Writings by Cosmos

Value of Time

2012-01-03T06:45:00.001-08:00

Time is the coin of your life. It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent. Be careful, lest you let other people spend it for you.” —Carl Sandburg

“Guard well your spare moments. They are like uncut diamonds. Discard them, and their value will never be known. Improve them, and they will become the brightest gems in a useful life.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson

Welcome 2012

2012-01-03T02:32:00.000-08:00

Welcome 2012! Another New Year to reflect and plan, to be resolved. Having taught too many college classes at a few local colleges, the time to think and to recollect is bitter-sweet. Another year past and done with and what's been accomplished. The regret at not having done as much, not having acccomplished the goals of last year's resolve - forever gone. How many more years of good health and motivation, inspiration, active life and living? How much to be done and how much will actually be accomplished? The never-ending, always hopeful questions with some sense of loss and some sense of being in the void, that vacuous and open place of time and effort and time and wishful thinking. How to bring it all home, bring it together; really matter? Questioning the purpose and purposeful life, and the ability to move forward with some sense of having mattered...is this the question most people pose?
Hope! Hope to matter, to leave a positive impact or to motivate, inspire another person to matter...time and effort - how to bring it to fruition.
And so it goes...and so we aspire to do better...and how to take away that poignancy and urgency..or is that part of the life-force and the movement towards a better life and more sigificant existence?

Economy, Transitions - Growing Up or Was that Old/Older -

2011-07-17T03:50:00.000-07:00

Politicians, our reps in DC - how are they talking so much nothing that nothing is exactly what is accomplished? When did the electorate decide to watch tv and tweet & post on fb rather than work up a sweat about the inequities in the US of A? The economy and news about interest rates, jobs, professional development - gloom and doom. The 'talking heads' at both conservative and liberal news outlets; the written work the live news streams and television - shout at the masses - the economy has tanked!

Has it? Has the United States relinguished leadership & power to China, to the Middle East - to what flavor are the media junkies serving today? Where are the reports based on facts and figures? How can the average Joe & Jane learn more about the realities they face? It may seem that the main street Americans are too busy trying to keep body and soul together. They are. It may seem that the middle class, now sliding to poor, has more significant plans, to find that better job, to pay off college costs with their children, to figure out how to keep the house, manage the car bills and to top it off, medical insurance.

And the question becomes, what are the leaders doing? How are we, the people, to view the world now with banks manipulating and continuing to soak up the monetary resources. The banks, who required funding and more funding, greedy and ever-taking from the working class. Prosecuting those responsible for the fall-out would seem reasonable and fair, where are the prosecutors and where is the anger of the people paying the bill on those mis-steps of the very wealthy; bankers and politicians.

And so we think about lobbyists and the powerful hiring more powerful - the few who advocate and dance the dance of those few in control and charming, conniving and manipulating the weaker or perhaps the weakest - the politicians, with eyes on the prize of being re-elected and the money that will accomplish that - not the one vote from consitutuents; but rather the super funds and treasury overload of the conglomerates and the lobbyists that reward that vote, that stall, that back to committee motion.

Is this the bargain? Are we seeing the fruits of our labor? Has the world gone crazy or is this the end-game? Growing up has become a painful reality for most baby boomers. Growing older has not been the peace and loove child of the sixties. The promises of youthful activism and hard-work, studies and volunteerism has lead to what? And that is the rub, the total undenialable and caustic rub...

There are some, a very few, who do not believe the news. The minoirty of the people believe in and for something more. What do they believe in & for while the news people drone on about the negative the downsliding...They believe that America is the greatest nation in the world. They believe that America can and will lead on and move forward. They believe that despite reports and newscasts, the US of A can prosper and the people can aspire to do and be whomever they want and dream to be. For the most part, the they are citizens from elsewhere, the newly minted Unites State citizen, and hurrah for them. The rest of us should and need to listen closely. The rest of us need to stop talking and to take a 'pause' to regroup and to carry on..afterall we are Americans and know that the United States is the greatest nation in the world!

Thanks Tony for reminding me! Well-said!

June lst & another decade..

2011-06-01T11:06:00.000-07:00

Took my brother, Steven, & his partner, Jim, to Logan Express yesterday as they headed out for Paris. Poignant and sweet recollections, when not in the too far past, my brother & I went to Paris. Young, jubilant and joyful, high expectations and easy going travels. It was an adventure. The journey to Paris, as young Americans, taught us to say we were from Canada, to avoid the 'hot politics' and hate for US that was prevalent at the time. Traveling without issues and to just live in the moment was the plan. And, for me, it worked. It worked well, in part, as I bought a pair of French jeans, washed out and tight with a flair at the bottom. I also found platform sandals, about three inches high and black and strappy. Thinking about walking around the city on new platforms, never crossed my mind. And finally, to blend in with Parisians, I found a ver red and very slick lipstick and cut my hair from shoulder length flip kinda preppy look to a short, layered model, maybe actress look. It worked and Paris was fabulous and the time spent drifting and being on a small green chair at the Jardins de Toullieres couldn't be written much better than the reality.
Another decade and pinning for France, and more to it; for Paris.

Swan Lake/Black Swan-Paris 1973 Boston 2011

2011-02-11T17:27:00.001-08:00

Swan Lake/Black Swan–Paris-Boston(1973/2010) J.K. Cosmos

Ballet, the energy and tension & pure physicality of it, astonishing! The love of ballet began early on and continued in earnest during my formative years and beyond. Providentially, I was in Paris for the foremost dance of Nureyev and Madam Fontaine. The venue, the Louvre, and the setting only in France, laid out the evening on a warm, clear, starry backdrop with the performance of ‘Swan Lake’ the preferred production.
On this night, at this place despite the ‘aha’ moments and fleeting energy of ballerinas fluttering about and the music commanding an audience response; on this night Nureyev dropped Madam Fontaine with a resounding and most dramatic thud. Some were not sure if it was a purposeful drop of the prima ballerina or was it part of the production or was he being such an egotist that he literally dropped her on her dainty and yes, aging behind. After all, this was the last performance for Madam and her retirement was well-known to the arts and creative community.
The morning newspapers cleared up any confusion with articles and commentaries on the ‘drop’ being mean-spirited and by clear intent of Monsieur Nureyev. Horrific in the world of dance! The production, the visuals, the rhythmic movement of the swan/ballet resonates still for me. My emotions high and close clearly mirrored my youth and idealism. The Swan Lake with themes of love and betrayal whispered in my ear the things that I knew were true. The dancers, beautiful and agile, confirmed my knowing that the world was beautiful and lovely. Oh, so lovely.

Response on Conflict in Egypt

2011-01-30T06:12:00.000-08:00

Friends have written about religion as the cause of the strife in Egypt. My response was requested and the following is a brief one:

Ralph, not sure if I agree with your analysis, but I respect all of it. There are also Coptic Orthodox Christians in Egypt. My understanding is that Islam is a religion of peace, that is viewed as extreme when the politics are added to the mix. I am not an expert..., nor have I attended services, as you have..I just feel that most people want similar lives, as you mention without harassement & with respect. I wish I had an answer or path to that end, without violence. I think peaceful resistance and demonstrations should work, if the army & police would stand down and not engage with the people. Politicians should listen and do better.

On a global level, changes have to happen to be more just and fair; to give all people a chance at what they deserve, a life which includes a job, a home...I think it goes beyond religion, now. People in the US and Europe are also marginalized and wanting. Egypt is one major part of the beginning of a reaction. I think, not just the middle east, but some European nations, such as Greece, France, Great Britain and Ireland have -rioted and have demonstrations against banks and the government in the recent past and continue to do so. They oppose changing the retirement age and cutbacks on benefits earned. They oppose the backlash of the decades of fiscal irresponsibility. Balancing the budget need not be to the detriment of the middle class, does it? Greed of the upper class and those in power should not benefit on the backs of the working people. Restructuring shouldn't mean the wealthy continue to benefit and prosper while the majority are unemployed, and unable to live their lives with any sense of humanity and without hope.

