2023 - On Haitus - Cheers to another year.

 On haitus & moving forward on writing projects.

Happy New Year!

The Case of Julian Assange - Chilling Effect on Journalism JK Cosmos

 

Thinking about the journey of WikiLeaks Founder Julian Assange and the case against him, should lead to some thought about Journalists, Freedom of Speech and Protections of Free Speech.  The International Federation of Journalists, promulgates the following: “Promotes international action to defend press freedom and social justice through strong, free and independent trade unions of journalists.” 

What does this mean in terms of the Assange case?  There are numerous, reliable news outlets in support of Assange and in support of his release without further criminal prosecution. Whether or not someone is in favor or opposed to Assange’s position in the Criminal Justice System; this issue is only one component of the ongoing saga of one Journalist, in his attempt to uncover, enlighten and bring to bear corruption and wrong doing; through WikiLeaks publications.

We can think about and analyze his actions, the matter of confidentiality and the issues surrounding government documents with the public’s right to know.  The matter at hand, primarily, is the impact and chilling effect on journalism with this case – an individual vs one of the most powerful governments in the world.  Chilling effect doesn’t quite encompass the seriousness and immediacy of this singular case.

The why of it is how Freedom of Speech is defined, how is it practically and reasonably ‘managed’?  Who draws the line of acceptable and publishable or not acceptable and censured?  How can we, as a society, give over power to a few elitist ‘managers’ what is true? Can we?  How does this case impact the very real process of revealing the truth, most especially in the area of social justice? Who pulls the strings to authorize what?

All of this may remind us of the courageous Muckrakers of the past. The journalists, the writers, digging in, discovering, thinking critically and reporting the truth of the matter.

In solidarity with truth telling and those brave enough to write it – to report it and not to be afraid.

 

Ukraine & Russia - Global Crisis

 Russia & Ukraine - & Resources - Global Crisis

What could have - should have been diplomatic negotiations & discussions, presently is war.  How did we get to this crisis & how did failure to talk, failure to see each other - result in bombing of people; death and destruction?

The Russian people will suffer economic disaster and plummeting of their infrastructure. Ukrainian people are suffering devastation of their homes, neighborhoods and scattering of everyone to find safety.

What is it that people really want?  Average people want their families to flourish, education, homes and a secure life, including basic needs- clean water, food, housing and basics such as health care and retirement. It isn't a lot, is it?  I am flummoxed that leaders continue to fail to effectively lead and provide these needs to the people. How can we be in 2022 and still...yes, still be at war, violent and so very set in one opinion or another - excluding others and causing great sorrow.

Such tragedies - could be - should be - non-existent these days. And yet, we continue to fight, to destroy and to maneuver to the detriment of people.

I am saddened. I see social media comments and it doesn't help to be critical of this group or that- it is all very toxic, cruel and unnecessary.

Prayers- doing good deeds. How can a person contribute to the good, to peace?

And now, these days - crying more than not -for all this sad and senseless confilct.

Mission Accomplished - jk cosmos (excerpt- upcoming novel)

 

Mission Accomplished

 

Sitting in the back row of class, knitting to stay awake, she couldn't quite believe the long days and nights. Law School and the dense readings, monotone lecturers, droning on about the law and their heydays. Night school.  Why?  Because, tuition is only one part of the equation, there’s living...yup, rent and food and getting around. Filling the gas tank and keeping up insurance & car payments. So, why law?  Why not! 

            That’s the thread of the life of a girl, in the back row, knitting and listening and thinking that she will actually effectuate positive change.  It’s the glue for the belief, however, pollyanna, that she will make a difference.  The ticket is the law degree and passing the Bar.  Ahhh, passing the bar.  What can that do in the long run?  It’s too early to think too hard on that piece.

            She had a date with a Greek guy, that her father had fixed her up with. Again, that ethnic bit despite living in Cambridge, away from her folks.  She agreed, to please her dad, thinking as she put away her knitting and books in the various bags that perhaps she’d been too agreeable. She was a bit tired, crammed in with over fifty students in a hot room, above a retail space on Newbury Street, which was the good news, being in the city and not isolated in some suburban campus.

Memoir- Teaching - Taught - & Thinking about...in these harsh days of Global Pandemic!

