Julianza, Inkling

 

 April, 09: a very rare shot (taken by daughter Amadea), in that my mouth is actually closed

Note:  My chapbook is available.  It is 33 pages, with two original artworks (front, back), is 5 1/2" X 8 1/2 "and sells for $8.00, including padded envelope and postage. Please go to the Contact Me page if you are interested. Thanks. (The chapbook is not the same as the larger perfect-bind book I hope to bring out by September.)

Here are some prose, then poetry samples. Unfortunately, a huge amount of my prose was written before the age of computers.  Perhaps I can scan.

The first two pieces below were written to promote The Classically Alive Music Salon series, and were published in 2008. If I can help promote your business or venue, please let me know.

The next piece of writing is the beginning of my autobiography -- the first five chapters, humorous (at least i hope so).  It's called "The Plums of Childhood."  Enjoy!  "Plums" has not yet been finalized, i.e., fully edited.

Following "Plums" is an article written for The Freethinkers of Colorado Springs, and published by the Colorado Springs Independent, a large alternative weekly, a few years back.

 

 Close Encounters of the Heard Kind

Part 1 of 2

       When is the last time you got up-close and personal with great classical music in an intimate atmosphere, in the living room of a host treating you to a fantastic spread of food, all kinds of drink, informal discussion about the pleasures and vicissitudes of various pieces and instruments, and an inimitable sense of humor?

        For me, it was just days ago, at the home of Abram Minzer, one of the city's finest classical pianists, where Minzer has been doing salons since early 2006, featuring works by Mozart, Schubert and others. His latest brain-child is the Schumann-Brahms Salon Series. The event has featured many other composers as well, such as Beethoven, Stravinsky, and even the contemporary Ben-Amots. Salons are held Sundays at 4:30 p.m. (with an occasional Saturday 6:30 session);  remaining salons in this series run through November 10.

        Minzer's salons stem from an attraction to the mix of ideas and interaction within the Southern Colorado Psychoanalytic Salon Series, at which he has presented programs on the life and works of Bach and Beethoven. Too, he models his salons on those attended by Schubert, Chopin, Schumann and others;  those early gatherings were actually a heady mix of not just music, but literary, visual, and other arts as well, a melting- (if not boiling-) pot of intellectual and artistic fervor. 

       Minzer's series, consisting of 15 core musicians (but open to others interested in sharing their various talents), is an alternative to the venue of enormous music halls in which the line is clearly delineated between performer and audience, and hopefully align with his personal goal in life: “to create and inspire love and beauty.”   He hopes and believes that salon attendees not only enjoy the programs, but experience a sense of connectedness, both with the music and one another.

      I have greatly enjoyed my first salon excursions. Socializing and feasting come first, during which talk and laughter abound, and when the weather is temperate, conversing amid the trees and sun, to the background-tinkling of scattered water fountains, is an extra treat, along the lines of art's imitating nature's imitating art.  Minzer's home is, itself, a feast for the eyes, beginning with a dazzling light-infused entryway, leading to a dining room (with mirrored ceiling, so you can eat for two, no matter what your situation!), and then living room, in which two gleaming grand pianos nestle like contented (if rather enormous) cats.  Seating for the actual salon is a semicircle, which imbues a communal atmosphere in which one can see not only the musicians but other audience members as well.

       Preceding the performances, Abe (as he is known affectionately by friends) gives an overview of the series and the day's fare.  The musicians, ranging from cellists to pianists, horn-players, clarinetists, vocalists, etc., are both local and imported from other cities. In a single program you might hear compositions by Israeli-born Ofer Ben-Amots, performed by, among others, Dave Stoller, former first-chair horn-player with the Colorado Springs Symphony.  

      The music, (so far I have heard duets and trios) is divine (including the acoustics), and discussions of their instruments' fortes, challenges, and even construction, are fascinating.  I had never heard anything played on the earliest (and most difficult version) of the French horn, for instance.  Disseminated as well is a little information about each piece and/or its composer, the circumstances both personal and  historical which culminated in a particular piece of music.  We, as audience, were invited and encouraged to ask questions, to participate in what was/is a learning experience for all.

      The second salon I attended represented an evolving vision of Minzer's – to incorporate other art forms. eleven oil paintings by Tokyo-native Kazuko Stern were  upon various walls, and she discussed her genesis as artist, and each piece in some detail.  Again, questions were encouraged.  At the Oct. 14 salon, Indian writer and Poetry West member Yousuf Zaigham presented a poetry reading.  Abe’s wife, Carol Schreuder, Psychologist PhD, spoke on the topic of bipolar illness, as it affected Robert Schumann and his work.