Love by the Sea

2010-07-19T07:17:00.001-07:00

Creative Writing –Fiction

Kate wasn’t looking forward to this next birthday and dreaded the day that was fast approaching. Her life goals seemed to be unattainable if life continued to play fast and easy without real success. She could barely start her day and moved slow and steady without too much thought.
Patrick called as she readied herself for a Court pretrial hearing at the District Court. She was late and Patrick told her that he wanted to take her out for her birthday. He’d pick her up tonight at seven. He told her he’d take care of everything and to just be ready to go.
Kate wanted to feel happy and knew he was trying to please her. She just couldn’t. Thinking about criminals would distract her and she took off.
The Hearing was a basic ‘Show Cause’ with only one police officer testifying to preliminary matters that sometimes make or break a case. Kate’s client sat next to her and he was preoccupied with the legal yellow pad that she gave him and pen for him to jot down questions and any thought he might have about the case. This technique of having clients ‘help out’ worked well and gave her a break from answering their questions when she should be concentrating on testimony being given. Kate had many strategies to keep her clients under control, similar to those she used to keep the cops under control. Both having similar high energy and continual needs for attention, it seemed to Kate that some of the busy work she gave the cops and now the defendants were similar to those for small children. That did make her smile.
The day passed without incident and without much fanfare about her birthday. A few phone calls of congrats and that she was able to handle.
Seven and Patrick was knocking on the door ready to enjoy some time with her on this propitious day. She was dressed and ready but still glum.
He had a small a package with him, wrapped in newspaper and tied with a plain string. How did she feel?
“Happy Birthday! Come on, thirty isn’t so bad.”
He said it out loud, thirty, and she cringed. How fast the year had passed. Being twenty-nine had made her sad and she dreaded this one all year long.
Kate sat on the edge of the sofa and opened the package. Patrick sat next to her and waited, expectantly.
She breathed out thanking him. It was a seagull on a canvas reminding her of Americana but actually nicely detailed. The scene was framed with rough wood and a white line of thin paint on the border. The seagull had the wing-spread and was in air. Most of the painting was of the seagull, not the background sky. Kate loved it. She thought of a book she had read about freedom and life from the perspective of a seagull. “Hmmm, what was the title of that book about a seagull?” Patrick didn’t know. He wasn’t much into reading fiction. He read philosophy books and used the logic to win and strategize his defense of his clients. He was writing a book, but still didn’t like fiction or anything contemporary.
“Let’s go! Are you ready?”
“Thank you for the lovely gift. Thank you, Patrick. I love it.”
They left Cambridge and drove north. Kate wasn’t sure where he was planning to go and just let the air and the movement of the driving taker her away from her darker thoughts. Her mind kept wandering to past days with Jack. How would she be celebrating this day with Jack? She had to let it go and she had to let him go. The last gift that Jack had given her was a paper parasol. It was huge and had a hand-painted flower on it. What would she possibly do with a parasol? She recalled thinking that Jack was so unconventional in some ways. He’d been so happy to give it to her and he had not inkling really on what she would do with it. They had both laughed and Jack wanted her to open it and walk with him up Mass Ave under the parasol. What a crazy idea!
Earth to Kate! Patrick was saying something to her. She hadn’t heard him, the actual words escaped her. He was smiling broadly, so she returned the smile and wondered.
He took her to a place on the north shore that had a secret gate and they walked through a pathway that seemed to be private, but he assured her that it was not. At the end of the path was a small gate that filled an archway. Ivy covered most of the opening. On a closer look, Kate could see through to the ocean. They both saw the ocean in its more active and waves crashing nature. Kate loved it. The temperament of the ocean banging against the rocks mirrored her feelings. She and Patrick crossed through the gate and they were against the rocks on a ledge that went nowhere. They were close up against the rocks looking out to the sea and looking down to the crashing waves. Her spirit soared. Patrick knew her, after all. What joy!
Patrick leaned on her and began to search for her and she was overcome with passion for life and for him. They stood against the wall of boulders and they made love.

Baudelaire - 'Be Drunk'

2010-07-19T07:12:00.001-07:00

Be Drunk
by Charles Baudelaire
Translated by Louis Simpson

You have to be always drunk. That's all there is to it—it's the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk.
But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk.
And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking. . .ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: "It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish."

Larsson / Truffault - Magnificent!!

2010-07-14T06:36:00.000-07:00

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo – Stieg Larsson
Transitions – From Character to Character & Story to Story

Major narration, first with Blomvist and then Salander and the question becomes how to have the overlaps of the stories entwined in such a way that it is crafted seamlessly and effortlessly. Larsson considers both characters and so the inquiry is how to mesh the tales in order to show the plot-lines first as indivisible plots and then as overlapping.
The craft of transitions to clarify not confuse is effectively accomplished in this novel. Analyzing the language and the structure of the chapters supports the premise that Larsson is a master at transitions and storytelling.
The initial overlap is when Salander is asked to investigate Blomvist in the capacity of her employment with a security firm. She is interested in the dilemma of the inquiry and his recent conviction for slander and libel, necessitating incarceration, in addition to a hefty fine. Her investigation comes to a halt at the client’s request and concurrently, the client invites Blomvist to work for the Owner of a conglomerate with dual purposes. How does this assignment for Blomvist add depth to Salander’s story. The narration moves in a parallel way without the two characters meeting or having knowledge of each other. The transitions from his view to hers is planned to coincide with events that may or may not lead to the ‘ah ha moment’ of uncovering a murderer.
The narration switches from each of them, through the events, not particularly chapters as other writers may choose to format the story. I think that the event-driven transitions and point of view change-ups is effective.
“The lawyer Frode from Hedestad had hired her to do an investigation of Mikael Blomkvist, the journalist who was given a prision sentence for libeling financier Hans-Eriuk Wennerstrom. A few months later, Henrik Vanger, also from Hedestad, joins Blomkvist’s magazine’s board of directors and claims that there is a conspiracy to crush the magazine. All this one the same day that the former goes to prison. Most fascinating of all: a two-year-old background article –‘With two empty hands’- about Hans-Erik Wennerstrom, which she found in the outline edition of Monopoly Financial Magazine. It seemed that he began his career in the very same Vanger Corporation in the late sixties. You didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to see that these events were somehow related. There had to be a skeleton in one of their cupboards, and Salander loved hunting skeletons. Besides, she had nothing else on at the moment.” Larsson p. 271.

The above quote refers to Salander’s perspective as Blomkvist presents himself at the prison for his sentence to begin. Both prior and subsequent to his incarceration, events are dramatic and viewed by each according to their age, station and education, but very purposefully.
The stories do run concurrently after each is engaged in a path of discovery and prior to any firm conclusions as to the murder.
The transition between both lives and events is not a smooth pathway in terms of what is happening to each of them. It is smooth in regard to the language and structure of the narration.
Larsson pulls together clues for the murder simultaneously giving clues to the corporate corruption and Salander’s inquisitive mind and search for facts and inevitably truth.
Beyond chapter breaks, Larsson writes methodically to give each story a deeper texture and a clearer comprehension of the engagement of both stories. It is written like a film outline with the chapters and stories paced to keep the reader engaged and pursuing similar outcomes of the characters. Truffault, the French director, used this technique of overlapping and transitions in his film-noirs and this technique used by Larsson is reminiscent of that genre of film and perhaps writing, at least in screenwriting of the day. The technique enhances the plot development and enriches the narration. Larsson use of this literary craft is a successful one.

Works cited.
Larsson, Stieg: The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, Vintage Crime/Random House, NYC, NY, 2008. (translated by Reg Keeland)
Truffault, Francois: Day for Night (1973).

The Children's Book - A.S. Byatt

2010-07-14T06:35:00.001-07:00

The Children’s Book – A. S. Byatt
Transitions – Past, Present - Connections
The plot has flashes of stories within the main story and Byatt effectively transitions from one time to another; from past to present seamlessly. This ability in her craft of writing the novel reflects an unique skill to move the plot and layer the storytelling. Analyzing her novel shows that the layering and the transitions between stories and flashbacks are not only useful but add an energy and a tenure which works well.
A book is written for each child in the main story and the mother/author has the ability to tell a tale and successfully capture the energy and pulse of each story. Byatt writes with details and significant language to describe at length the story. Rather than discourage the reader, the transitions and the details elaborate the telling.
“Toby had been lecturing in Winchelsea and Lydd, in the winter and spring, speaking about the Saxon fairy-faith, and the Paracelsiona elementals. He had become a great friend fo Patty Dace, Frank Mallett and Arthur Dobbin. The inner group of the Theosophists had held discussions of Edward Carpenter’s Love’s Coming of Age in Miss Dace’s parlour.” P.201.
This quote relates to a time of youth and connections which relate to the plot later in time.
A story within a story and how it fits with the main plot moves the plot and infers more than the straight-line of events. “In the studio Philip told Fludd he had been to see the sea. He said he hoped to go again. Fludd said, why not, and that Philip should go to Dungeness, Dungeness would interest him. Phillip made his way to Dungeness, on foot, one hot day when the broom was shining gold and the seakale was covered with spherical seeds, turning form pale green to bone.” P. 151
The Text includes vibrant descriptions and a flow of past, present storylines.
How does Byatt write long fiction and transition from one time to another, from one story to another? Her successful novel, The Children’s Book parallels her prior work, Possession. In Possesion, Byatt transitions from past to present through letters and the discovery of a story intertwined with historical facts and letters that elaborate on a personal intimate history of lovers.
Both works seem to wrap up more than one story effectively and naturally.
Works cited.
Byatt, A.S. The Children’s Book; Knopf, New York, 2009.
Byatt, A.S. Possession, Vintage/Random House, New York, 1990.

