RIP Carrie Fisher

Right now, I’m thinking about the life of Carrie Fisher and how it relates to mine, if at all. Fisher passed away two weeks ago, followed by her famous mother, Debbie Reynolds, who died the next day. Over the weekend, I watched “Bright Lights”, the just-released documentary about Reynold’s and Fisher’s life together.

I feel like Carrie is someone I know personally, even though I’ve never met her, because of my deep love and appreciation for her most famous character, Princess Leia. The feisty, fresh-faced, brunette (not blonde) heroine captured my attention as few characters have before or since. I think I was in love with her and Harrison Ford way back when, in that pivotal period of my life between childhood and teenagerhood. It was Carrie to whom I wrote as a star-struck, just-turned 13 year-old in the summer of 1980.

That particular year, 1980, was fraught with the usual angst one faces in the transition from tweendom to teendom with a few notable exceptions. My grandmother, who was my best friend and confidante, was dying of an incurable cancer; the American populace, very much against my wishes, elected Reagan; and, finally, one of the heroes of my very favorite band, the Beatles, was murdered.

Princess Leia and her budding romance with Han Solo, was the perfect escape from my angst. We saw “Star Wars V: The Empire Strikes Back” on the very first day it was released, courtesy of a close friend of our family’s. On that day in late May, we stood in line, tickets in hand, for hours to try to get the very best seats in a theater complex lovingly referred to as “the lumps” because that’s what they looked like with their half-domed shapes visible from the street.

What an epic, electrifying experience it was to see "Empire" on the very first day! My brother and I skipped our fourth and seventh grade classes, respectively. He was once the bigger Star Wars fan, but when “Empire” came out, we switched places. I returned to see “Empire” several more times that summer, and, that fall, “Empire” came to the single screen theater on the military base where my equally Star Wars-obsessed friend’s father and my grandfather worked. She and I got in trouble for talking too much in class; we were too excited and counting down the days until “Empire”!

And then, there was the merchandise. I collected “Empire” trading cards, “Empire” drinking glasses (four in all) from Burger King. I vigorously hunted down and purchased with my babysitting money a plethora of “Empire” ephemera in various forms: the movie soundtrack album, commemorative magazine editions, movie posters, a Yoda figurine, and more! I still possess the Yoda beach towel I got for Christmas that year! I eventually found the script for the movie, to back up my memorization of various scenes. But nothing compared to the autographed black and white head shot of Carrie Fisher, which I received in response to my heartfelt letter, which I wish I kept a copy of! (Perhaps it is her actual signature, perhaps not. To this day, I don’t want to take the risk of finding out and possibly having my heart broken.)

“Empire” comforted and carried me through that rough year and my early teen years primarily because of Han and Leia. Yet, it also came to signify the era for me in so many ways. The Empire, led by Darth Vader and the Emperor, had won the battle, so to speak, and the Rebellion was in tatters. To me, Vader symbolized the ascendency of Ronald Reagan, who left liberalism in tatters. As it was a dark time for the Rebellion, it was a dark time in American politics. 

You see, I was already a dyed-in-the-wool Democrat, or least a liberal, as liberalism was not the mainstay of the Democratic Party then, as it is not now. As young as I was, I knew on a gut level that Reagan did not represent my values or even the best interests of our nation. I knew him to be a megalomaniac and a shill for corporate causes even if I couldn’t name it at the time. (Indeed, throughout the ‘80s, as I matured, he and his cabinet ushered in a new kind of American politics that felt less “of, by and for the people” and more military industrial complex, Drug War and (not so) Moral Majority, but that’s another story).