       Having attended just a few salons, I wonder where I've been all my life.  I would encourage you to join in. You can pick and choose which salon/s in the series to attend; it's not all-or-nothing. The experience is good for both body and mind (and those ineffables, soul and heart). You needn't be a musician yourself to enjoy the series.  Just come along, bring your curiosity, bring a friend, and an appetite for good food, conversation and art.  Enjoy the intimacy, the diversity of background, the gorgeous music, the conviviality, and the Minzers' warmth and hospitality.

       By the way, Abe recently shared with me that he (like I) has perfect pitch, a dubious “blessing” at times (try switching instruments within the same family, like recorders or strings, and watch your ears and fingers go to war).  I would say that his sensibilities don't extend just to musical tones. His salons, as far as I'm concerned, are pitch-perfect. Don't miss another!

                                                      Part 2

What passion cannot music raise or quell?” -- John Dryden

    Poet John Keats wrote that “Heard melodies are sweet/but those unheard are sweeter...”  However, upon gazing at the audience during one of host Abe Minzer's Schumann-Brahms music salons, we all might be tempted to take Keats to task. It could be that we just need our poetic licenses renewed, or a refresher course in Keats, or it could be something else.
    Against a wall sits a burly man, arms crossed, head bent and eyes closed as if in prayer or in deeper contemplation than Rodin's “Thinker.” Another tilts his head slightly back, a winsome smile on his lips, as though he were hearing angels. Yet another sways gently to the rhythm of an adagio movement, while another leans forward as if viewing a thriller, wide-eyed and fixated as a violinist, horn-player, or pianist thrusts his or her whole body into creating virtuoso sound.  As with other sublime events, like a religious service or wedding, Minzer's salons seem to be a sort of haven, an extra bit of weekly Eden.

   Truly, the salons are a delight in too many ways to be captured by just one writer in only two articles (for background/introduction see “Encounters of the Heard Kind,” (“The Gazette,” YourHub/Cheyenne Mtn Edition, online for Oct. 18, 2007). Perhaps it is best to let the performers and audience speak for themselves.

   Violinist Herman Susser, who has performed with the Colorado Springs and Pueblo Symphonies, the Chamber Orchestra of the Springs, and leads a Klezmer band (a mix of Eastern European Jewish music), comments that “these salons offer something that once made their way into the courts of Europe, playing for a private audience,” but which are now more public. “The program,” he continues, “offers an opportunity to perform without the frightening glimmer of the 'professional' public stage lights, in a smaller setting, with fewer butterflies,” noting that during a Brahms Horn Trio, which encompasses both warmth and heroics, he felt he had reached a new peak in his abilities. He stresses, too, that all of the performers have “real jobs,” and must make (i.e., steal) the time for practice, which hopefully pays off. It does – and then some.

   Dave Stoller, former principal hornist with the Colorado Springs Symphony, the Air Force Academy Band, Little London Winds, among other groups, has delighted the crowd with mastery of both the natural horn (dating to Mozart's time) and its modern-day incarnation. He effuses that the combination of “an autumn evening, the smell of fallen leaves and the sounds of the music” engender a bittersweetness, a quality endemic to so much of Brahms' works.” He says that the “emotion and pathos” evoked by the music and performers has brought him to tears --- and that he doubts “music ever gets better than this: performing for friends, with friends.”

   Violinist Dorothy Crow-Willard, Oberlin College graduate and private student of many violin masters in New York and Boston, has performed as concert-master of professional and community orchestras, and as soloist with the Connecticut Chamber Orchestra, the Chamber Orchestra of New England, and several philharmonic orchestras. Watching Dorothy perform is an experience like no other. Her range of facial expressions above the chin so lovingly perched on the instrument is virtually catholic, and probably more than any other musician, she engages her whole body into the performance, rather like a Keith Jarrett of strings. Husband Gary is a bassist whose incredibly low tones alternate with impressive falsetto, and as with Dorothy, his body language and range of facial expression could merit him an Oscar, were he in movies. He says that “every time we look at these songs (Brahms, Schumann), “we find new nuances, which is a delight.”