Process of Writing / Goddard College

2010-07-01T18:40:00.001-07:00

j. k. cosmos
-Process – about language and spirit. How? Beginning at Goddard, the literal was the rule and I attended every workshop possible…had some angst on missing any of them and continued to read the handouts and run around from building to building with few minutes to spare. I did not speak. I did not volunteer to comment. I did not volunteer to read. I did not volunteer to ask a question. The days past and I also did not fully engage with my colleagues. I did not speak at the huge square table at meals. I listened. I did not nod my head in agreement with faculty or with other students. My recollection is that my initial days on campus were frightening; not in a way of horror, but in a way of being intimidated. Frightened was the theme of my first residency, as I had decided to come to Goddard only a few days prior to the residency, having accepted another MFA Program. I felt ambivalent as I had talked with the Director and staff at the other program and only one person at Goddard. I hadn’t quite centered myself at home first, prior to the drive from outside of Boston to Plainfield. I hadn’t quite made the time in my head to be fully cognizant of the decisions and the possibilities at Goddard.
One fifth term student spoke with me; she actually looked at me and the invisibility cleared up for a few moments. I appreciated her attempt to get to me. The time after the readings and very full schedule, I went to sit in my car and listened to James Taylor’s melodious voice, his soothing lyrics and songs. I sat in the car way too much and listened to JT and sat in the air conditioning. I called my oldest son, and he calmed me. He said to give it a chance. I knew that. Yes, I knew it intellectually. I could logically move to the place of being thankful that I had the opportunity to be a member of the Goddard community. But, the rest of me was uncomfortable and that is not usually the case for me. I usually am very able at being flexible with circumstances, people, social situations and those events where it just takes some thoughtfulness to be comfortable. I really am very okay in my own skin. That is why this feeling of not talking and just observing and listening was so very difficult.
The last evening of the residency, walking from Manor to the Admin Building, the Director of the Program was walking towards me with his dog, Darla. I wished I could walk slower or faster to miss any real contact with him. It wasn’t to be. As we approached each other, he said, ‘You are not here by chance, Jeanne. You are here for a reason.” He kept walking, as did I. If I responded to him, I cannot recall. It sounds like I’m coming back, I thought. I wish he’d told me that the first day and not the last.
Trust the process is the mantra. I thought about the conciseness of the theme on campus and the following morning returned home. Let the writing begin in earnst.

Sgt Crowley & Professor Gates - Tension & No Resolution

2010-07-01T18:38:00.000-07:00

Despite the racist undertones, it seems to me as a former Assist.DA & Criminal Defense Atty, that this is a clear case of abuse of power by the police officer. It is not uncommon. The unique component is that it happened to a Harvard Professor. I hope that there is some movement towards reasonable de-escalation of the issues pertinent to police overstepping their authority. Sgt Crowley should have exited Prof.Gates home and gotten back in his cruiser. This is not a disputer where both men had equal power and authority. The report issued in this circumstance may be politically correct, however, it is very clear to me that the members of the panel are not criminal defense attys/prosecutors and have little understanding of the criminal justice system. They, unfortunately, missed a significant issue and did not step up to address the problem. By issuing a report giving both parties equal blame & responsibility, it is very clear that they were not able to get a clear perception of the problem in this case, nor do they 'get' the system and the average person's real danger of being arrested or abused when dealing with the police.

Boom / J.K. Cosmos - Reviewer for the New Rep

2010-03-01T06:59:00.000-08:00

Boom – Review by J.K. Cosmos

Expectations aside, what was the point of ‘Boom’. Keeping an open mind, was this production entertaining? Was it informative? Was it engaging? Mastering language and staying in focus. Are these the requirements of an effective play? What is it that holds the audience and speaks to us as individuals? What is it that we seek when we take the time and buy the ticket?

Mulling it all over in my mind and reviewing the particulars, ‘Boom” is not it. The playwright tries very hard to create a work that is significant. He does not succeed, in this reviewer’s humble opinion.

How does the New Rep select their season is the next logical question? Not knowing the answer to that one, we can only hope for the best and wait on the next play that comes along in Watertown.

The scenery and costumes as has been the case in this season’s productions are fabulous. Really exceptional and not a disappointment. Kudos to those in charge and those accomplishing a fab set and dressing the actors.

The Actors over the top and the swearing and vulgarities were for what purpose? The repetition of swears and crassness, if it adds something to the work is fine. But when it is there and purposeless, then it is not fine at all. It grates. It annoys and looking to get out of my seat and out of the house, as soon as possible. The three actors tried to save this play, giving them some credit. To no avail. The 'woman' behind the scenes, Karen MacDonald, made sounds effects that was the closest to a female Mork from the popular show "Mork & Mindy". Not very effective use of talent. MacDonald is a talented actor, however, this play doesn't add to her creative process.

Some of the audience laughed at a few points in the play and it was hard not to notice the heartiness. So the question becomes were those few laughing, relatives or friends of the actors?

This is a production that you may miss. This is one that is not recommended and a true disappointment. This saddens this reviewer to have to share this negative opinion, as any creative endeavor deserves a shot. Unfortunately, there are so many playwrights working hard and having something to tell, to share or to just give us a reprieve from our daily routine, that this one is just not up to snuff in any way.

Reviewed – J. K. Cosmos

Sunday, January 2010 -

2010-01-31T20:38:00.000-08:00

Bored out of my gourd & should be grading students' essays. Boring and dreary, unlike being in class. I should have used the time to write my own creative work, but kept thinking I had to grade & revise the kids' papers. Pretty much successful at avoiding doing anything at all. What a day! Now time to go to bed and get some sleep. Mondays are the longest day of the week, not just figuratively. Classes begin at 8 AM & end at 10 PM - it's an effort on pacing oneself.

Glad to have the teaching 'gig', still wondering where this will all move towards and where the end-game will be. At the moment, wishing for more and too tired to go after it.

Happy New Year!