The heartbreak and uncertainty I felt at the close of “Empire”, with Han in carbon freeze, his newfound love with Leia on hold and Chewbacca and Lando Calrissian in hot pursuit to save him, foreshadowed the heartbreak and uncertainty of my future without my grandmother, who died in March, 1981, and without John Lennon, a rock-n-roll man of peace. Family dynamics and my relationship with my mother were forever changed when my Grandmother died. My parents would divorce just a few years later. When Lennon died, it felt like the innocence of an era during which artists and ordinary people championed peace, love and understanding (what’s so funny about these things, anyway?) came to a cruel end. I feel an awesome sadness when I remember that time in my life.

Ah, but Han and Leia! Their scenes in “Empire” left me breathless and excited. Just thinking about their kiss in the Millennium Falcon, interrupted by that damn 3PO, left my heart pounding and caused my body temperature to rise. “Empire”, the movie, and the music of Beatles still move me to my very soul. They are an indelible part of me, touchstones in my development as a person, and hallmarks of my personal history. To Carrie, the person, and her character, Leia, I will always be grateful for that breathless escape. 

New World Order

We recently traveled to Tulum for a wedding. While we were there, we visited the ruins, as they are called. It was our second trip to the Tulum ruins, but a little more meaningful this time around. It was meaningful for several reasons, some of which may be easily described, while others not so easily.

I'll start with the more obvious reasons. When we first visited the Tulum ruins more than seven years ago, our son was just shy of his second birthday and it was December. We toted him along the rocky paths in an umbrella stroller and beheld the beautiful, blue water below us from a safe distance. When we let him loose, we chased him around and tried to prevent him from tumbling down the steep cliff into the pounding surf below. This time around, between the April weather and the boy's enthusiasm, we were ready for a different experience. The boy, now nine and a half, had been "prepared" with a cursory review of Mesoamerican history, courtesy of an old Time-Life book called Ancient Americas. He was wearing his swimsuit beneath his shorts and, therefore, ready to descend the steep steps from the ruins to the unbelievably, crystal clear ocean below. We splashed and played in the water for a couple of hours after our pricey English language tour of the ruins. (If only I understood Spanish well enough for the Spanish language tour!)

Tulum etched itself into my consciousness more deeply for other reasons during this trip. Even a cursory review of that Time-Life volume had rekindled my awareness of history and the profound impact the "New" World experienced when the "Old" World encountered it. It went so horribly, terribly awful for the Aztecs, the Mayans, the Incas and everyone else with dark skin who had inhabited the Americas. The impacts of that encounter still reverberate today. 

I read an essay in the aforementioned volume about how Cortez first encountered Moctezuma and later caused him to be killed at the same time thousands upon thousands Aztecs also perished in violent conflict with the Spaniards. A truly tragic, outrageous outcome to a brilliant civilization that, in many ways, was far more advanced than those of the so-called civilized world. I was nonplussed by how Cortez had taken advantage of every "chink in the armor," so to speak, of Moctezuma and the Aztec people, and, virtually effortlessly, stamped so many out. The chinks included Moctuzuma's naivete and indecisiveness - he had been haunted by visions of a white god showing up in a floating house and was uncertain as to what it meant, until it was too late. The people of other cultures who detested the Aztecs made up the other chinks. Motivated by vengeance, they joined the Spanish conquistadors (only to be betrayed later themselves). The piece related that the circumstances of Moctezuma's own death were ambiguous. Cortez caused it by instigating the demise of the Aztec civilization, certainly, but Moctezuma may have died at the hands of his own people who could see the writing on the wall and were undoubtedly pissed off. 

The story was related factually, without commentary, which gave me the opportunity to think, and feel, for myself. A strange image entered my thoughts. I imagined Cortez and his soldiers wielding cell phones in their hands as they proceeded to slaughter these people with their more "sophisticated" weaponry and their "noble" cause. (That image did not include their taking selfies, by the way). This strange vision made sense to me somehow and I understood its symbolism. 