   In contrast to these theatrics (meant in a good sense), David Greene, chamber-music pianist covering the Springs/Denver areas, sits stolid at the ivories as accompanist as well as during his recent two-piano piece with Minzer, the latter of whom also thrusts his whole body into the playing; both pianists evince exquisite passion, force, and eloquence. Greene and Minzer met 36 years ago, and and last year the two prepared three of Mozart's sonatas for four hands.  Regarding practice, David states that “when you consider that Abe lives in Colorado Springs and I, in Lafayette, this seemed a little bit crazy, but as we delved into the music, we soon realized the effort was worth it.” He calls it a “great joy” to perform in an intimate, friendly environment, and commends Abe and wife Carol Schreuder (a psychologist who delivered a talk on bipolar illness in regards to Schumann) for opening their home to the community. He revels in the “zest and enthusiasm” of both performers and audience.

   Soprano Gail Carpenter, who with husband/tenor John Carpenter performs throughout the state as the “high end” of “The Swinging Sweethearts,” has also sung with Duke Ellington; together the Carpenters have performed with the Omaha Symphony, The Miami Beach Symphony, teach piano and voice, and Gail finds the “bonding between audience and musicians impressive, and the audience's questions/performers' responses intriguing. John, who attended Julliard on full scholarship, won a contract to perform at the New York Metropolitan Opera and has sung all over the globe. His booming tenor voice is a beautiful complement to Gail's sweet but thrillingly potent vibrato.

   Cellist/lawyer Carla Albers is section leader of the Pikes Peak Philharmonic (and feels that “music is so different from everything else” she does, adding that “it is an amazing feeling to let the music wash over and around you..... “ and that though some musicians may appear “stoic” while playing (hello again, David), in reality, “there are a million things going on....[performing] is a very intense intellectual, physical and emotional experience.” She loves the “immediacy and intimacy” of the salon setting, adding that the cello is one of the most endearing instruments to listeners, if subconsciously, because it is the instrument closest to the range of the human voice.

   Soprano Cindy Saunders worries that, without “folks like Abe,” the salon experience could become a lost art. Regarding the Mahler and Strauss which she performed Sunday, Nov. 4, she states that “in the chaos of the world....what especially resonates is the serenity and bittersweet settings of the poetry by Von Glimm,” and considers it an honor to share these moving evocative and emotive moments with others.

   Cellist Don Perkins, member of, among others, The Chamber Orchestra Recital Series and The Boulder Chamber Orchestra, has also performed at the Lincoln center in New York and the World's Fair in Knoxville, TN, is in very high demand, and very confident as a player. He and Dorothy seem to be another match made in heaven.

   Jan and Carl Eklund, violinist and pianist, respectively, give recitals in their home and include other fine musicians as well. Jan, also a certified midwife, plays with the Pikes Peak Philharmonic and was concert-mistress for seven years. Both of them divine performers, they have been a husband/wife musical duo for 37 years.

   Lest this all sound like one big mutual admiration society, consider audience member Janice Stahl's reveling in Abe and David's inspiration to rename each of the Brahms variations, playing snippets and involving the audience (who were exhorted to connect the new names to their personal lives) prior to the performance, resulting in a lot of fun, and rousing applause. She has also enjoyed the variety Minzer is now incorporating: literary and visual-art contributions. Kathy Verlo comments that besides the “food for the soul” (i.e., the music), a delicious repast is served (buffet-style) – and enjoys the informal discussions and history of the musical selections. Susan Kotval adds simply (but emphatically) that “I did not realize the extreme talent we have in this community!”

   Minzer's vision of the salon's evolution includes continuing the non-musical art, such as the poetry by Poetry West member Yousuf Zaigham, who found it “exhilarating to see how closely shared the territories and motifs are between music and poetry.” Also a Poetry West member, I was profoundly flattered to be involved, performing two piano compositions and reading two poems at one salon, then two more poems on Nov. 4. Kazuko Stern and I, whose paintings are as alike as a Rembrandt and a Picasso, have been thrilled to decorate the Abe's walls. At the Oct. 28^th salon, the adorable 7 ½ yr old Ahyo Falick played two piano pieces, titillating the audience and, hopefully, is ringing in the future!

   Minzer's plans include another salon series for May of 2008, to includefour salons devoted to Spanish or Latin music, including a performance by the “Dos Americas” guitar duo, and Italian music as well. He is hoping to tour Colorado with a few of the salon members, and then hopes to take on some of the larger cities on the east coast. Minzer is a very tall man with dreams to match, but it would be false to say he stands by at each salon like a proud father, because no pride actually shows. The salon series may be his most recent “baby,” the labor involved in it intense, exhausting, and all-consuming, but the delivery is, as with any newborn, worth every sacrifice, to which any attendee will attest.