Norseman in Skiathos

2010-01-14T19:49:00.001-08:00

Leaning hand to chin, watching the sailboats on the blue sea was becoming routine on this island. What’s to do today? What else could be seen? How can this solitude in beauty become so boring? This is something that won’t be shared when she returned home.
She finished her Greek demitasse coffee and paid the waiter. The staff at the cafes wore white shirts, black pants and black shoes, even on the most humid and hot days. For the most part, they had fair skin, brown eyes and tanned bodies and faces with black, slicked-back hair. They kept their cool, somehow. That coolness was an island secret.
Walking along the dockside and near the shops and small cafes, she had seen it all before and didn’t stop or slow her pace. She was restless. She was so restless, that she entertained going home earlier than planned. The quaintness of the shops and the items for sale held no interest for her.
Tan and healthy-looking, trim and tall, she kept to herself and saw the sights. She hadn’t tried to meet anyone or talk with anyone on this trip. The island had so much to offer and she had brought plenty of books.
The prior evening at the Skiathos Palace, she dressed for dinner on the piazza. She dressed in turquoise and sheer flowing dress. The outfit was very short, to display her tanned, long legs. She wore strappy high-heeled sandals. They were silver. She didn’t want to have company for dinner. The maitre d’ led her to at a table of other guests and seated her with a group. He most likely thought it was for the best, the young woman to be seated with a group.
How would it look for an established hotel to have young women alone at tables for one, dressed in such a provocative style? He appreciated the style, but as his position was one of decorum, he had to seat her with a group.
The dinner seating was with Americans, and ugly they were. They dressed too casually and were too loud. She didn’t appreciate being a part of this little party. Directly after dinner, she requested a small table for one. The wait-staff accommodated her request. After all, they were Greek and had dignity. They appreciated the young woman’s preference to be alone than with an obnoxious group. She smiled a too wide, too welcoming smile to the waiter that lead her away and closer to the sea.
The sound of the waves and the night was mesmerizing. She was still bored, but at least the boredom was in a most pleasant atmosphere. The darkness of the night was opaque and velvety. The stars were not glistening at all. The stars were hidden from view, an unusual event on a summer night.
After her coffee and glikia (sweets), she decided to walk around the hotel grounds. As she moved away from the dining tables, two other young women approached her. She wasn’t offended and thought perhaps this conversation would be more entertaining than that of her dinner companions.
She was right.
One woman, blonde and petite, was chatty and soft-spoken. She said that she was from just outside of Chicago. The other woman was somewhat mousey, the dull brown hair and of medium stature and appearance. Both seemed genuine enough. They were tourists and open about their visit and touring around the Greek Islands to see as much as possible before the start of the school year. They were teachers, elementary teachers and very nice. Not interesting, but nice.
After some introductions and pleasantries, the women mentioned a Norse ship and Norseman in the bay area of the Old Town. They met him earlier in the day and were fascinated by the ship and his reclusive lifestyle. They were invited to the ship for cocktails the following afternoon and asked if she would like to join them. She did.
No qualms about going on board with strangers. What an adventure.
She went to bed, glad for this happenstance at breaking the boredom of the island. She fell asleep thinking of Norsemen and ships. She fell asleep and dreamt of the Norsemen and how they might be so far south of their homeland.
Meeting the women the following day in the hotel lobby seemed fine and easy to do. She met them and they greeted each other with enthusiasm, not so much for each other, but for the adventure that they were about to embark on. She decided to wear her swimsuit with a dress as a cover for the party. She had found a blue bikini in Athens and so, that was the choice under the dress. The dress was white, a light cotton with embroidery on the edges of the hem. The hem was uneven and had small pieces of material on the edges. It was more of a skimmer, than a dress for the city. It was fitted and sheer. She decided a scarf of blue would be a perfect accessory for the boat, or ship. Whatever, it ended up being, it was on the water. The blue scarf had tiny coins attached to the edges of material. It was gauzy and a large square of material, that she tied in a double French knot, insuring that the coins were visible. The others in the group had on sundresses with empire style high waists and sandals. She knew that she looked sleek and well-done in comparison. It was comforting.
A bare-chested man welcomed aboard. The three of them boarded the ship, which was not in the least as she had dreamed. It was much more.
The ship was of Norse design, made of wood and high polish or lacquer on the bow and sides. The front of the ship was shaped like a warrior with long, wavy hair and a large nose coinciding with the front of the ship. The entire front end was painted a bright blue and the paint melded into a turquoise colour with yellow edges and a tone of white/blue overlapping on the entire side of the vessel. It was a work of art. The ship had an appeal that the Greek sailboats did not. The romantic fantasies dancing in her mind couldn’t be resisted. The artwork and the lines of the ship were so engaging. The women were on board and looking around to get their bearings. The view of the harbor and being viewed by the tourists walking by was a break from the routine that had become a daily chore these past weeks. The evening breeze lifted their spirits and lifted them.
Their host introduced himself and surprisingly he was not from Scandinavia, but from Germany. His features looked to be German, aquiline nose and penetrating eyes. Was that German? She couldn’t decide. She knew that he wasn’t Greek or from Southern Mediterranean.
He was charming although not warm. He was gracious and the staff passed around trays of interesting appetizers and desserts. He thought it might be fun to have guests on board he told his guests. There were only ten or so people on board. It wasn’t a very large party, but a more intimate gathering. He seemed to want to tell those onboard about the ship and how he came to have it and how he designed and painted it for this journey. The details of the story again, too boring to retell. She kept thinking that being on this boat would be a diversion; however, the chatting was also routine about the host. There was little discussion about anyone else or any other subject. The purpose appeared to be to ‘show’ the ship to tourists and to entertain him by retelling his story.
After some time of small talk about the ship, the journey and the Captain, many of the guests left and went ashore. The women that invited her stayed on and were getting somewhat tipsy on wine coolers. They were funny in this state, more talkative and cheerful. She thought she’d stay and see how things developed. The small group went below deck to have a few more drinks and relax. It was surprisingly relaxing. The Captain proved to be very gracious and his hospitality included a tour and more discussion on the features of the ship and his journey from the north to the Aegean Sea. All an adventure and the sharing of that adventure seemed generous to her. How cool was all of this? She was glad to be included in the evening’s festivities. There was no major upset or any shenanigans. The people were there to enjoy and have a party. Being in the hold of the ship with total strangers should have worried her. But, the reality was that the group was all having fun and the stories were interesting.
The following morning, she decided to leave the island and return to Athens, not Boston. At least in the city, there would be plenty to do and to see. Although, she’d traveled to Greece many times before, this trip was a solo one and deserved some effort before returning to work and life with responsibilities.
She packed, checked out and after a light Greek breakfast, found a taxi to take her to the airport. She had travelled here by a Flying Cat Hydrofoils. It was an exciting experience and the best and quickest way to travel between islands. This time, the flying to Athens seemed to be reliable and also quick. She found her way to the small, gray airport terminal and found the check in for the Onassis small aircraft. The flight was delayed. Being here in the dreariness did cause some angst, as it would be preferable to be sitting in the sunshine and under a blue Greek sky. She made the best of it, and found a spot near the gate to settle in and wait for her flight. She had no way of knowing that flight would be five hours late. Even for the Greek time of casual lateness in schedules, a five hour delay was unusual. She sat and read for an hour or so, had a coffee, well, at the airport it’s a Nescafe at best. She tried to entertain herself and after another hour, started a conversation with an Australian man, also waiting. He was her age, had a backpack and was tired of waiting. They started to talk, but he was reticent and didn’t have much to say beyond the obvious waiting on the flight and being delayed. She tried to get him engaged with some discussion, maybe of his trip so far. He was not well-versed in having social graces. He smiled a lot, but no deal with passing the time talking together.
She was disappointed, and oh, so bored.
Giving up any hope of a connection, his friend returned to sit with him. Ha, she thought, his friend. And so, she introduced herself to the friend. He was not as handsome, but did shake her hand and seem pleased to meet her and talk about not Australia, but Afrika, where he was from and lived most of his life. He was actually from Swaziland. He was tall, dark and had a magnificent moustache. It was hard to see his mouth under the moustache, so she couldn’t really describe his mouth. He had so much to tell, about his country and his life. They ended up sitting on the floor, leaning against his backpack. His friend roamed around the area, but didn’t join them.
His name was Mario and he was Greek-Afrikan. She had never heard of such a combination, nor thought about it. She hoped that he didn’t see her as an ugly American. She tried her best to be sociable, interested and interesting. She tried to pay attention to what he was saying. It wasn’t hard to do, as she thought he was a wonderful storyteller. He was entertaining without being silly. The time began to fly by as they continued to talk about themselves and then the politics of Greece and their respective countries. It was as much fun as she’d had in weeks. And to think it was fun in a dreary airport, sitting on a dingy floor.
There were a few passengers also waiting and some were Greek and others European. They were becoming just background noise, as the discussion between the two of them became more intimate. The hours passed and the connection between them intensified. It did due to the commonality that they shared. The heritage and culture of Greeks that were expatriates and longing to know more about their roots was strong for both. Each of them had come to Greece for many reasons, but also to be with their relatives and their people. Both felt so strong about who they were and wanting to know more about their history.
The discussion also turned to politics. Their knowledge of Greek politics was not as well-versed as that of their own countries. Mario had fled Cyprus at a young age, and then his family followed him to Afrika, after he had lived there with his grandparents for a few years. He was brought up by a Nanny, a native woman that was the one to nurture him as a child. He told her it was part of the culture to have a Nanny and to learn and be with them throughout childhood.
Just as their connection was becoming more, the intercom announced the flight. Both of them found seats, unassigned for this short island hop over to Athens. His friend walked towards them and joined in the movement towards the gate. On board, the friend sat next to her and so, she was crunched in at the window seat with a person between her and Mario. The conversation had ended so abruptly, and they returned to posturing of being polite travelers, only.
They were back in Athens and the landing bumpy, but safe. As the group disembarked, she heard her name.
“Katerina, come my koukla (darling).” She cringed. She forgot, since being on Skiathos for three weeks that her boyfriend was even in Athens. He was smiling and held wildflowers in one hand and was waving with both. She didn’t return the smile, but kept her head down and tried to manage her baggage. She so much wanted to speak with Mario. She tried to maneuver over to him. His friend was blocking her way, and he looked up, smiled and wished her well. The moment had passed.
“Funny, how a moment in time passes and closes off a chance. Closing off a chance for happiness?” She wondered.
Everyone was leaving the area, and she did find her boyfriend. He was from Athens and they had only been together for a month before she left for Skaithos. He was working and living his life, and was unable to join in on the island. Time passed, and her infatuation had faded. Here he was, and she felt some annoyance at his unexpected presence. How did he know she’d be on this flight? Well, she had felt lonely and called him from the hotel on the island when she decided to return to the city. Her poor judgment ruined a possible romance.
C’est dommage!

January 2010 -

2010-01-14T18:08:00.000-08:00

Just home from Vermont and fooling around with finding books of interest, as the Chair at Bunker Hill called to assign a section of Eng 111 which is another prep as I already teach 095 –developmental and 112 – research this spring. Wandering on Abelbooks, noticed James Salter mentioned & great to see my old friend. I was turned on to Salter late rather than early in life, one summer at a class in Modernism/Post-Modernism. The book list for that term was exciting, including Beckett and Kafka & the discussions, ones that I looked forward to all week. Salter, started out with Sport & Pastime. I used some of his work the following semester at Bridgewater State College & realized that perhaps the subject matter was too juicy for Freshman, although they wrote reflective essays & seemed fine sharing their thoughts. It was the most up-close & personal class that I’ve taught, that one group.
I am finishing up The Children’s Hour-Byatt & recalling that this type of novel is my favorite kick-back read. Very much looking forward to Larrsen’s work, as I am guessing it will most closely follow my own writing. Larrsen may be the ‘one’ that most follows a process that I’ve been looking for in terms of integrating mystery and politics and social justice thesis.
The Dean at MassBay called last night to assign one more Eng 101 & I contacted the bookstore to assign the students Farenheit 450 – Bradbury. I am looking forward to re-reading this one and hearing the discussion of the classroom in terms of events in our present society. These classes at BHCC consist of students who are highly motivated & planning on getting themselves out of the hood. I support their efforts and find them more engaging than students at the private four year college where I taught. The BHCC is progressive and the students engage with the materials presented in a thoughtful and real way. The Chair of English invited Adjuncts to a Conference & the long & short of it was that I met Robert Bly and Donald Hall, talking w/ Bly for quite a while which I appreciate and revel and the chance. Having been a feminist prior to the term being used and having parents who supported my intellectual independence and pursuits from a young age, my development as a free spirit and thoughtful person without regard to gender still comes in play, surprisingly, when faculty or students perceive one image and question a female role in the mix. I brought up two sons, solo and can be definitive in the premise that gender-neutral and being central on the individual is the only way. The child or person’s interests and self-image is the ‘it’, not whether or not someone is male or female. I loved talking with Bly and I really feel it was mutual, as he focused on identity and ran with it, as did I. What a bonne chance to have moments of clarity and purpose of ideas.

Christmas Is Coming, The Goose is Getting Fat

2009-12-14T17:13:00.001-08:00

Won't you please put a penny in the Old Man's Hat, If you haven't got a penny, a half a penny will do. If you haven't gotta a half a penny, God Bless You!"
Review of Charles Dickens "A Christmas Carol" - By J.K. Cosmos

The chorus of Christmas Carols and the themed dress of the Actors began before the audience even got to their seats. Bravo! The tone is set. The historically correct costumes, and then arriving in the theater, seeing the stage so well set was the beginning of a Christmas treat!