Cortez's ride through Tenochtitlan was in the name of capitalism. His laying waste to a people, a culture, a way of life energized waves of New World conquerors who repeated the raping, killing and plundering throughout North, Meso and South America. In the name of gold, Jesus and capitalism, the Old World conquered the new one, paving the way for the spoils of laissez faire economics which we "enjoy" today, some of us much more than others. While in Tulum, I inhabited the ruins of a once-great civilization, as a tourist, as a capitalist, so to speak, paying admission and for a native Mayan to describe the function and purpose of what was left standing in my "native" language. (Incidentally, I refrained from taking selfies with my own phone.)

There was something magnificent in these temple ruins where sacred offerings and rituals to the Mayan gods were once made. There was something profoundly sad in reading the didactic panels that indicated Mayans had rebelled against the Mexican state - and capitalism - occupying the site off and on until as late as the 1930s. The panels made it clear that the Mexican state had put down the rebellion. Hence, history repeats itself.

Screen Time Woes

I made a commitment to writing every day for 30 days. That shouldn't be too difficult. I simply place it at the top of my to-do list and I make it non-negotiable. If I can fritter away hours of my time looking at Facebook posts, I can certainly carve out a short period of time to express myself, right? I suffer no shortage of opinions, observations, thought or ideas. I can simply pluck one from the air and then riff, just like a blues guitarist. It's past 2:30 in the a.m., and I'd like to feel my head against my pillow, but I'm determined to keep my word. 

The most recent thing I read, by Paula Poundstone and posted on Facebook, was a piece about how screen time (on video games, computers, televisions, et al.) is not good for developing brains. She jokes about how screen time is as addictive as heroin, only there is more societal awareness of heroin as a health hazard. I think she's on the right track, although I would also like to find the original sources for this information. 

I've seen my own nearly nine year-old become a zombie after playing on a computer or smart phone for hours. I try to limit his screen time but it feels like a losing battle. Just telling him, over and over again that I don't want him to be on the devices all the time, that it hinders is intellectual development and so on, is not enough. I need to show him proof, show him the various articles about the effects of digital exposure or find the original studies upon which these articles are based and more. 

I need to lay off my own cell. phone and ask Daddy to do the same. Daddy also plays a game on his phone a lot.  I need to enforce the rules vociferously and without wavering. I yell a lot, reminding him that he needs to finish more important things before he is allowed on a game. I tell him he needs to ask for permission before playing games on a phone or on the computer. Sometimes he asks for it, but many times he doesn't. He sneaks onto the computer or phone anyway.  To be continued...

Fly Like an Eagle

My son is at a wonderful age; he's nearly nine. I secretly wish he would stay this age forever. He still enjoys hanging out with me and appreciates the things I do for him, for the most part. 

People tell me to enjoy this time because things will change. As he reaches puberty, he will be embarrassed to hang out with Mom, and even take Mom for granted. Actually, he is already embarrassed by some of the things I say and do, and sometimes takes things for granted. 

These things, however, pale in comparison to how much fun we have together. His personality is entertaining, to say the least. He likes to make people laugh and often refers to himself as a comedian. He's definitely funny. Much of his humor is of the slapstick variety, although, increasingly, his intellect plays a role. 

Speaking of which, He says some incredible things that showcase his budding intellect. Yesterday, for example, he told me that he wants to return to Earth as an animal after he dies. More specifically, he wants to come back as a bald eagle so he can fly and enjoy a greater perspective. I remind him that man can fly. It doesn't count, he explains, because man needs machinery to do it. Birds just do it naturally.  

Express Text Yourself!

Quote of the day: Achieving one's personal goals has never been accomplished by liking Facebook and Instagram posts or otherwise frittering away one's time. 