   November 10 closes this salon's span. So think “music.” Think “David, Carla, Gail, Herman,” etc.  And whatever you do, don't forget Dorothy, because when it comes to music, (to tweak the tale a tad), there's no place like Abe's home.

For information on the music salons contact Abe Minzer at aminzer@comcast.net or 527-8776.

 

THE PLUMS OF CHILDHOOD

My life in too many words or more

Chapter One

   I weighed six pounds 8 1/2 ounces, which to this day bothers me; I cannot say "six and a half" pounds, due to that annoying extra 1/2 ounce (probably due to  my grandfather's mustache).  Little things like that bother me, by which I mean they are big things...not that I have people chronically asking my birth-weight -- but you know, it COULD happen that suddenly the world and its inhabitantsall become psychotically interested.  I can't be the only ass-backward nut-job on the planet, can I? This is a hetorical question.  I'm afraid of the answer. Silence is everything. So I'll shut up now.

Chapter Two

    I haven't yet said much about my father and as everyone knows, a father or something like a father, is involved in the creation of a child.  Having time-traveled like this, however, it is now necessary to include my mother in this wicked little trip into the past (BC, by which I mean Before Chapters).  One day about ten years ago, she stated, "you were conceived in Chicago."  

     Huh?  Chicago? How could she be so sure?  She was speaking of a hotel, and I guess she was good at math, better than she would be eventually, giving birth to two more children (though this insanity has less to do with math than other things), when she already had a perfect child. What was she thinking, that ingrate?  I'll have you know that my grandfather (see Chapter 1) happened to be a stunning physical specimen.  Well, OK, not exactly.  When I knew him, he was short, stout, red-faced and practically bald. However, he was always smiling, much like I as a newborn, after a good, let's say, ending to digestion.

    I know I'm in deep trouble here. I have now insulted anyone with the physical  features mentioned. Pretend that you didn't read the above.  Or know that I must appropriate everything in my cerebral grasp, for the sake of humor. Not humor, you say? to poke fun at my grandfather's (or your)(and by extension, unintentionally) appearance?  You're right.  I apologize. If you knew my family, however, and if you keep reading, (this horrible circumstance may come to pass, if virtually), you would know that my family's main mode of humor involved insult  and other forms of verbal degradation -- oh, not abuse, just the kind of fun wherein one is laughing at and not with. We also, tangentially, experienced problems such as ending sentences with prepositions.

    This is strange, now that I think about it, because I was brought up in a very liberal home, by which I mean, one in which we were taught that one does not slur anyone for any reason: race, religion, shape, politicial proclivities, financial situation, degree of intelligence, etc.  Apparently, however, we were all fair game for one another.  I guess that being so saintly demanded that we all have an outlet (sort of like testosterone-driven males (oops, I've done it again) which is much safer, say, for those XY's,  playing football or boxing, rather than starting or participating in wars. Now I've got myself enmeshed in a sexist thing.  I am constantly having to eat my words (which as I told a friend recently, is not so bad if there is enough ketchup and beer). 

But notice that I have made it back to discussion of men, and my father was a man, even if he did not warmonger or play sports. He had other outlets. Creating my brother and sister would be an example, so you can see the havoc there, though it's better than, say, shooting someone in the back and stealing pictures from a wallet, of children he'd prefer to have.

     I'm a little off topic here. I am what is called a lateral thinker.  Some have asked, are you ADHD, perchance? This does NOT stand for AuthorsDenHappyDen. You know what it stands for. But no, I have no diagnosis whatever, though it was once speculated I was a borderline personality.  As I wrote to a pal (from AuthorsDenHappyDen) recently, what in hell is THAT??? Does it mean I'm sort of like me but sort of like you? (Who isn't?)  Does it mean that I ALMOST have a personality?   Does it mean I'm part Mexican?

    Anyway, while I was entering this world, my father was undoubtedly in the waiting room, bumming a few smokes from any doctor who'd recently finished bringing another bloody screaming heap into the world. In those days, you could smoke anywhere.  No once looked down on the doctors, first of all, because they were extremely tall back then, and also, because it was then unknown the link between smoking and lung cancer.  Smoking was simply pleasurable and adult-like.   I don't actually remember seeing my father with a cigarette; I remember, later, his smoking those tiparillo cigars.