 

Memoir Writing – Jeanne K. Cosmos, JD, MFA

What is Memoir?

How is Memoir different than Autobiography?

Where does one start?  At the beginning?  Somewhere that is a transformational moment?

Prompts and support in writing from memory to create an engaging narrative is an ongoing process.

 

Series One Writers’ Workshops

“Memoir – Writing with a Perspective that is Introspective & Engaging”

 

Memoir Workshops are designed for the development of a narrative of self that is meaningful and introspective.  The work also focusses on engagement with audience.

This work is practical, concrete, and definitively transformative.

Workshops are writing and reading intensive. Creating language and narrative with words that communicate in tone and purpose is a major component of the series.

All of this can be engaged at personal levels of development and commitment.

The workshop is individualized from beginners to expert writers; allowing for variance of experience among participants. It is your passion for and commitment to writing that is important

Experimental, collaborative, and collage writing will be explored and encouraged. So, bring it.

The peer editing piece is crucial to the process of writing, as is the writing prompts during the group meetings.

Instructor: Jeanne K. Cosmos

Juris Doctor, Masters in Fine Arts-Creative Writing

Course Dates/Time

 

 

Writing Prompt - & this is what I got...Time restricted...

 

February 24, 2005

Three Characters from your past – come to you & say they want you to write about them.  Who are they & why do they want you to write about them?

-In the 3^rd grade, the class of Mary Lyons Elementary School was tested for a new accelerated education Program, in the city of Boston.  Eddie Madden was in my class.  He had blond curly hair, blue eyes and a very engaging smile.  Everyone liked him.

He was one of the students chosen for the 25 selected to learn @ the accelerated pace.  He participated & kept up with the class from 4^th to 6^th grade.  The class went on through 8^th grade; but Eddie dropped out at 6^th.  He was a gentle, kind boy.  He asked m to write about him – his kindness and potential – his friendly & open demeanor – because I knew him, then.  I knew the boy.

Eddie asked me to write about him – as he sits in MCI-Walpole – now known as MCI Cedar Junction. He sits there- for the rest of his productive life & will remain incarcerated – with little hope of accomplishing the potential of the boy.  Eddie asked me to write about him; as a remembrance of lost innocence, of positive energy and of the people that had hopes for his success & for his happiness.

 

My maternal grandmother asked me to write about her – as she believed in a community; where both men and women could succeed & surpass the generation before them.  She wants me to write about her to honor her support of her son and daughters, grandchildren and great-grand-children, having none herself.

She encourages her children, to read, to excel at school and to do their best.

 

 

The Sixties at UMB

University of Boston was at end of this street before moving to Columbia Point. We’d study, discuss big ideas, write papers & get high in the library on Arlington street. City colleges include vibe of the city. It was dynamic it was marvelous. It was the sixties!

Between classes we’d lie on the grass at Boston Gardens-just up the street & think about the universe & our lives -making things better. It was 1968-so demonstrations on Boston Common were often & energizing. As a reporter for MassMedia news, I had an upfront view. Together w my photographer, we’d be on the frontline of everything. Just everything. Heady stuff. Optimism. Idealism. Hope.

I’m still looking for Jack Daly -lost him somehow on campus; he was a sweet disenchanted Vietnam Vet -home & causing a ruckus in his laid back way. I’ve always rooted for the underdog-then & now!  Namaste!

Memory - written on my IPhone - in traffic abutting the South End - my youth & crazy days!

Postcard from Falmouth - jk cosmos

 Postcards from Falmouth – jk cosmos

What is it that engages my memory, reading this postcard? The tone. Mary writes to

Esther – “I suppose that you will never forgive me for not writing…” and yet, this is the writing.

The writer is writing to her friend; a backwards glance at someone self-deprecating. Mary

introspective; are her friendships less than they could be? Can I identify with that means-end

connection?

Plot twist, now letting Esther know that she is waitressing, with her aunt, at

Coonamessett Inn. Busy summer and I recall so much fun waitressing; that’s been my summer

experience at the Flying Bridge in the late 60s. Being down the Cape- so perfect! But no, Mary

writes about working hard, counting the days and loneliness. “Please write to me, as it is rather

lonely here.”

I Sigh, as I think about the girl writing this postcard; wishing she had more during her summer

in Falmouth.