This is my take on the quote attributed to Annie Dillard: "How we spend our days, is, of course, how we spend our lives." I heard this quote a very long time ago and it crossed paths with something I was reading at the time by Anne Morrow Lindbergh. Only recently did I get it through my head that the quote doesn't belong to Lindbergh. I love it nonetheless. It's funny that I wanted to write "Doh!" after the first sentence above ending in Lindbergh, and put a smiley face after the second sentence above ending in Lindbergh. This tells me that texting is taking its toll on how I write even when I'm not trying to communicate quickly via cellular phone. Right now, I'm confused when I think about what it means to write outside of the digital box. Is texting a legitimate form of writing as in it requires some knowledge of the conventions of writing or command of the rules of grammar? It's easy to say "No, absolutely not!" Texting is in no way "real" writing because it does not require such knowledge. However, I'm not certain that things are so black and white. 

I was incredibly annoyed when I made my first attempts at texting, on a flip phone, back in 2007. It was painstaking to hold down number keys until the right letters appeared. Not only did it take too much time to convey my wonderfully nuanced thoughts in this manner, but also, to my mind, texting spelled the end of clear communication in a civilized society! I still maintain that now that we have emoticons, GIFs and more to communicate what we mean in place of actual words, we will soon be reduced to communicating in short, largely monosyllabic grunts and moans. :-)

I no longer detest texting, not only because it's much easier than it used to be as far as the technology is concerned, but also because everyone's doing it! It's the communication du jour. Texting elicits timely responses from the individuals with whom I am communicate. When I text, I get a response; when I leave a voicemail, not so much. Texting, however, has devolved from something I once paid real attention to in terms of proper grammar, spelling, and punctuation to something I can spit out quickly and with only a cursory regard for grammar. The latter is largely reserved for the friends and family I text most often. I suppose the sheer volume of texts I send and receive has lowered my resistance to grammatical errors. 

While I've largely lowered my standards, at least for ordinary communication via text, I have not reverted to using the talk to text function on my phone because it is notoriously prone to errors. On more than one occasion, I have been miffed by texts that make no sense or sound unintentionally sinister from others using the talk to text function. If I'm not worth the time it takes to glance at your gobbledygook before you send it, then perhaps you don't need to communicate with me at all. 

Since texting lends itself by design to short communiques, it is easy to dismiss it as a "throw away" form of communication. However, for me, texting increasingly lends itself to more heartfelt communication. I am inspired by the brevity of the format to express my feelings in a single text, 160 characters or less, or a couple of texts in succession. (It should be noted here that I've tried, but have not been enamored with Twitter for this purpose). Sure, a heartfelt text does not replace a face-to-face, heart-to-heart conversation, but it does often start such a conversation. I express my feelings and thoughts to a friend via text, and, seconds later, either that person calls me or I stop, drop and pick up the phone to call that person. The text, therefore, functions as a build up or gateway to a more personal connection. For me, this is a breakthrough. 

My tendency has been to think big when I want to express myself. What comes to mind when I want to to show my gratitude for what someone has done or said or simply for that person's presence in my life is usually a big production. I plan to write a letter or a card that perfectly captures my feelings and thoughts about the object of my desire, to deliver flowers or some other nonsense. That card or letter never gets written. Those flowers are never purchased. Now, I give myself permission to text my feelings. I have concluded that is better to express myself, however briefly, than to add to my never-ending to-do list. For this realization, I am very grateful!

Just Say "Yes!"

I was deeply moved by the music I experienced a few days ago at the Disney Concert Hall. My friend called me with only a couple of hours to spare before the start time. She was stuck with unused tickets to the first performance in the jazz series at the Disney Concert Hall and needed my help. After a few seconds of hesitation (making sure my spouse would be home to sit with our child), I said "Yes!" 

I am so glad I did! I had no expectations of the evening's performers, a jazz trio and a jazz/classical orchestra, so I was pleasantly surprised. The music opened up something in me, which continues to vibrate and buzz. I love it when incredible forms of artistic expression enter my life unexpectedly!

The Brad Mehldau trio, comprising bass, drum and piano, took a moment to get started, but once they found their groove, the music cast a spell. My friend invited me to close my eyes and listen.

"It feels like swimming," she declared.