Dicken's play is a classic and, for many, a tradition. The production of this well-loved play is a challenge; the challenge being keeping it fresh and new. Keeping it interesting! This production conveyed the plot, engaged the audience and was entertaining, to boot!

The old Dodger, yes, Scrooge, had a great presence and Paul D. Farwell, who played the lead, did so without over-shadowing the others. His rendition of Scrooge was on the money. Farwell had the modulated voice, the accent and the energy to bring the audience in; to keep us there with him through the mundane at his office and the magical with the spirits. He was fun and really gave a great performance.

Edward M. Barker, playing Bob Cratchit, also enlightened the audience. How so? Well, his presentation showed love of family, his wife and others in the community in a most endearing and sweet way. His interpretation of Cratchit was one of a man with some sense of self; his identity was less pathetic than is sometimes portrayed in films. I thought his rendition of Cratchit was very effective.

The Actors in supporting roles, belted it out. The dialogue was true to the plot, to the story-line and to the essence of what makes Dickens a master dramatist.

Kudos to the Director, Bridget Kathleen O'Leary! Her vision and tweaking of this classic made it a not to miss play for the season.

Not to miss a beat, the setting and costumes of the spirits and the magic is just phenomenal! Congrats to Peter Colao and Christine Alger; Scenic & Costume design respectively. This Team effort brings an exceptional play to the New Rep!

Bravo & A Standing 'O'.

Poet Laureates/Bly & Hall

2009-11-14T13:52:00.000-08:00

Listening to the banter between friends. Friends that happen to be the very best of the US; friends & a conversation between Robert Bly & Donald Hall. A privilege and a blessing. They both graciously read some poems and I listened. The words and sentiments easy and true. When will my writing mirror the energy of these creative people?

In line and waiting on them, the briefest of moments to have a conversation. Hall generous with his comments; well done.

Bly - a gaze penetrating and a knowing something/something.

He asked: "What are you writing?"

I thought, 'Did I tell him that I'm writing?'

Bly, "I wish you well on your writing."

Thanking him I kept my 'good eye' on him as I moved away, making room for the next fan of his poetry, his life's work. Moving away, I kept a good eye on him and to my surprise, he kept a good eye on me.

Checking the signature in the book of poems, he had personalized it with my name. "Did I tell him my name?" I knew that I had not. I didn't provide him with any personal information. None at all. I know that, having been in line for Donald Hall - first & told that only autographs of the book were being given, today.

I am a very good student, to a fault. Literal. Too literal.

Bly took my name off of my name tag on a string around my neck. Actually, looked at a name tag to sign my name and his on the book of poetry.

Yes, today I question the 'Why?'
Yes, today I answer with the biggest of reasons. I am a writer.
I am meant to write.

Another writer recognized me today.
Another writer affirmed my mission, my life's work.

The writer giving the affirmation is a Poet Laureate & his name is Robert Bly.

Mamet 'Speed-the-Plow"

2009-10-22T05:51:00.000-07:00

Mad Men vibe and fast paced talk compels the audience and presents a 'Must See' production at the New Rep. With Mamet, there are expectations and they were met and then some in Watertown.

Robert Pemberton as "Bobby" with his exceptional accent not to be under-estimated when most of Hollywood only pretends to be from a particular venue. Pemberton convinces us and he readily draws us in to his point of view. Pemberton shines in this role.

The play between him and Gabriel Kuttner exceptional. Kuttner is believable as Charlie Fox and as 'everyman' who is loyal and 'true blue' to the powers that run the show and the 'friends' that tantalize and promise a leg up.

Kuttner reflects that man and humanity's attempts to move ahead at any cost in his role as Fox. He understands the game plan and reminds the audience and more crucially his pal, Bobby Gould.

To take the top off, the play has a fight scene. The sudden burst of violence and blood presents another level of Mamet at his best. Director Robert Walsh deserves kudos for the entire production. Walsh transitions the scenes and directs the actors to lead us through the phases of it all; no small feat with this play.

The pivotal conflict is dramatized effectively; both sweetly and purposefully by Aimee Doherty. Her role as Karen is the rub and she moves as an ingenue and a femme fatale. Who knew Karen (Doherty) would have this effect? Doherty plays her hand close and the audience appreciates how she develops this part.

The Actors, the action, the play - exceptional!

Reviewed - J.K. Cosmos - New Rep Reviewer

2.5 Minute Ride - Review for New Rep Theater

2009-10-07T20:35:00.001-07:00

Lisa Kron has a hit featuring Adrianne Krstansky. Kron keeps the pace and engages the audience without any dead space. The initial scene may have been perplexing, as Lisa, played by Krstansky, takes us on the journey and the ride, uses a pointer on a blank screen. The sound of the clicking slides, the red dot on a blank screen, all very effective. It gave the audience pause and allowed them to fill in the blank space, the white space, to create the scene based on the language of the production, not the visuals. It reminded me of art appreciation classes as an undergrad and the use of the white space, rather than color on the screen lead to images and use of my imagination. Nicely done.

Krstansky gave an energetic and well-paced performance with humor and some ironic twists. She evoked emotion and illicited a recognition in us and an empathy that crosses ethnic lines. The traditions and cultural descriptions in the dialogue transcend the Jewish experience, as many peoples identify with much of the play.

The acting was up close and personal; there is no other way to say it. The outlook despite tragedies in life, remains optimistic and positive. Who knew? I didn't expect the joi de vivre that came across despite some horrific recollections in the piece.

One short story of a German boy, who chose not to join the war and not to join the Nazi Party and his courage to be his own person resonated for me and was one of the thesis components of the play. Lisa's father feeling lucky to be Jewish, so as not to have to make a decision to choose a Nazi uniform or to decline; very poignant.

Krstansky stayed in character and moved us through the events of her life; of Lisa's life. It was fabulous!

Connections, cycles..

2009-10-06T18:28:00.000-07:00

Started out talking about social justice with 25 plus students at 7 AM in the city & it was enlightening...issues about abuse of power, fairness and value of education, of particular jobs..this next generation gives pause in their ideals, and their aspirations to make things better...and, yes, it does sound familiar. The familiarity of 1968, 1969 and the days of lazy haze and very grandiose ideas.

Reading, Eric Erikson, Gandhi..non-violent resistence, social justice again...the theme, the thread of an idea all day..

Readings by Rebecca Brown and the nostalgia, the energy of the day, the lectures, the readings and the discussion with very young students resonates in Rebecca's work, her words and her pull on dreams gone by....poignant!

Exhausting, bone-weary but very glad for the day, the discussions, the edgy-ness of the next generation, the ones that I am privileged to exchange ideas with and share my perceptions. Perpceptions of my own youth, and their youth and the connections and cycles....they are all good.

Mr Roberts - Times Gone By

2009-09-16T18:01:00.001-07:00

My expectations were not high for this WW II production, until noticing the actors in the play, actors who would surely carry the day and the move the production forward with energy & virve.
The play did not energize. The 'set up' was too long and dragged. The play was so dated, which can be a strength for any creative piece. For this one, it was simplistic and simple-minded, much like the plot. The plot didn't move along nor did it engage the audience. There was no character development. Giving the benefit of the doubt, I cannot recommend this one and am trying to find a redeeming quality.
The setting did reflect the place, however, the actors footsteps echoed and was so loud as to drown out dialogue.
Owen Doyle is one of the actors I had hoped would pull this one up & succeed. Owen is a gifted performer and his work in Lapin Agile at the New Rep was extraordinary. Similar kudos to Ross MacDonald, a most phenomenal performance in Exits & Entrances & together with Curt Klump, exellent work in The Lieutenenat of Insishmore.
The lead for Mr. Roberts, Thomas Piper, has solid credentials and this reviewer has not seen prior to this role. I look forward to seeing the cast in other local performances. Unfortunately, they were unable to pull this one off successfully.

US Senator Ted Kennedy - 1932 - 2009

2009-08-26T09:19:00.000-07:00

Ted Kennedy, an inspiration & visionary, a person of means, who viewed public service as meaningful for the betterment of society. Peace

Community..

2009-07-06T12:15:00.000-07:00

of Writers, people of like-mind. A gift and a chance to re-energize. Having just been a part of such a community, my writing and commitment to get the words on paper has been re-booted, again.

What does writing and sharing thoughts mean to me. Everything! Having left a lucrative law practice to follow my desire to write and to have ideas out in the world, this is an attempt to do it well. This is the push to move it forward. This is the opportunity to share the experiences, to give the 'word' to others, to move it forward...nice & easy or with expletives. Either way, I'm here & you're here. Let's commit to work toward the better and to be enlightened about what that is. Let's find joy and love!
Peace...love & light! jk

Epitaphio

2009-05-29T08:36:00.000-07:00

April 17, 1971 – Epitaphio – Cambridge, Massachusetts
Deep blue robes with dark folds,
Dark black hair—curling round his neck.
Penetrating blue eyes—absorbing all,
Alone—the only person in focus
As all the masses fade out in a blur.
The heavy Christ-tomb on his broad back,
His hunched shoulders bearing His burden,
The others hardly grasping on, as
He leads them forward-progressing onward.
The ceremony, gold-robes-candles glowing-
Ornaments – incense-jewels-chanting-
trivia!