I Sigh, as I think about a lonely girl writing a postcard with a vulnerable ‘pause’ about being

down the Cape, working and lonely.

I wonder why this narrative speaks to me and if it’s a theme of my life, or a blip being in a

global pandemic.

I know the girl writing.

I recognize the girl writing.

And, I wonder if Esther writes back.

John - has died! Saddened and Sad.

John

 

              Waiting for my law school friend, Shelley, to complete the Bar Exam and then we’d celebrate. I idled the car in front of Hynes in Boston on Boylston Street. It was summer 1976. I had one more year of law school studies to go.

              Shelley ran down the stair, jubilant comes to mind…with a laugh and a loudness to her. She is Lebanese and a big girl; large proportions and largeness in personality.  Shelley is someone who doesn’t care much about social propriety – not at all.  I drove a Renault LeCar – a small French boxy car with a large sunroof.  And so, yes, the sunroof was open.  She jumped in; but dove directly in the back seat- as just behind her was a man, tall, and movie star gorgeous & he popped himself into the front seat beside me.  Both laughing and both out of breath.

Hello.

Hello -you…You don’t mind if I join you.  Shelley invited me to come along.

This is John.  He’s one of the Exam Proctor’s. Yeah, we got talking.

Oh my God, Shelley picked up the Bar Exam Proctor. She’s crazy.

No problem.  Let’s go. We’re going up to Lynnfield to a Middle Eastern restaurant with dancing and a band. Okay.

Sounds great. Let’s go.

              First impression.  John was carefree and very good looking . Tall and confidant.   Why is Shelley always the one to find and get the guy!?

I was jealous and wishing I had more gumption.

 

*********************************************************

 

In the middle of a global pandemic and it’s been too many months, too much time in isolation and so worried all the time, I am aging in place.

Thought about the day…& wondered about friends from when I was young, and hopeful and joyful.  Trying too hard to find happiness and joy these days.

I googled a guy from my past, John C. and a link read that he died. That cannot be right.  I searched some more and couldn’t find an obit or death notice of any kind. It was his name, even his middle name…I remembered. Emmanuel.  The age 71 and the date February 2019.  That can’t be right.  He’s been gone for that long; he’s been gone before Covid was even a thing.

No, I checked the Mass Bar List of lawyers…and it was there, confirmed, John was ‘deceased’.

 

I kept searching online for more. The how and a bit of history on who he is – was.  I know what I know, but I wanted to read about him. Nothing.  Not one word.  Nothing at all.

No children, no wife.  His mother gone and nothing about his brother. Cousins, yes, I heard about one and didn’t see anything about his life and all that – what’s expected and the usual.

I am saddened. I am sad. I am more gut-wretched than I thought I’d be.  John no longer in the world is a lot to take in.  I am so so sorry to hear this.

I have significant memories of John and me – of an adventure. I have sweet recollections of the possibilities of us- or was that all a dream.  My journals are gone- my former husband kept them and so, I rely on general memories, not detailed writings of emotions, experiences and thoughts about life and living.  That’s long gone and so now I am left with a fog of what was and not too clear on all of the moments.  I am clear on the feelings and clear on the experiences that was us.

 Covid - A year of Isolation!  A year of our Discontent!  A year of Danger & Unrest!

Unfathomable how a pandemic changes the world and the individual, daily experience.  One day, teaching on campus and moving about freely- by day's end, in the apartment and frightened and worried for yourself, and your loved ones. Fearful of a virus - for your family and then the world encrouches on you in a way that was sci-fi and now is reality.

Pandemic - virus - contageon - how scary is the verbiage and the new reality and uncertainty - is mind-boggling.  Beyond that - though - is the daily grind and worry.  The worry and fear wears you out and is exhausting. The worry and fear is about as critical to people as the actual virus.

What to do! What can one do!?  How do you continue to teach or read, when your attention is so so distractable and your energy level so low? Some people readily say that they are 'depressed', which is a valid certainty..to say that. Others fight that designation of depression and hope and think that sinking feeling will pass & it is, afterall, only feeling 'blue'.

 Jetties

 

Having lived summers at the beach, sitting on the jetties brought her back to the days of innocence and dreams of a fulfilled and happy life. The question was – had she lived a fulfilled & happy life?