As my friend grooved on the sounds, she occasionally exclaimed "Yeah!", an "Amen" to the captivating music. The trio of talented musicians moved through covers and their own compositions in a variety of styles from bossanova (as my friend noticed) to straight-ahead jazz. I’m not musically educated, as in I can’t call out the proper names of composers, styles or genres, et al., but I do know what stirs my soul, and it did!

This rich and deep music laid a solid foundation for the phenomenal group that appeared as the second act, Billy Childs and Company. They offered incredible re-interpretations of the music of Laura Nyro. I had heard of Nyro before but knew only vaguely about her immense talent as well as her influence on more well-known artists. I knew of her way-back-when association with David Geffin from a documentary I watched on PBS. Nyro broke Geffin’s heart when she didn’t sign with his newly formed Asylum records back in the late ‘60s. (Why do I remember such random factoids?)

Childs and Company was unlike anything I had heard before. Up to 13 musicians including a string quartet, drummer, pianist (Childs), guest cellist (for the first couple of numbers), stand-up bassist, acoustic guitarist, some brass players, and, finally, two amazing singers, knocked me out! The music painted entire landscapes, which I inhabited unreservedly. One number, in particular, stirred me to tears. It was a piece Nyro wrote about her lover who died of a heroin overdose. Words cannot describe the combination of soaring voice and soul-stirring instrumentation that induced the tears. The group brought Nyro’s stories to life beautifully.

My friend related, “This is who I really am,” during the concert, referring to the opening herself to experiencing the music. “It’s art,” she added as we headed for the exit. “It’s more than art,” I responded, but knew not what to call it instead. Life?

I am so grateful my friend offered me the opportunity to experience this music. It was magic! I needed it much more than I knew. The work shocked me into recognizing I had been caught up in a cycle of “soul neglect”.

The only remedy for soul neglect is to create space in one’s soul to be moved by art. It’s very easy to neglect one’s inner life, the life of the soul, by focusing only on one’s exterior life, which, more often than not, numbs the mind and crushes the soul. When my friend called on me to accompany her to the concert, my soul knew to say “yes!”  

The spectacular music removed the dust and debris from my neglected soul. I am refreshed, renewed and so very grateful.  

The Truth Will Set You Free

The truth will set you free. I love this. It’s simple. It’s true. And it’s open to so much interpretation. Just what is the truth? Is it my truth? Is it someone else’s truth? Is what is true for me the same as what is true for you? Is there only one truth, the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God?! How, exactly, will the truth set me free? Will the truth deliver me from encumbrances, delusions and falsehoods of my own making? How do I know what the truth is? Will I recognize it when I see it? Just how brave must I be to recognize the truth and to express it?

I interpret this expression as an invitation to live in your own truth, to live as your true self or to live your true story. Is this an easy task? Hardly. Living in truth requires knowing the truth of who you are. Knowing the truth often involves a painstaking, multi-layered process of self-discovery. Even when we know the truth of who we are, it is often easier and more convenient to keep the truth at arm’s length, Living, walking and talking in truth takes effort. Sidestepping the truth is the lazy man’s way out, even if it means remaining in bondage.

Knowing and embracing the truth of who you are is akin to the Buddhist practice of accepting that all life is suffering. Once you accept that all life is suffering - once you know and embrace the truth of who you are - you are free to live your life fully. You are free from suffering and free from the illusion of duality (up/down, good/bad, black/white). Once freed, you have no choice but to go with the flow and your life unfolds exactly the way it is meant to.

Certainly, knowing and embracing the truth of who you are, like grasping the concept that all life is suffering, requires openness, patience, commitment and even a sense of humor. Compassion and gratitude compliment and expand these essential qualities. I can grasp this concept as well as know and embrace my truth for brief, shining moments. The trick is to keep these moments fresh in my mind when a situation or circumstance gets the best of me and I am once again caught up in the illusion and impeded from going with the flow.