The Elderly Couple

I once had a dream about a strange encounter, a dream, mind you, lest anyone get the wrong idea... I was traversing the idyllic college campus at the hour when a strange elderly couple happened to be occupying the benches on a quiet trapezoidal enclave near the quad, the old woman, covered in dignified wraps, knitting a scarf somewhat watchfully, while the old man, her spouse, dressed in suit and tie with a derby hat, was absent-mindedly fingering an old pocket watch as if counting figures in his head. As I strode past them half-oblivious to their banal postures,  contemplating my morning routine in obvious silence, trying to sail swiftly by,  through the evaporating mist, the old woman casually fixed her glare upon me and spoke, as if for the first time ever: "You are a MOST brazen young man, to walk past without paying due deference to YOUR LORD." - "Excuse me?"  I sputtered, lurching to a halt, looking around for the object of my supposed worship.  She continued: "You come to this place, you wander to these coordinates, to this very corridor,  this garden inlet, you behold us sitting here before you and you simply walk past us without bowing down in thanks and gratitude to HIM who is your ETERNAL BENEFACTOR!  He who beckons to you, who provides for you, who blesses you, who makes possible for you every good thing and fair outcome!" "Look lady," I ventured, grasping for innocuous remarks to help diffuse the situation. "I... don't... believe... we've met before, but I hope you have a great day. Really. It looks like we've got a nice one on tap, if those clouds stay where they are." But at this point her knitting falls from her hands as she becomes even more indignant, rebuking me in turn: "Such paltry small talk is unacceptable. Have ye not even one brief word of thanks to HIM, for this inimitable gift that HE bestows upon thee, this ongoing banquet, this memorable journey, this joyful drama that  HE and HE ALONE has made possible and continues to lay at your incorrigible feet?" Pausing again...  HIM? I say to myself snarkily. This old geezer sitting right here! The old man looks up smiling at me in a feeble, absent-minded way.  "Are you serious about your husband?" I offer. And she: "Quite serious. How could I not be serious. Is this not simple enough for you? Is this not accessible enough?" What?  I mumbled to myself: "Thanks a lot...there... old man for this universe you've given us... which may be in need of a tune-up soon...heh heh heh..."  "Stop!" she interrupts. "Say it to HIM. Kneel before thy LORD and tell it to HIM. And lose the sarcasm now!" By now I'm feeling strangely defensive, and, somewhat disoriented from being caught up in this surreal scene, I find myself crouching down, addressing the old man: "It's....uhm.... quite a universe you've got here. Many good things to be grateful for....like...[looking around]... birds, trees, flowers, clouds, comfortable benches, traffic signals, fresh coffee - so many amazing perks. Thank you sir....I have no immediate complaints off the top of my head - speaking for myself that is. Ha. Ha." But even then, the old lady is not mollified. "Quite a universe - humph? Is that all you can say to HIM who gives unceasingly that thou mayest live abundantly, that thou mayest flourish and prosper and learn continuously from the intricate labyrinth which even now you continue to de-value? You store up WRATH for yourself on the day of judgment!" The old man looking down at the bench feeling for splinters, seemingly humbled by the spectacle of it all, looks up at me ever so briefly as if to say: "This universe is okay then, it's not so imperfect as people seem to think? You like it well enough then - eh?" But instead of responding to these unsaid remarks I continued my dialogue with the old woman: "I beg your pardon, madam," I say, holding my temper in check for the moment "but you seem to be talking as if this gentleman, your spouse, were some sort of god or something?"" And she: " Some sort of god? Some mere random deity sent to visit you, you ingrate, you spoiled child! You impudent, wicked cretin, you insubstantial ball of clay, you dust-ridden miscreant! You small-time petty blasphemer. Puer aeternus! We simplify for your benefit. We make things tangible and accessible to you, and still you walk past us indifferent to this sublime moment of revelation! You have a most feeble memory, young man. Is this not what you yourself had once asked for during a moment of excruciating pain???" She had succeeded by now at embarrassing me. Was this some strange payback for a request I had made (in my turbulent adolescence, no doubt) to garner a direct visitation from the Almighty? (A doubting Thomas, I've been called that before, but this was ridiculous.) "I meant to say," (trying again, playing along with her premise), "that I am honored to be part of such an amazingly complicated and always-interesting universe." But at this point my inner skeptic was getting the better of me. "May I point out, however, that along with such feelings of awe and wonder, one cannot help but be stricken at times with other more ambivalent emotions, a cosmic vertigo if you like; such gratitude as we can muster is leavened with dread, angst, trepidation, bewilderment, and not a small amount of frustration, even anger at having to undergo various unasked-for pain and difficulty... It is in our nature, my good lady, to imagine how things might have been other than they in fact are...We dream, do we not, of other possible worlds, new and improved and without all the chaos...I mean we humans can't take responsibility for everything that goes wrong in this world - can we?" The woman sat silent, stone-faced. "By the way," I continue, "does your husband want to say anything in reply to my remarks?" "HE is not one for small talk. I speak for him as a rule; yet being a woman, I am quite used to being overlooked, ignored, de-valued, not to mention nay-sayed, but I am his voice, nevertheless. We work as one unit. My words typically fall by the wayside although they have upon them the divine stamp of approval, have no doubt.  "But you do understand what I'm getting at - don't you? People want to be grateful - but they do have issues. And they seldom get the direct feedback that they crave - aside from the incoherent ravings of eccentrics and would-be prophets. They don't hear back from you guys; they don't feel your presence." The woman picks up her knitting and shoots me another piercing glare. "And look you now. What is happening at this very moment? We ARE having this marvelous conversation, but you take it as an affront, an attack, an accusation, a hassle, a nuisance, a let-down, a distraction from your normal empty chatter, your wretched daily routine. So be it. And will you go away satisfied even if I should tell you all of the answers you ever longed to hear? It is not in your nature to be satisfied with anything that the divine wisdom might impart to you..." At this point, stunned by the weird circus atmosphere that I find myself at a loss for words. "Divine wisdom," I mumble to myself. Is that what this is???  "As I've said," her voice growing soft, "I am used to being slighted, disparaged, rejected, but mark my words, your perception is warped, that's why you fail to bow down and give thanks." I walk on (or wake up, rather) intending that my skeptical lawyer, Phil, should hear about this...

