Matter

About 5 years ago I hosted a party at my apartment by the beach and invited all of my close friends and neighbors. We imbibed, ate sumptuous food and danced to the funkiest of music.  I hired a sushi chef who served fresh sashimi and California rolls. Those were good times.

In the years I spent living by the beach, I gathered with friends in my home and shared Thanksgiving, Christmas and the New Year’s holidays. We honored birthdays and played charades.  My tribe was my touchstone and surrogate family.

My best friend lived downstairs and was my sister and confidant. One day, to my delight, she asked me to be Godmother to her firstborn son, a treasure that grabbed my heart, a heart that had been tucked away for many, many years. I was a proud Godmother.    It was a role that was as important to me as breathing. Grisha was perfection and I cared for him as if he were as fragile as porcelain. I was in love with this little boy, my heart, my sanity.

I was present when Grisha took his first steps, spoke his first syllable, rode his first skateboard.  We celebrated every birthday.  When Grisha arrived home from pre-school, I relished the comforting sound of his voice, as he often called up to my window, “Carla, can I come upstairs?.”  Grisha and I would hang out in my apartment, eat dinner, watch Tom & Jerry or simply engage in playful folly.  Sometimes when I fetched him from school, Grisha would proudly introduce me to his schoolmates, in his most delightful tenor, “This is my God Mama,” and then he’d smile, that smile that soothed me like hot tea on a cold, sunless day. I never felt alone, lonely or anxious when we were together.  Grisha taught me patience and sacrifice and love.  My perfect Godchild was home and heart and love, absolute love.

Eventually I sang farewell to my home near the beach, where I had lived and loved for 12 years. I adopted a 5-week-old Chow mix named Fudge and the two of us, along with my cats and turtle moved to a fresh space that could accommodate my eccentric brood. My best friend moved back to the Ukraine with Grisha and her new baby girl. I haven’t seen them in nearly 3 years. I often ache for my porcelain treasure and the tribe that has scattered to winds far beyond my reach.

I am a childless mother.

Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?

-Stanley Kunitz – American Poet Laureate

Silence

I’m really not that old, but I do remember the days before email, voicemail and the World Wide Web.  I remember hooking up with friends on the weekend by ringing them on the phone and leaving a message on an answering machine. I remember when playing outside felt more natural than engaging a Wii.  I remember playing hide and seek and praying the sun would stay up just a little longer so I could ride my bicycle.

I remember three network stations and the broken knob on the TV that required a pair of pliers to switch channels.  I remember analog and rabbit ears and the fizzy sound the TV made when you couldn’t get a station.  I remember listening to music on my father’s radio and smiling when he snapped his fingers to his favorite jazz tune.

I remember my first library card, checking out a dozen Charles Schultz books and hoping Lucy would let poor Charlie Brown kick the football. I remember when music was recorded on audiotape and buying my first VCR, believing it was the purchase of the decade.

I remember wanting to stay up while my parents played dominos into the wee hours of the night.  I remember seeing the only kiss mother gave daddy after my sister and I arrived home from a long journey back from Texas, where my father’s father was just buried.  I remember watching an inferno as daddy lit the coals in the barbecue pit and the anticipation of what was sure to be a greedy night of eating ribs, chicken and succulent hamburgers.

I remember when I didn’t feel overwhelmed by technology and the loss of authentic connectedness with someone, when intimacy was not dependent upon a profile on an Internet dating site.

I remember when we weren’t so far away.

Less Should Be More

I finished reading an interview Leonardo DiCaprio gave to Rolling Stone magazine (the print copy) in which he revealed little about himself (a blessing these days).  DiCaprio is one of those actors who has always intrigued me, and when I watch him work I can feel the intensity and commitment he demands from his skill as an actor, however I haven’t really connected emotionally with DiCaprio’s presence on screen since he made What’s Eating Gilbert Grape.

In Grape he plays a developmentally challenged kid trying to navigate in the world of “normal” people, and he was absolutely fantastic.  Not once was I not convinced he was that kid.  I was non-plussed about his role in Titanic because of his eternally youthful face, which kept me from believing he was the heartthrob everyone wanted him to be.  In The Aviator I felt the same thing.  DiCaprio is a fine actor so why do I leave his movies with no emotional imprint?