     Did I mention that my mother smoked from the time she was 17? And through all three pregnancies? They didnt know the dangers of all that back then either. I would like to have given my first squall back in the days of ignorance;  in fact, after all that hard work (you think it's easy entering the world in reverse gear?) I could have used a cigarette (maybe after my little nap;  yes, it was good for me, how about you?) and probably a good stiff drink.

   I imagine the doctor went to my father and said, Congratulations, Mr. Shavin, it's a GIRL!  And aside from my normal fee, you now owe me 5,000 dollars in bummed cigarettes.  How my father felt about having a girl I don't know.  I never asked.  Hopefully, he said something like, "and everything is ok?  wonderful!!" finding himself taken aback only by information regarding the moustache.

   It occurs to me to pump my mother for more information regarding this time.  If she can bear the memories. If she bore me, she can bear memories, though they may come out just as backwards.  She will probably say, "well, they knocked your father out, I consorted with the doctors in the waiting room, smoked until my lungs were a volcano, and eventually went in search of a razor. That does not mean she was suicidal, of course (even if being the first woman whose husband did her job). it was just the peachfuzz.   I am referring, of course, to her OWN. What did you think?  Back then, as now, my mother was very particular about her appearance. She too looked like her father.  At any rate, I will assume both parents were happy to have a healthy baby.  I didn't know who in hell anyone was, so I was neither happy nor sad, only hungry or poopy. Much like now.

Chapter Three

    Hm. I best point out right now that "hm" is one of my favorite words. We all have favorites, don't we?  Another of my favorites is "ineffable." I am particularly partial to "Mommy," and I also like "alabaster." The "hm" right here refers to the fact that I realize a sub-title is needed. I have explained that other titles, like The Story of My Lives, have been maliciously co-opted by writers getting their lines down before I can.  Such is life.

   So, with the help of --- nothing --- by which I refer to my brain -- it occurs to me that maybe a fitting subtitle would be The Story of My Dives.  If you've ever seen my various abodes, you'd understand. Maybe I could send pictures of any that have not been condemned.  Or, if I were into cooking, The Story of My Chives. But I hate to cook. Then there is The Story of my Hives, which actually is a very interesting little tale about my one brush with big red welts, cause unknown, or the other brush with angry bees just because I had to condemn THEIR abode. No, not quite encompassing enough. The Story of my Wives? Well, that would be such a better memoir, very interesting, except that I haven't had any, at least not yet. The story of my knives? Nope, not suicidal enough, ditto the above qualifier.

   I'm thinking maybe My Life in a Few Words or More. Or My Life in an Infinity of Words or More. Enough on this subject.  If i continue in this vein, I will have to then speak of the troubles with Chapter titles, and I have troubles enough. For instance, my bad hair life. But wait!!! Rewind the tape!  We're still at the part (no pun intended) where I'm just born, and there wasn't much hair to be seen.  I looked good that way, I think, with that barely-visible red halo.  My hair did not stay red, but i did (like my grandfather) stay freckled, heavily in some places, not at all in others.  But I'm not here to talk freckles.

   It occurs to me now to wonder, under what circumstances did my mother turn to me one day and say, "You were conceived in Chicago...?" (I can never get that kind of punctuation right. In fact, I'm going to be lax here with the writing, and just let my internal editor rot or self-destruct).  I mean, is this some kind of small talk?  What brings on a statement like this? Do you speak with your mother about conception? EEEEUUUUUWWW!  Having said this, I like the fact that I was "begun" in Chicago, which I now think of as Obama-land. I mean, he lived there, among other places. I have something in common with the President-Elect.  We could almost be twins! Ok, not really.

   But anyway, it NOW occurs to me to ask, did I actually "live" in Chicago? Because, well, when does life begin? At conception? At 8 weeks with a beating heart (do I have that right)? At 13 weeks, once acquiring toenails? once acquiring a thumb to suck? at birth? once the cord is cut and a breath is taken? And believe me; this is not a subject I want to explore fully here. Well, I DO, but it will really be off-topic; way too tangential, and I might be accused of AuthorsdenHappyDen-ness. Let's just say that my mother is weird and that actually, I am from Louisville, Kentucky, because the latter is where I appeared outside of water (not, of course, that there are no living things in water). 