Stepping off the curb, with nine young girls
Nearby-sirens sounded-
Trucks screeched by- as I held on to
Three crying, frightened children-
Girls in white-angels-pure and mild and lonely
Crying children….
My candle out- and up to look and see with
Tears in my eyes his shoulders
Bearing the entire tomb of Christ, as
It tipped- and surely Christ held on
With one gentle nudge – as the masses
Swelled and children cried and the
Engines roared—unnoticed he balanced
The tomb – directed the youth and
The ceremonies continued with the chanting
Of the dignitaries; the bishop and priest –
How everyone repeats them –
He does – I do, too, for Him.

Spring...is Coming! 2009

2009-03-17T18:56:00.000-07:00

The term spins by and the writing and reading has a beat of its own. Students' concerns and worries over grades, exit exams and reviews, all signs of spring. The routine of winter wonder and snow, ice and the crisp air that has a feel of cold, of coldness and of stark grey-ness...melting.

The assist at theater productions and concerts, all fun and easy-breezy. The connections with old friends and new, bring a renewed sense of purpose, if only to lighten the load of another.

Waiting on the buds on the trees and the flowers peeking through the sod and greening and colouring the small garden near the kitchen window.

Renewal and joy! Spring and Easter Season...the Aha moments!

The Bride (Fiction Piece) Ongoing Project

2009-01-02T20:28:00.000-08:00

Fear, she wouldn’t have imagined the coldness and immobility of being fearful. How could the love turn around so quickly with such violence?
The courting and romancing ended at the wedding ceremony. Her husband was rude and curt at the reception with her and the guests. His only focus was getting high with a few of his friends. Her groom was handsome, blonde, blue eyes and tall. He was so perfect on paper.
Moving around the ballroom the bride greets their guests, alone. She is alone, again despite the marrying part. She is holding up the beautiful satin train of her gown, and stepping lightly in the most elegant heeled close-toed shoes, the step with the shoes feeling like royalty and changing the walk to more of a glide. How lovely the movement in the gown and with the shoes.
The music played a soft jazz selection and the wait-staff moved through the ballroom, giving a tone of a lifetime movie feature. And yet, she knew in her heart that the trimmings and the planning for the wedding wouldn’t make it all wonderful. The Groom remains a nasty person, someone without dignity and certainly someone without any respect or love for her.
He prefers to do lines of coke with his buddies in the adjoining room, rather than be by her side and dance and talk with family. He has made it clear that he has distain for the family that has come to share in their wedding day.
The childish dreams of her wedding day crushed in a moment. His spin remained that the drugs and the coke up his nose so much more important than making a commitment to each other. So, why would she continue with this farce? And, why would she cover up his bad behavior at the wedding and reception with their friends. She continues to think that she can make it better. She knows that she can help him be the best person possible. She is so naïve and she continues to believe that she can get him into recovery and back to the loving person that he seems to want to be.
The reality, as she now knows, is that a person delving into the drug scene is not going to work to get away from the ‘high’. The person drugging and partying is committed to a lifestyle and not going to leave it behind to be ‘straight’.
She dreams of an alternative life, one of love and joy! She realizes that her reality is one of fear, drugs, waste and anger. Her husband works when it suits him for money for his habit, not for them. She work to pay the bills and to keep the household going. She resents him.
The resentment turns to pure hatred. She wishes that he would not come home. She wishes so hard that he will stay away from her. He is a lousy, selfish lover. He is a childish husband. He is not a friend. In fact, as the days wear on, he is her enemy. He is pure evil.
Where does he go, when he leaves home in the morning and doesn’t return until the early hours of the following day? Who are the people that hang on his every word and cater to his whims?
Her wandering thoughts meander to other women’s marriages. How many young women are covering up for the bad behavior of their handsome and childish husbands? She keeps wondering about other women’s lives and she thinks that perhaps there are many that suffer. Suffering in silence was not part of the bargain. She would never imagine becoming ‘that suffering, victimized woman’.
One night she asks him something about what he’d like for dinner. He lashes out at her and throws a glass piggy bank, her childhood trinket, across the room directly at her. It misses her head. She flinches and it hits the wall, breaking.
Her childhood bank is shattered against the wall and onto the kitchen floor. Perhaps, she should have stayed at work. Perhaps, she should stay away to avoid these confrontations. She begins to cry and then louder. She must leave the room, so not to be in his way. She leaves the room, but not the house to stay out of danger’s way. Her husband is the danger. Why didn’t she know?
That night, as she lay in bed, her husband comes into the room and turns on the overhead light. Then he turns on the bed lamp and finds his pistol in his night stand. He loads the pistol and tells her to get up out of the bed. He says that he wants to show her how to use the gun so that she can defend herself, just in case someone breaks into the house. He takes the gun and pulls her out of the bed. She refuses and tells him that they can look at the gun tomorrow. He insists. He is holding her under her arms and lifts her up and out of the bed. She is out of the bed and standing in a swoop of his effort to get her out of that bed.
She is standing next to the bed in her nightgown, naked underneath and vulnerable. She is so vulnerable that it feels like a dream. Her husband pulls her around so that her back is against his chest. He holds that gun in one hand over her shoulder. He is showing her the open gun so that she can see the bullets, up close.
She thinks that she should be shaking, but she is resigned to having a crazy, drug-ridden husband. He keeps saying that he just wants to show her. He presses her fingers around the butt of the gun. Actually, it’s a pistol, he corrects her misinformation. He tells her in her ear, slow and hushed that he found the gun and rubbed off the numbers of this pistol, just for her. He tells her that it’s called a ‘throw-away’. It is an untraceable weapon.
A ‘throw-away’ pistol in their bedroom and he has her around the neck. He has her in a position where only her fingerprints are on the gun. If she is shot, he will tell the police that she shot herself, that she was depressed. This is not far from the truth, a half-truth, as she is depressed having married this horrid man. He has manipulated the facts, but then again, the truth may be that he has manipulated her. She is the successful lawyer with the beautiful home, and he is not. She is the person with the skill and the reputation in the profession, and he has nothing. He is a joke and not skilled at all.
She does not have the will to live, let alone to love anyone. She is not able to think clearly and she has no reason to get through her day. She is lonely and alone. She is sick and bone-weary and tired of living.
Fear, the fear becomes a reality later in the marriage. The fear and aloneness is something that builds up over time and once in her life settles in so that she feels that she can never survive. If she survives, will she ever feel joy? If she survives, will she wish that she didn’t and wish that the gun did go off that night? Will she be the one that is resilient and tells this story? Or, will she be the one that ends up a murder victim? Or, will she be the one that is the perpetrator of a murder?

Performing Arts & Nostalgia..

2009-01-02T20:07:00.000-08:00

December 31, 2008
Beyonce singing 'The Way We Were' for Barbara Streisand at the NY Performing Arts Center had me sobbing so hard that I could barely hear the song. Close up on 'Barbara' and not a tear! How stoic of her to listen and have her neutral face on national television -- a face without emotion.

For me, sitting on my quilt, the pillows propped on the bed--I gasped and cried aloud, without shame.

Hubbell-that beautiful Robert Redford, gently leading his lady to a life of ease, of love. She wouldn't have any of it and moved forward for social justice and for her own independence, self-reliance and meaningful support of those unable to speak for themselves. The way we were...I couldn't breath..I recognized Barbara's character and the pathos of the her choices, love and life--changing society and helping others.

So crying hard for the film and for myself, I tried to hear the words as Beyonce belted it out with renewed vigor and youth. Youth and idealism and years passing life to what significant goal. Study and discussions, talking and listening to what end? A lifetime of ideals and hopes to make a change for naught?

My teary eyes filled up again, as I realized the film and my life choices overlapped, parallel story-lines.

Robert Frost's poetry on choices and the path not taken, making all the difference. What difference? And to whom? Does the effort and painful choices really matter? Would a position as a CPA be just as meaningful, helping clients with taxes?

Did my parents and professors lead me to a path of ever-circular challenges and never-ending struggles? They did and I cannot decide whether to thank or curse them.

A Dream Begins...

2008-07-20T12:16:00.000-07:00

A dream begins
with a voice within
that is calling you forth to a goal
When you answer that voice
you engage in the start
of a wonderful dance of the soul.

As you follow your dreams,
may you find that they lead
to a new place that's only the start
Of a whole way of living
each day to the fullest
with passion and joy in the heart.

Fighter Pilot

2008-04-19T10:19:00.000-07:00

Fighter Pilot

Thinking about the War, Vietnam that is.. doesn’t always suggest one of terror and fighting. Sometimes it is about the comradie and the pure joy of flying, which resonates for some. I knew a fighter pilot and he told me his story. He fought in Vietnam, and he flew his fighter planes in Vietnam. He felt most alive in his fighter jet; his very being intertwined with that of flying and maneuvering that plane.

He thought about the times of flights for strategy; flights on Orders. How time blurs the lines of recollection, he thought. Youth and idealism lead him to join the military. The skills required to fly the fighter planes was natural for him; having been a child and teenager with energy to spare, with curiosity and with a love of life.