At five, she slipped away from her family and most especially her younger brother and ran down to the beach.  It was dusk, it was the steamy part of the day with the hot sun and rays of the beach reflected off of the ocean blue.  She’d been at the beach for most of the day; hours, solo and then her family decking out all the stuff..things to eat, to drink, to float in the  sea, to sit on the sand, to make castles..the pails and shovels. All of it – too loud, too complicated, to tiring.  She sat in the sand, fingering the soft, tan eart and looking out – close up view – too many kids in the water.  Looking beyond them, the sea and sky more of a universal truth, a reckoning and soothing- oh, so soothing to her. She dug into the sand in front of her with wiggling toes and pushed it to make a soft gulley between where she sat and the incoming soft flap, flap of the waves..softly moving towards her bottom on the sandy beach.

Tonight, the energy was slowed down. There was no one else in view. No one on the beach, and no one on the sea wall; which was a popular place to rest. Not a soul.

She had the entire universe at her binding.  She felt open to the universe and the possibilities. She thought about her life when she would be an adult and able to make her own decisions.  She heard the sea and the waves and it reminded her that soon enough she’d be grown and able to make choices, to be whoever she wished. She’d marry or not, she’d travel – that was certain. She would have a career that she loved and maybe just perhaps, share what she knew – what she learned with others.  She’d find people of like-mind.  Although, sitting on the beach, under the side of the  sea wall, chilled by the crisp air as night cool and sizzle of sunshine met, she didn’t have those words to express her thoughts. She knew, instinctually, that she was on the earth to do something meaningful, and to be someone of consequence to not only one other person but to many.

Her mind was settling as she heard the waves and saw the sun moving down in the far-away color of sky and water.  She settled her all too inquiring mind.  She knew how to do that and it made for a moment or more of just being.  The very art of just being, was one that she knew and one that she could count on to take her away from chores and homework and the constant barrage of whine from her mother.  Ahh, peace.

The area of sand to the sea was a narrow strip of earth and then, the ocean took over.  She carried a notebook, always and after ten minutes or so, she started to write about how she felt sitting by the sea, alone and still a child. She wrote about ancient times, the times of the Hellenic grandeur and wondered why.

The cooling air and sand becoming moist to sit on, was the first hint of passing of time and her best effort to walk home had come.  She stood and brushed sand off of her bottom. She gathered the pen and notebook; putting both in her sweatshirt front pocket. She stood and breathed in the saltiness, the sea, the drops of water coming from the sof waves. She stepped forward towards the edge, rathe than moving up to the stairs of the seawall. How could she go back to the cottage?  All the noise, all the commotion. She stood there until the blue turned grey turned a velvety dark navy blue-black.  The points of light began to edge in to the sky and she was so very happy. The stars twinkled and blinked on & off and she was bursting with joy!

If only this moment would last longer.  If only—

Decades later, she returned to the beach and thought about her childhood and the summers at the beach.  She wished that she knew more about life and choices then, having decided that her rigid upbringing left her with restrictions in her life and choices of being ‘good’ to her own detriment by saying no to this and that brillieant experience. How could she know that she could do more and live harder and still be allright. She didn’t know that and now that she did, it was too late to do all that.

Political Shit-Show in Massachusetts & the Nation!

 So, Joe Kennedy ain't no Teddy Kennedy. The name only goes so far& these days, no one cares...except the moneyed reps already in Congress..they block & step in together-just as Pelosi went for him..over an encumbent. Hoping it backfires. I'm endorsing Markey. Kennedy has a seat in Congress! What's he done? I haven't heard a peep outta him, until he decided to run for Senate. Nothing outta him on issues-as a Rep! He's a weak candidate & not a persuasive speaker..very weak. Being part of Kennedy clan shouldn't be the measure. So, Pelosi-thumbs down! Let Markey keep his seat & represent Commonwealth. He gets it. Not sure about Joe! I actually trust AOC over Pelosi...& she's endorsed Markey.