The RS interview gave me some insight into DiCaprio’s world.  He’s a disciplined artist and private man who refuses to discuss his relationships off screen.  He seems to have much love and respect for his parents who gave him room to flourish and thrive.  DiCaprio spoke of growing up in East Hollywood, where drugs were dealt on the corner and where it wasn’t unusual to run into the occasional prostitute when you left the house.  He worries about the environment and the extinction of tigers.  But you can tell from the interview DiCaprio is guarded very much like he appears to me on screen.  He gives just enough to lend curiosity but not enough to give away his mystique.

Maybe that’s the way it should be with movie stars.  I sometimes long for the days before RadarOnline, TMZ, Us Weekly, E! or any other tabloid medium.  Crotch shots, overdoses, rehab stints, court appearances are inherent parts of the Hollywood machine, but actors like DiCaprio keep us wanting to see more because he tells us very little, and that makes for an interesting box office draw.

Comedy and Tragedy

It’s amazing how fast a video can go viral and how quickly a stranger can become famous for simply being featured in the news.

Antoine is the brother of Kelly Dodson, the victim of an attempted rape that took place in Huntsville, Alabama.  Kelly was asleep when a man climbed through her window, into her bed and forced himself upon her.  Antoine awakened and chased the would be attacker away. The local news was reporting on the crime and featured interviews with both Antoine and Kelly.

A video of Antoine, chastising and baiting the attacker, has been posted on Youtube, Facebook, Gawker even Huff Post.  You see, it wasn’t the crime that snagged the curiosity of the voracious public but the flamboyant manner Antoine expressed his anger at what happened to his sister and family.  Antoine shakes his head and unabashedly warns people to “hide your kids, hide your wife and hide your husband cause’ they raping everybody out here”.  He is unintentionally amusing and the reason he is being mocked all over the World Wide Web.

When I first saw the video I laughed hysterically.  I thought it odd to see victims of a crime so defiant, unrehearsed and more than willing to call the criminal out on his misdeed, behavior which led me to believe a crime of this nature was just another day at the park for them.  The Dodson family live in the Lincoln Park projects, a seemingly poor section of Huntsville.  The term “projects” has typically been associated with poverty, which breeds crime, a sad testament to how many people live today, and why the public’s focus should be re-directed to helping individuals rise above their unfortunate situations that will ultimately enable them to find a way to a better life.

Should we be amused with Antoine’s newly appointed fame or disgusted by the fact that the attempted rape of a black woman in a poor section of Alabama has taken a back seat?  Maybe the exposure will help nab the whacko before he attacks someone else and/or force a spotlight on the economic conditions in the projects in Lincoln Park and elsewhere.  Or maybe it was an Amos and Andy moment that caused people to laugh, which sadly many of us did.

Writing is Believing

I wasn’t raised with anyone mirroring my innate creative spirit nor was I allowed to let my passion flourish.  Yet somehow I fell in love with writing and the idea I could positively influence the thinking of others with words on a page.  For me, it wasn’t about praise or applause, but about joining the esteemed ranks of Plath, Kunitz, Campbell, Gibran and many other writers and poets I’ve read over the years who told me a story with words.

I can’t imagine a life without books and the written truths of artists who live to share his or her creation.  I don’t care what anyone says, holding an ebook is not the same as feeling a hardbound book in your hands and the surprise that awaits you as you turn to the opening pages of your first novel.  And that is why I will never own a Kindle.

For My Father

My father was fairly young when he died.  A self educated man, he craved knowledge much like a man stranded in the desert thirsted water.  While he lay in bed early most nights with a great big book, with light emanating from the nightstand next to his bed and deep in scholarly thought, I wondered what could possibly interest him more than me, his seventh child.

Daddy was very smart and well versed in jazz and the dialogues of Carl Sagan and Isaac Asimov. I remember him walking me and my siblings to the public library and encouraging us to read anything, everything.  I owned a library card before I was ten years old and was eager to emulate his intellect.

Daddy was a lifetime subscriber to National Geographic Magazine and sometimes when he wasn’t looking, I’d sneak into his room and steal his latest issue of the most illustrious journal I had ever seen.