Tall, glib and dimpled, Pete was just the guy for action. Civilian life was a long thud; nothing. A 9 to 5 job would have killed him; the flying gave him a life. Reeling from the action, the adrenaline pumping and the energy optimum; he returned home. Home where only a mother and sister could give some sense of comfort and relief. Pete knew he was so ready for the r& r in the States. He packed his belongs & stored them; threw the duffle bag over his broad shoulder and went home.
His mother was a simple woman, always dependent on her husband, who had passed a year ago. She depended now on her daughter. ‘Ma, I’m home.’ ‘Wipe your feet, Peter.’ She answered. ‘You look sweaty and your messing up the entry.’ ‘Come in and put the stuff somewhere out of sight.’

After 18 months of combat, his mother’s statements were true to form. Cold, distant and judgmental. ‘Well,’ he thought, ‘nothing’s changed. Even fighting a war; flying combat. Mother just doesn’t ‘get it’.

Disappointing, yes. Unexpected; no.

Peter took his things up to his childhood room, but found it was now a den. He left his duffle and thought he’d try again with mother.

Attempting conversation, Peter thought he could at least have a civil conversation with her. He was going to look pleasant and try again. In the kitchen, for good measure, his sister was sitting on the counter; feet dangling, scowling at him. Twenty-two and she still stays on with mother, and she remains child-like and needy. Her greeting was short; not so sweet. ‘How long are you planning to stay?

Will you be going back on assignment soon?’ Pamela said.

‘Should be going tomorrow, so don’t sweat it, Pam.’

Peter decided at that moment that he would go stay with his grandmother. He called her that evening; and was welcome. An old woman would be the one that would give him the respite and comfort he so longed for on this homecoming.

He settled in the third floor attic room and although small and musty; it was just fine. Pete was satisfied.

Sunshine and blue skies; crisp air and the noises of a neighborhood, the USA..Welcome home. He thought he’d rest and talk with his grandmother; only to receive a message to call the base. He was needed at Camp Edwards, and off again to ‘serve’, after less than 48 hours home.

Arriving at the Camp on old Cape Cod, he thought about a girl he knew; a girl with eyes and a smile to last a lifetime. He had flown over the beach that she sunned on, having told her the night before that he would be doing maneuvers in the area. He knew that she’d be squinting upward and giving a wave to her ‘fly-boy’. Later, when the made love at a small cottage nearby, she confirmed that ‘yes’ she knew it was his plane and waved upward under the high noon sun. That knowledge of the bikini clad girl on the beach and the jet-power flying overhead…lead them to renewed and passionate lovemaking.

Now, driving down the Cape, crossing the bridge..the air changed, the smell of pine and sand and surf; the ocean…all exuberating. He thought of the girl, his mother, sister and grandmother; all the women in his life. He tried not to think about Vietnam, the male-dominated world of sheer force, violence and death.
The mission was significant. He was ready for the task; if the Soviets moved forward in Vietnam, he would fly from Kiev and drop a bomb on Moscow. Suicide-mission? Not necessarily. Pete was the best; still the best. He could fly in drop the bomb & be back with his team.

Driving homeward, he thought again about young love and possibilities.
Letting himself in to Grandmother’s he noticed the kitchen in disarray and the silence was noticeably not the norm. Entering quickly, Pete saw her knocked down to the floor and blood oozing from the back of her head. He felt her pulse & called for emergency.

This didn’t appear to be a fall and blow to the head. It looked like someone was with her and decided to knock her out; perhaps kill her. She was struggling to hang on to life. Peter thought this incident was too close to his new Orders to fly over Moscow. It seemed too close to his coming home and he thought he should ask some questions on his own; beyond what the police may or may not do. An investigation was warranted. Peter knew that he had to find out the source of this attack in his family.

Peter called one of his Pilot friends, also in the area. ‘Let’s meet over at the Plough & Stars..Yeah, on Mass Ave; near Central Square.’ Yes, Lenny. Meet you at 9:00. Fine.’ Peter thought setting up a meet for a drink was awfully difficult; what’s going on. Why would Lenny hesitate to come along to meet for a drink.
Plough & Stars, a Pub of some ill-repute, on a major drag, but still known for the hard-drinking beyond the state’s 1:00AM close-time. Going there after hours wouldn’t be for the poetry-readings or philosophizing; it would be for the hard & meaningful drink and entry into oblivion, at least for a night. Students, professors, and townies coexisted there. Peter noticed Lenny at the entry and waved him over.

‘Hey, so how’s the family? So, how are you doing.’ Lenny started with empty words.
‘Never-mind, that bull. What’s going on with my Orders? Who, exactly, knows about my meeting at Camp Edwards, today?’

‘What Orders? I just settled in and have been with my wife and kid. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Lenny protested. He tried to be a buddy; Peter knew him too well and knew he’d be the weak link, if anything was going on that lead to his grandmother’s attack.

‘Com’on let’s order a drink.’ The beer on the counter, they settled in to talk.

First Person Narrative/Recollection of Father

2008-01-02T14:09:00.000-08:00

Entering the musty office area, I see the ashtray filled with cigarette butts and ashes. The smell of the ashtray permeates the room. The cheaply made pineboard walls seem not only damp, they seem uneven and warped on the walls. Usually, this office is energized with workmen. Workmen looking for the unskilled laborers' jobs that he can give them. Their strong coffee in styrofoam cups and smoke filling the room, along with boisterous talks of past jobs, and future dreams. The men are from different countries and the sounds are overlapping languages, as he enjoys the action, the clatter of lifestyles, and the hope that he may bring to these men.

I enjoy hearing about the jobs, and the teams that work on them. I am glad to see him in his workboots, and plaid wool shirt, cigarette balanced in the familiar ashtray, with a mold of an eagle on the edge of the tray. I can imagine him in this office, and in his space, with the lumber piled up on one side, and the tools and nails in smaller piles around the room. On Fridays, he treats the men to a case of beer, and this generousity of sharing beer is so reflective of his nature. As educated as he is, the boots, the shirt and the loud discussions give the workers a secure and happy environment to vent some problems. Not too many problems, and not anything of personal significance. That seems to be the unwritten, but agreed rule of the place.

I walk around the office, peering out at the traffic on this busy street, and listening to the neighborhood noises, the quietness of the abutting families' evening routines.

Five years ago, his office was an executive corner office downtown, and the workers wore dark suits, white shirts and ties, as did he. Now the point for him seems to be to give these guys work, hope, and maybe a beer now and then, and to show that he, too, can be part of the comradie.

The carpet is worn, and the colour not discernable. It was never really any colour in particular. He didn’t care about things, and he decided to shuck the elaborate encumbrances of executive life to work at a closer and more personal level with the community.

I notice the renderings of the most interesting project that he dreamed of and accomplished in this community, the “Plant A Tree Project”. The renderings are so professional, that they could be part of the downtown scene. Who would guess the significance as they leaned on a sander in the corner of this room. The project has been accepted by the politicians, not just local guys, but also the big pols in DC. Sure, he got Kennedy to sign onto this inner city beautification program, and also the funding to plant the trees throughout the community, to beautify the city, and give hope to the people, struggling to make ends meet.

White shirt - plaid wool shirt, tie - open collar/no tie, dress shoes - workboots, at least the smile, the cigarettes, the ashtray and the glib, fast talking guy remain the same.

How much of this is me? How much of the talk the talk; and walk the walk has been inherited and is part of me? I am proud and I am glad that he is someone who has taught me some of the truths of life and living; and people’s aspirations and hope.

Dreams of a fourteen year old girl....

2007-12-21T20:44:00.002-08:00

Thinking about dreams, I had when I was fourteen, I wished for the time I would go to Afrika & help the villagers, by bringing them books to learn to think about more than their tiny community. To bring them ideas and the words to speak more aptly--more descriptively about their feelings, their experiences & about their aspirations. I read about the Peace Corps & I really couldn't wait to grow up & join the workers -- going to those under-developed countries--to pass out the boxes of food, to set up the tents & to teach the Afrikans about some philosophical truths & enable them to record their own. I dreamt of helping people with no voice--express themselves. Sometimes I dreamt about being a drummer in a band, though.

The Hellenic Voice - Published Article 11/14/07

2007-11-23T11:19:00.000-08:00

Mario Frangoulis Celebrates an Amor Concert

- Cambridge, MA - The Greek Institute sponsored a presentation of Mario Frangoulis in concert on October 28 at Harvard University's Sanders Hall. The energy level along with the delight of the concert-goers was phenomenal. Frangoulis, a tenor with the ability to perform with a powerful energy and passion in Greek, English, Spanish and French, pleased the crowd with his songs and brough down the house with several encores.
His admirers were vocal in their admiration of him and requested songs. His good-nature and ability to move to serious themes reflects a well-earned reputation of the consummate professional.
The concert included lyrics from poems of Federico Garcia Lorca, a revered poet and dramatist from Spain, and the songs the passion of the concert, reflected Frangoulis' power and energy; that is Greek. He enlightened and moved his audience.
The concert included Theodore Economou of Athens on piano, who is one of the primary creative partners with the tenor. Also performing was Robert Curtis, violin; John Damian, guitar; Lydios Blendi Dhamis, bass; Rod Ferland, flute/carinet; Panagiotis Liaropoulis of Athens, keyboards; Ricardo Monzon, percussion; Anthony Pentikis, bouzoukia; and John Ramsay, drums.
The concert hall filled with music an poetry was presented with sponsorshop of Demetra Anangnostopouls and Vassilios Karabetas, the Behrakis Foundation, the Costas and Mary Maliotis Charitable Foundation, Peter J. Tamis, President and the Alexander S. Onassis Public Benefit Foundation, NYC.
Frangoulis will be a featured performer at the November 16 benefit for Boston homeless at the Strand Theater.