My response to an article on Pelosi endorsing a challenger to an encumbent in the Senate race for Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

PeteCosmos Artist Designer

https://www.wescover.com/creator/pete-cosmos 

Another Birthday! Happiness or not-

Another birthday and frankly yesterday, anticipating this was quite emotional.  It was a day of tearing up and thinking about the decades, the missteps..not so much the thoroughly joyful.  Why did I go to the dark-side? I am not sure..but there it was.  Sad, lonely, dark and quite a lot of choking back of that torrent of tears on the verge.
This morning, finally, the day - my Birthday!  Well, no going back.  Thinking about it - glad, very glad to be here - to have made it to that certain age & here's 'To Life!'
My sons, certainly, make all the difference in their love, good cheer and thoughtful comments and sentiments about not only their being my sons, but about my birthday.  For this, I am thankful.
Grateful...that wonder of being attuned to the life force, the universe and ancestors...all of it.

I am on break between classes & wanted to write something about today and how it is going!  It's going fine.  Quite well.  Happy Birthday to me.

How full is your glass?  jk cosmos

One wonders about that question, more often than first surmised.  How can anyone not think about the haves and have-nots?  How can we work, play and pair off and not think about our sister, brother, friend, lover, cousin?  

Being grateful for others and for ‘What I love best ‘things.’ usually spins one’s mind to someone else’s newer, cooler car or home or furnishings or pool, doesn’t it?

How full is your glass?  Very much full, thank you.  It’s full as long as one breathes and has the opportunities to transform one’s life from “this” to “that”.

The full glass - empty glass conundrum holds quite a few mixed up responses; those that we inherit and those we learn and respond to.  How should this concept be handled?

Glass full - glass empty, how do we view our lives?  I think that I’m a half-full kinda person and that is due to experience of life throwing so much shit at me that the decision had to be made, kinda quickly and kinda off-the-cuff.

What is that shit, you ask.  It’s about marriage.  It’s a story and it’s not happily-ever-after.  It’s a reality that kicks a person in the shins and then, smiling, kicks a person squarely on the jaw.

Marriage, wedding plans and romance, kisses and passion, sex in the rawest and most carnal way - all of it.  Yes, please.

I’ll give away my power and my control over myself.  I’ll give away my true self to accommodate your needs.  I’ll give away my goals and desires to please you.  All of that, surviving that compels me to answer - Yes, I am a full glass kinda person.  Yes, I am.

Thirty-five, not too old, but not a time in a life to play the blushing bride.  No, that has passed and the good fortune is finding a guy to marry and plan a life with.  What a cock-eyed optimist!  The reality is that handing over control of one’s own, wonderful life may, just may, end in a not so lovely ending.  And that is exactly how it played out.  Not a lovely ending.

What is that ending?  What is the beginning?  Let me tell you, the story begins with a wedding. The bride glowing and happily smiling at her guests and her groom. The bride, oh so happy, in her white, satin gown.  White satin pumps, white satin covered buttons along the back of her fitted, bridal dress. The bride, wearing a crown of entwined flowers, polished with a high gloss of white; tulle attached to form a lengthy flow of veil to the floor.  The bride, perfection in her traditional, bridal clothing.

The groom tolerating the festivities and looking for his guys, to smoke and to snort a bit of coke to take the edge off. Her handsome groom, the black tuxedo offset by his locks of golden, quite long curly hair.  How handsome?  What a lucky girl she was!  

The Bride and Groom walked from the Ritz over to the area near the Swans; near the summery flower beds of the Boston Gardens.  The bridesmaids and groomsmen followed along as she tried to talk with the groom.  He was looking down at the path and did not respond to her chatter.  She slowed her steps and took to walking the rest of the way with her bridal party; they were chatting and glad to be in the sunshine, in their formal attire on this glorious day.  

Photos taken, maneuvering posing and smiling, she was not herself.  The Bride was trying to be in the moment, and yet, she felt this was stepping into something that was not quite right.  Her apprehension was not the first time that she ‘paused’ to question her saying ‘Yes, I’ll marry you.” to the beautiful man nearby.  Not next to her, not holding her hand - just nearby.

Walking back to the Ritz, he took her hand, sensing her aloneness?  She didn’t know.

*************************

The end of the reception and they entered an upstairs suite at the Boston Ritz, above the grand ballroom and alone, at last, behind closed doors.  She primped, taking only a brief time and waited for her new husband to join her in the master bedroom suite.  Overlooking the Boston Gardens, the formalized blooms and ground cover, a historic setting, at the corner of Newbury Street.  The elegance of the area  and the high-brow reception, more than she had ever hoped for.