To Tweet or not to Tweet...

They tell me I should tweet...but what am I, a bird?

Television, Our Comforter

Television is now (and perhaps always was and will be) something more than just a humble babysitter, more than a plasticine friend, more than a stationary butler, more than a virtual family or a miniature menagerie, more than a strange substitute ersatz community, more than the instant cure for whatever or elusive promise of an endless club-med vacation, more than a ready-made dream-factory, even more (some would say) than a universe within a universe, the bizaro-world, mirror-image reversal of our own. Our constant comforter, it is thus, which is more than all these other descriptors combined. After having watched countless hours on the tube it finally hits me, that along with the screen itself, something else is there as well: an aura of sorts, like a person, a ghost, a shadow, a presence sent to comfort us. And what a strange subterranean message it is that this comforter brings, in new and subtle forms, with every waking show, every commercial, every news broadcast, public service announcement, weather report, cartoon, cop show, sit-com, mini-series or info-mercial. It's a weird positive sensation, a mood sent out, a gesture transmuted, a cryptic unspoken message beneath the blather and hum that tells you, tells me that everything's going to be okay, that everything is already fine (or at least, not too too bad), that what you're witnessing ladies and gentlemen at home is completely normal and shall remain normal, notwithstanding the news of the weird, the train wrecks, the car crashes, the wild animals, the natural disasters, the dysfunctional relationships, the yelling, the screaming, the broken hearts, the expletives deleted, the crowds cheering, candidates debating, the bombs exploding, the laugh-tracks, the soundbytes, the jewelry for sale, despite it ALL, the world is still turning apace... so relax, sit back and enjoy the show. The chaos is being dealt with, is being framed, stamped, indexed, numbered, packaged, programmed for your consumption, for your digestion, for your benefit, for your entertainment....so THAT you can handle it - eh? But I'm worried. I'm worried. There is something disturbing about - STOP. About the- STOP. When I see all the- STOP. Because we can't just- STOP. The comforter has spoken: relax, sit back, enjoy the show, and please, whatever else you may do, just keep on watching...We're dealing with the situation so you don't have to. Ahhhhhhhhh. ....And when television leaves the living room and becomes attached to you wherever you go, on your phone, your lap-top, in your car, following you around everywhere, not letting you rest because you need that comfort zone, because you need the warm reassurance of the mysterious comforter,  has it not become at that point something more than mere television? But here's when it- STOP. You see, I worry that - STOP. Because this can't be healthy-STOP. So I keep watching...

Tobacco Road - Rage

Reading the reviews for Tobacco Road by Erskine Caldwell (first published in 1932) I was struck by how many current readers were put off by the subject matter - i.e. poor white farmers in Georgia during the Depression. Many readers on Goodreads.com gave the novel only one star (*) while others recognized how the author was trying to paint a tragic portrait of a somewhat neglected class in American society. Caldwell was, if nothing else, relentlessly honest in his depiction of brutish, impulsive, desperate victims of hard times who often behaved erratically and irrationally to their own detriment.

The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins

Billed as one of the first detective novels, this mystery about a missing/stolen diamond would be worth reading - just for the sake of sampling the narrative of the dutiful butler, Gabriel Betteridge, the always-entertaining narrator of Part 1.

A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens

A Tale of Two Cities is a novel with great staying power. Aside from the hypnotic pulse of the narrative itself, we might be tempted to think of it as primarily a "plot-driven" novel, full of twists and turns, populated by a slew of memorable characters to be sure, individuals for the most part either broadly sketched or overshadowed by events. But among these personages,  the emotional centerpiece of the story remains the eminently plausible, tirelessly vindictive, relentless "settler of scores," the one and only: Madame Defarge.

So Long to April