Doctor Zhivago..years later!

2007-11-23T10:54:00.000-08:00

The question was..What is your favorite book & why? Okay, two questions..then the group was given..perhaps ten minutes to write. Write all about it.
From deep within, this exercise illicited the following:

Pasternak's 'Doctor Zhivago' has been an important book in my literary life. ( I read it on the recommendation of my mother, one summer in the sixties). The main character's conflict with living his life and writing poetry against the backdrop of major political changes in Russian remains an exceptional reading experience & one which I still empathize and identify with.

Dr. Zhivago had a talent; writing poetry, however, he was also a medical doctor. His angst with his creativity and training in a profession, trying to chose and trying to do both well...is amazing to me. I was so atuned to his perspective in this novel...I felt that I was him & didn't want the book to end.

I have always enjoyed Russian literature; the emeshing of philosophy, spiritual & political movements with the individual choices of men. Zhivago is a Russian derivative of 'life' & as in the movie 'Z' the energy, passion & pathos of humanity..moves the spirit.

(to be continued)

Words of Thanks

2007-11-23T10:50:00.000-08:00

'Each new morning with its light,
for rest & shelter of the night,
for health & food,
for love & friends,
for everything thy goodness sends.'

Ralph Waldo Emerson
Thanksgiving 2007 - Family Prayer

Favorites..Not An Easy Task

2007-10-20T08:54:00.000-07:00

Blue skies, Blue waves, white sand, writing, moving forward, reading, strawberries, blueberries, strong coffee, smiling eyes, big smiles, yellow labs with sloppy everything & wagging tails, a quick step, a tall guy, a passionate kiss.

Dreaming..

2007-10-06T09:10:00.000-07:00

that I am rushing to somewhere, with a canvas bag full of books, a handbag full of stuff...too many handles & straps, & fast walk, gait almost a run. How am I doing so far? Am I rushing to somewhere important? The term is just a rush, of classes, different campuses, students eager to please, to write. But for now, I am walking fast in a crowd; some sitting on the edges & some standing..talking; few walking, perhaps a few walking. I am trying to squeeze through a space of the walkers & one's sitting on high, wooden stools.

The handbag strap caught on someone; being pulled back sharply & trying to dis-engage. The person has a goatee, some grey & white & black mixed in..thinning hair, relaxing posture; repose, really. He's smiling but not a lot. He's caught with the strap, or is it that I'm caught by him being attached to it. Not sure, but now I am unable to walk my fast walk, and move myself to wherever I am going. I have to stop, am I stopping or am I just in a limbo that only happens in dreams. Then again, the term has been on such a fast pace, I'm still not sure if I'm asleep..dreaming or awake...in a haze.

He seems amused and takes the strap away from his body to hand back to me. I like his relaxed aura and his amusement; but feel obligated to move on, to continue the fast pace and the frenetic movement of an energy that I'm not quite feeling. This frame freeze vanishes, and I'm on an escalator; yes, still bogged down with stuff and bags & books and too much weight. Weighted down and weightier than I've ever been, how is this happening; when did it happen. The escalator takes forever, I do have somewhere to be, somewhere where I'm expected. Expected to talk, to share, to entertain the students, the administration, the Department.

And my desires, my aspirations ..long forgotten. How do I return to the man with the goatee, on the wooden stool smiling with a healthy sense of self. How do I become more like him?

Moving off of the escalator, now in full head-to-toe sheer turquiose, light and billowy material; dressed in veils and golden coins and chains and movement is now with joy.

Dancing, moving, music, sheer-ness...not weighted. Hips gyrating and light, lightness...scent of the exotic..dancing. The man with the goatee, standing tall, watching and smiling as I dance. Oh, joy!

Juicy...

2007-10-05T18:38:00.000-07:00

yeah, gossip..talking the talk & relishing the fun facts about faculty & maybe about administrators. No harm done, no foul. Just a little talking about things.

Being in a funk; feeling blue...how can that be more than a whisp of a breeze..as now we talk & have a chuckle. Fun being old enough to know better & still able to share a tidbit of easy gossip.

Quiet Time...

2007-10-05T18:35:00.001-07:00

& being still. My son has a moment to talk with me, as we drive to Brighton. I am there to support him. I am with him to be the parent that I always knew that I would be...non-judgemental, approachable...& kind. I hope he sees me this way.

So, here we are ..and later,
Yes, later I take him to one of my favorite haunts...the Burger Joint in Harvard Square, where the din & the noise-level give an illusion of being in the 'thick of it'. Are we?

It's enjoyable, it's fun.
Walking in the Square, talking & walking...easy.

A Thought on a Humid Day!

2007-10-05T18:32:00.000-07:00

A Thought on a Humid Day!

The phone was ringing..too late at night to be social. My son’s voice on the other end, ‘hey, Mom!’.

‘What’s wrong, honey!’

‘Nothing. Just wanted you to know that I invited the Soccer team over for a Pasta Dinner on Friday! Everyone’s psyched.’

‘Okay. So, how many athletes coming along?’

‘Well, including the coaches, about thirty guys. And, I told them about your home-made speghetti sauce & meatballs, so you can’t buy them.’ ‘Okay!’

‘My pleasure…not a problem. See you on Wednesday at the game, & pasta & home-made everything on Friday.’

So, teaching a million classes at three colleges & preparing the meal for the soccer team. Wow!

The athletes came & went….in a matter of an hour or so…wow! Nice boys, nice & polite..hugs all around & thanks all around. What a pleasure.

My son is a joy! How fun is all of this….very fun. A Blast!

2007-08-21T20:47:00.000-07:00

Time...

2007-08-21T20:43:00.000-07:00

and aging, where did the days go? Spent! Time and space leaving the energy of one's youth intact & the aspirations readily remain. Experience and passion, life and death require another look and a long reflection.

Summertime..twenty-seven years later...

2007-08-09T20:10:00.000-07:00

and, the later part is the part that is bewildering. The time passing, the spirit soaring and the never-ending goodness & loving. Love, a word defining that jeux de vie, the energy & pulse of living...& the spirit remains the same. Time passing..or not at all; standing & being. It is perplexing...but it is good.

2007-08-09T20:08:00.000-07:00

Watching two horses, one white-one mocha. Both large & yes, sinewy..with tails whipping the crisp August air. They position themselves, head-to-tail and stand firm, the sensuality of the muscles and the tails-movement; the heads held high..& the closeness of their bodies...mesmerized me.

Bacon Free Library - Author's Events

2007-07-28T07:56:00.000-07:00

Bacon Free Library – Authors’ Events
By: Jeanne K. Cosmos

Since Diane Wallace came aboard to direct the events of the Library as Director of the BFL, the authors that have graciously shared their work, read from their books and discussed the writing process has been exceptional. Some of the authors that are on the forefront for me are Joe Finder, author of “Killer Instinct”. Joe read from his novel; but not only did he do so, he also wove a story of his own history as the basis of much of what he writes. Joe Finder shared his investigative style and his fictionalized telling of major issues under the guise of the fictional detective or naïve narrator. He is a master at the writing of action stories.

Prior to hearing Mr. Finder share his style of writing and his building of the novel, we heard from Jay Atkinson. Jay wrote about the local county detectives and he learned as he wrote. Jay told of his amazement at the criminal characters that appeared and wanted to tell him their side of the story; as he researched his book. The event took on local color and the event was casual, but so informative.

Over the years, having read the book reviews of Gail Caldwell, the publication of her memoirs was a refreshing occurrence. Gail came along from Cambridge and was kind enough to share her story with the patrons of the BFL and also her experience writing rather than critiquing others’ work. Gail read from her book, and shared her writing process. It was one of the most successful events and a major coup for the Bacon Free, having local writers willing to read and share their work.

Kim Ponders, a new writer publishing her book from her major work writing her MFA thesis and working to reproduce the feelings and motivation of her flying a jet plane for the US as female pilot; very edgy and she was a energizing presence and superlative author. Her appearance to read excerpts from her book and speak with us was another phenomenal happening.

Many authors have readily come along to the beautiful and peaceful library of ours on the beautiful Charles River overlooking the waterfall.

Bookstores and libraries have authors’ events, however, the thrust of the series at the BFL is having some exceptional authors come to read and share their work. I am so proud to be a part of these events, albeit a small part. I am looking forward to the season of authors beginning in September that will read and discuss their work with us. These events add to our community and I encourage all readers to come along and be engaged at these wonderful monthly readings.

Losing Lucky

2007-07-19T20:04:00.000-07:00

Losing Lucky...not an easy feat! I loved my Lucky, a sweet yellow lab. Only 7 yrs with our family; growing with my sons. Losing Lucky..just not ready for that loss. Lucky was my helpmate with my sons; helping teach them responsibility and helping me..help them with so much. If one of them was 'blue', Lucky would nuzzle them and jostle them out of it...a smile would surface and even a laugh. He was right beside me in the kitchen & later in the evening, the kids tucked in..Lucky sat nearby as I relaxed after a long day. Losing Lucky is one of the life experiences that tugs at my heart at the most odd times. Tearing up the other day, I wished that time would have ..could have paused for a moment. Losing Lucky..just a small loss, a pet; but for our family quite a pain..in the heart.