He followed her to the bedroom, still in his tux, and grabbed her neck; twisting her skin until the tautness of his hold on that thin and vulnerable skin bore down on her.  She didn’t speak, she didn’t scream; he held her.  A prelude to passion?  If only.  It was not a prelude to passion, but to a nightmare and terror, while wide awake.  Her groom had plans for her that were unimaginable, and very cruel.

In her head, she screamed at the unfairness; this trick of the Fates. Her negligee was thin, transparent and so sheer that her skin and the throbbing of her blood through her veins, all visible.  He knew her vulnerability and was empowered.

“Let me teach you how to defend yourself.  You need to be able to defend yourself, when I’m not around.”  Vicious words, serpent tongue.  

‘AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH’…..in her head, in her mind.

He reached, with his free hand to his case, took a pistol out and put it in her trembling hand; the pistol fit her hand and he put his hand over hers. She felt the cold, hard grip of the handgun. His eyes, blue and cold and did she hear that verse in her head.  Yes, she was hearing the words - something about the devil on the other side of the door, that handsome devil in tight jeans - just at the other side of the door.  In her case, he was standing beside her.  She shivered.

“ Let’s see now how this works.  Let’s see how you are going to defend yourself.

The safety is off.  The gun is easy to handle, yes?”  “Yes.”

“Notice, my darling, that there is no number on the gun.  I got it from a cop friend of mine, and the numbers were pretty expertly rubbed off.  Hmmmm.”  

“See, here.”  

She did not answer.  She could barely remain conscious.  She wished this was a dream.  

“What do you think would happen, if there was an accident and you shot yourself?

She didn’t respond.  “Any thoughts, darling.”

As quickly as he had produced the pistol, it was gone.

He laughed, picked her up and threw her down on the bed; their first night as husband and wife.  His intentions to take full control.  His intentions to demand respect as the Master of the house.

He took her in that master suite and he showed her what it is to be degraded, to be used, and to be spent.  Horrified, fear dulling her mind, she complied.  And, she started planning her escape.

The ‘how of it’ and the plan to run not formulated; her desire to not be connected to this devil.  This man, whom she had married before he had revealed his true self.  She wondered if she murdered him; could she escape and maintain freedom or end up being prosecuted and convicted, without time to truly run. Beyond killing, what were her options?

Why would she have to run from her life; beyond escaping him?  Why should she?

**********************

In the morning, he went about his morning routine and barely glanced at his frightened bride.  She managed to dress and pack; they were leaving Logan for Paris at noon. The secrets between men and women; the reveal and the conceal.  Her heart beat faster than ever and she was compelled to plan an escape that would be final.  Something to free her and leave no options for him to return.  Murder, frame up for his conviction of her murder?  How do people plan and actually do anything to be free from capture?  She didn’t know and her mind spun.  She must calm her mind and be still.  Could she be still?  She was not so certain, but knew continuing with a man able to hold a gun to her temple and indicate that he alone was Master, was a dangerous place to be.  

And then, she had figured out that only her fingerprints were on that pistol and so, another piece to deal with and change in her favor.

****************

Paris, city of light - of love.  They checked into a small hotel, close to L’Opera and quaint, lovely.  She did the unpacking, as he returned to the pub area in the lower level to play pool and drink brandy, expensive brandy.  She began to lose control and cry, then sob a bit too loudly.  Stop.  Crying will turn him on and only encourage his cruelty.  She thought about that pistol and wondered if he had brought it through customs to Paris.  Possibly not.  She hadn’t found it in the luggage, but her fears took over her usual commonsensibilties. Fear immobilizing her to do only what he demanded.  

She left the hotel and found a cafe just to the right of the Opera and felt some relief to be out and about without him and in public.  Safety in numbers and visible. How her longing to be seen magnified and held her.  She decided to walk to the Jardin du Tuileries;  similar to her beloved Boston Gardens.  Sitting in a light green, metal chair near the pond with a view of the flower gardens and symmetry of the setting, she smiled.  Paris, a parallel city to Boston, in her estimation.  Ah, to breathe.  