National Geographic was my window into the unknown.  Before the Internet butchered most of life’s mystery, I immersed myself in pictures and stories of unexplored landscapes and freshly discovered species.  I was introduced to Jacques Cousteau and his wild adventures and the Leakey family who wrote the book on exploration and discovery.  I wanted to walk in the wild and learn everything I could about our planet.  I can’t count the number of times my daddy would stomp into my room and howl, “Do you have my National Geographic?”.  Answering him coyly I’d say, “Yes daddy, but can I it keep for just a few more minutes?”.  He relented every time.  Daddy didn’t like it when I absconded with the one thing that engaged his imagination and led him on expeditions to remote provenances, but I think part of him was delighted I mirrored his passion.

National Geographic taught me to love all that is living and to appreciate the untamed life of a planet that offered richness and adventure.  I wanted to be the photographer who captured those rare moments under and above the sea or that paleontologist who unearthed the remains of a fossil among ruins yet to be named.

Before I embraced the corporate life and became a token of a system that discouraged individualism, I envisioned myself working along side colleagues who understood the interconnectedness of every living creature on Earth, and who spent every waking moment educating anyone who would listen. As I got older that sense of adventure dissipated and was replaced with insecurity and a need to breach the status quo.

My daddy died in 1989, before the bloom of the Internet.  He never held a cell phone or engaged a social networking site like Facebook that would forever replace the traditional way of connecting with family, friends and the Earth we so unwittingly take for granted.  Daddy championed the beauty and uniqueness of nature every day of his life and passed that love of all that is lush and green and bright and clean onto his seventh child.  I am grateful for his curiosity and will be forever.

Can’t Bear It

A grizzly bear who mauled three campers at Yellowstone National Park on July 29 was put down after a camper was dragged from his tent and mauled to death.  Two other campers were also attacked and survived.

The female bear was tracked and trapped by wildlife authorities who identified the animal as being the one responsible for the death of one man and the attack on two others.  The female was with her three cubs, two of which were captured and are now awaiting transport to a zoo.  The third cub vanished into the park.

According to authorities the attacks were unprovoked and apparently the main reason the bear was executed.  Should we question the methods employed to deal with these wild animals or arbitrarily destroy a co-inhabitant of Earth?  It is a known fact that for centuries Man has encroached, without conscious, into the natural habitat of indigenous creatures living and thriving in their natural habitat.  The innate behavior of animals, displaced and hungry, has forced them to adapt to an environment where man has unluckily become part of their food chain.

The female bear is dead and her offspring are on route to captivity to be desensitized and tamed.  What is most disturbing is that even though this animal behaved like a wild animal should, which is to hunt, eat and protect its young, it was annihilated.  The bear can’t explain its nature or plead for mercy.  Ask the surfer who survives a shark attack and he will confess respect for the wild and refuse to blame the animal for its predatory instinct.

Wild animals are unpredictable and do not always follow the “typical” behavior experts are accustomed.  Is that reason enough to annihilate them on demand?  Wildlife officials were alarmed and described the attacks as not being typical bear behavior.  One official argued, “when you have a dangerous predator like that — that has no fear of humans — you’ve really got a dangerous situation and I think wildlife managers understand there’s very little wiggle room here on what to do”.  So the thing to “do” is kill the animal because it did what came naturally?  It’s heartbreaking when an animal is sacrificed for the plundering we’ve done to the homeland that belonged to them long before we were even a speck on the planet.

Animals in the wild are increasingly running out of room, displaced while their natural food sources diminish due to the trespassing of humans.  The recent oil spill disaster in the Gulf is more than proof that humans are making a mess of this planet and animals are paying the price.

Although the camper’s death is tragic and his family’s loss devastating, it’s still important to understand why something like this happens.  Maybe animals are fighting to reclaim their environment.  With climate changes, food depletion, human population explosion and the demand for more and more natural resources is it any wonder they are nervous about their own survival?  Maybe it’s time to bear that in mind.

Link to article:  http://www.google.com/hostednews/ap/article/ALeqM5h-zvKvHc7LVgGFN-WcG2niIDZNZwD9H9LHR80