relative ease. That week I insisted my children watch the celebrity telethon with me. Famous actors and musicians blanketed the airwaves, singing and speaking about the sacrifices and courage of the 9/11 heroes. America: A Tribute to Heroes raised money for the victims' families, opening with Bruce Springsteen's harmonica, as he began performing a song that ended up on his next album, The Rising. That album is one of the many amazing artistic reactions to 9/11, as rock gods like Bruce and movie stars like Tom Hanks suddenly seemed like neighbors: ordinary Americans reckoning with an unbelievable tragedy.

Ten years later it still seems surreal. Last night's NBC News showed a teenager who was only six at the time commenting "It was like a video game." It was astonishing and revelatory. Heinous and unspeakable. All dramatic adjectives apply. That week I took my grandfather's American flag out of the cobwebs in my basement and flew it proudly on my front porch. Flags popped up everywhere. On an early October car ride out of town for a visit with my parents, I suggested my kids count the number of Old Glories they saw on the way. We all chimed in with approximate guesses as to what the final total would be. In the end it eclipsed the highest estimate--over four-hundred. Songs and books have been written, memorials have been erected, commissions have examined, politicians have speechified, wars have been waged. One of our darkest hours became our most united front. It's worth revisiting those September days a decade ago, to try to rise above partisan bickering in Washington, the narcissistic nature of our culture and the economic gloom that pervades every choice in the marketplace. 9/11 is of such seismic proportion it seems futile and hopelessly redundant to add another commemorative voice to the national conversation. But ignoring it isn't an option. Cue Kate Smith and say your prayers.

Odds & Ends

It was bound to happen. Bloggers, like columnists, make errors. And they must be corrected. I guess I owe DSK (Dominique Strauss-Kahn) an apology. Some weeks ago I wrote about his presumed criminal behavior. The case against him fell apart because of the questionable veracity of his accuser. Apparently, the hotel maid was taking advantage of him, as the old phrase goes, rather than the other way around. Sorry, Dom.

Memo: I still think Arnold is a scumbag.

Yesterday the prize for bravest woman went to CNN reporter Sarah Sidner. Outside Gaddafi's compound, while "celebratory" gunfire went off all around her, she continued reporting as if it was nothing more than child's play. The sound of shots grew stronger as she stood her ground. I cringed as I watched, wishing the anchors would tell her take cover. Finally she positioned herself between two walls, taking mere steps away from the action, while cars and trucks rolled by carrying festive rebels. I checked the other networks but she had the scoop. I'd say she's due for a raise.

I'm reading a new hardback novel that I bought at the bookstore, rather than my usual method of getting fresh fiction from the library. It's published by Viking. I've counted three, count 'em, three typos. Millions of unemployed people are looking for a job, while some copy editor at this publishing house is slacking.

I'm debating buying a Kindle or Nook but feel this would be quite a sellout. A coffee mug of mine quotes Thomas Jefferson: "I cannot live without books." I mean "flesh and blood" books, not a plastic screen. It seems tantamount to betraying a lover.

I'm halfway through season four of Battlestar Gallactica and enjoying it tremendously. I'm not typically a sci-fi freak but this show rocks.

Looking forward to Martin Scorsese's "Living in the Material World" documentary about George Harrison.

I must admit I love YouTube's Mishka the talking dog.

The Dolphins will probably have another losing season but I'm gearing up for gridiron anyway.

I'm ready for fall!