Thinking about leaving him had to be her focus, not the aesthetics of the gardens.  How to leave?  How to disconnect forever?  Formulation of a realistic plan in a foreign country would not be as simple or straight-forward as she hoped. And yet, language barriers and mistaken communication may work in her favor.  She jumped off the chair and fast walked back to the hotel, not noticing a young, slim man with ripped jeans and a blue scarf wrapped ‘round him was following her, keeping the clip and a certain space between them. She was waiting to cross La Rue de St. Germaine and in the crowd, oblivious to her surroundings.  The Frenchman bumped her side, apologized and smiled.  His slim face and aquiline nose, his piercing blue eyes and relaxed slouch engaged her for a New York minute.  Light changed, people crossing and she moved with the crowd.  He moved with her.  Again, a bump and an apology.  

“Was he trying to pick her up?”  

He was in step and asked her if she was from the States.  

“Yes.” smile.

“I would love to visit the States.”  “Where would you suggest I see first?”

“What?”  She had to focus and get back to her husband and figure out a way to leave.

“Nescafe?”  “Come and tell me about your home?”  Smile.

She thought about being in the room with her husband or extending this reprieve a bit more in public, in Paris, with an attractive man.  

“Fine.  Nescafe.”  She answered and he lead as she fell in step and they found a cafe.

Sitting outside, he ordered and turned to her, still smiling.  They sat on either side of a cafe table and there were so many people around that she felt safe.  Safe enough.

“What do you want to know?”

“ I want to know about you.  I want to know more about what makes you smile. What makes you glad to be alive.  Who you truly are..is what I want to know.”

Tearing and feeling her lips quiver, unsure how to answer.  An unknown, a man without a name in a foreign country, how convenient that she stopped.  Time stopped.

“I am not glad to be alive.  My husband is threatening me and I’m sure that he’s going to kill me.  Not this day, perhaps, but soon enough.  He’ll make it look like an accident. He forced me to hold a pistol and my fingerprints are on it.  He’s threatened me.  I am so afraid, I’m scared that he’ll kill me. I am so afraid.  I’m frozen and unable to do anything. I am unable to think. I am not able to smile.  I am not able to do anything at all.”

“You should stand up and leave.”

I am so not in my right mind.  “Please stand up and leave.”

He sipped his nescafe cautiously and pensive, not moving and thoughtful.  He placed the cup on its saucer deliberately and slowly.  She caught her breath and began to normalize herself and her breathing and being in the moment.  She didn’t blink.

“Drink your cafe.  Finish and come.  You cannot live like this.”

“Allright.”

They finished and stood.  She was very unsure of what would be next and of course, had no idea who this man was.  She was ready to follow to him.  She was compelled.

They briskly walked down a narrow street, abutting the cafe.  She kept up with him and they turned a few times, to an area that was more French than tourist-based.  He ducked into a  tiny shop.  She saw glassware and miniature souvenirs, racks of postcards and on the side spices and supplies for baking; speciality pans and decorative equipment.

“My parents’ shoppe.  Let’s go in the back.”

She nodded in agreement.  They sat on small, wooden chairs in the back, leaning on the side wall with a tiny table nearby, covered with papers, pencils and calculator, post-its...a well-used back area.

“Shall I introduce myself?”

“Yes.  Sorry, I should have asked.  Sorry, I am so sorry to have told you what I did.”

“I’m Andre.  Don’t worry.  I believe that everything happens for a reason.  Let’s talk about your husband and what has happened just before you left Boston to come here.”

She told him, with as much detail as she thought he’d be able to take; leaving out the sexual maneuvering and sadistic exploits she had endured.

She did escape.  This narrative ends well in that regard.  And life, life is always a twist, a possibility - a life force.

The great news, yes, the superlative is intentional, is that the lesson learned is to be half-full and appreciative of life, of love, of family and friends, of lovers and colleagues.  They love and appreciate you, without conditions and without requiring the chipping away of one’s true self.

The half-full and “love & light” persona is not only one that is developed, it’s groomed and nurtured and a gift.  The gift to oneself - the affirmation of love to oneself is everything.

Half full is a quite wonderful place to be and the energy reverberating is proof, simple and direct.  Be grateful, be authentic and see life as half-full.

Lifting a glass of wine and feeling the liquid on her tongue, expressing the physicality of the sip, the twirl and the taste.  Life most certainly is half full.