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.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Fighter Pilot
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
First Person Narrative/Recollection of Father
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.
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.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Dreams of a fourteen year old girl....
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.
Friday, November 23, 2007
The Hellenic Voice - Published Article 11/14/07
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.
- 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!
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)
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
'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
for rest & shelter of the night,
for health & food,
for love & friends,
for everything thy goodness sends.'
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Thanksgiving 2007 - Family Prayer
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