   I wanted to add my parents' ages at the time of my birth: They married in 1951 and by dang if I wasn't due on April 13 EXACTLY two years later.  I now know what my mother got for her birthday present in 1952. Or no, I'm doing the math wrong. She got that "present" in July. Aha!  Fourth of July, maybe! Independence Day -- not knowing that actually she (and my father) had just engaged in the biggest, most long-lasting imprisonment/servitude/dependence issue there is.  But anyway, I was born two days early, on the 13th. A Friday.  No, not a Friday -- darn -- that would make such a good tidbit. A Monday, fair of face and all that (we will take up this topic later).  My mother was 23; my father was 27.  (as you see, something is happening to the Attention-Deficit Editor here in this box.  Oh well.  My parents were young, let's say.  That would end in the space of, say, 5 minutes after my birth.  They sprouted white hair, developed a haggard if not tortured aspect, \requested sturdy canes and sustenance that needn't be chewed, like jello. Such is the blessing of parenthood. I always wondered why my father called me Jello. Oh wait, that was someone else who did that.  My father called me Hoolio, because Julie is too hard to pronounce.  One must keep in mind the faltering faculties.

     Have I said enough already about my birth? Well, let me get on to something totally related: sure. I am trying a new tactic. Instead of typing inside the wicked little AD box, with its psychotic editor (and I mean this in the most respectful of ways), I am typing as a document now, which I will paste. Problems will arise anyway, as they do with the poems. Blankety-blank happens, by which of course, I don't refer to a baby blankie, but one COULD read it that way, and thus stay with the theme here.

     As you recall, I was born at 7:46 pm, and dang it if I don't always tend to look at a watch, stove clock, regular clock, sundial, or the stars, and it's not 7:46! You think I'm joking. But no. Surely you've noticed that there is not a joking bone in my body or brain (hold it, do brains have bones?) Similarly, I always tend to look at the watch (etc.) when it is 20 til 10. Note I don't say nine-forty. That would be COMPLETELY AND TOTALLY different. This circumstance, the latter, began in high school, after a friend told me she was born at 10:10, and always tends to look at the watch, etc. at that time. Immediately, I co-opted her fetish, and began noticing 20 til 10's. I am thinking that since I always notice the exact minute of my birth, this means only one thing, ok, two: secondly (yes, we'll go backwards; recall  how I entered the world), that I had a friend as weird as I, and first, that 20 til 10 has GOT to be the time of my death.

     Going with this exacting scientific reasoning, needing no proof whatever, I try as hard as I can to be busy, away from timing devices, between 9:30 and 10:00, a.m. or p.m. You know, being off riding a bike, shoveling snow, taking a shower, performing brain surgery. It never works. I always seem to be finished or not begun with those things between 9:30 and 10:00.

     There is a possible explanation. I neither ride a bike, shovel, shower, nor perform surgery. Ok, that's not quite true . I recently tried to tweak my brain with a very long Q-tip made for cleaning tape heads. I trolled around in there, hoping to fix something, the way I have my daughter pound on my back when it hurts, and she accidentally manages to hit acupressure points. But I have failed with my brain, and feel that attempting surgery on another's, even with something as innocuous as a foot-long Q-tip, might land me in some sort of trouble, despite my best intentions. Lawsuits today are SO frivolous.

      But anyway, it is now occurring to me that maybe if I did these activities all at once, it would work. I wouldn't notice the time. But then, wouldn't I be tempting fate? Have you ever showered while shoveling snow? Or ridden a bike in the bathtub? When was the last time you stitched gray matter while washing your pits? No, it just wouldn't work. I have not mentioned the reason for trying these activities. Who wants to “live in the present,” when it concerns death? Living in the present is a concept we all strive for: very twenty-first century. Stop and smell the roses and all that (usually I just get thorns in my nose). No, where death is concerned, we want to be taken by surprise; it's not like, say, giddily taking wedding vows, or eating your daughter's giant chocolate Easter Bunny in one sitting (or in my case, all her chocolate Hanukah gelt), or mall-crawling with a new credit card. It's death, for heaven's sakes!

     At that time, you want to live in the past and the future. I know some people who claim to do this, and my goal in life is to learn to do it too, but only at 20 of 10. The rest of the time I'll stick with the present, thorns and all. (Perhaps Thorns and All would be a better title for the memoir, but it's probably already been taken. There are only so many combinations of words in the mother tongue, only so many permutations and combinations). (I don't remember the exact meaning of that phrase, but it sounds good) Maybe an infinite number of possibilities, – but people steal combinations, as you know, without a thought, without guilt, without copyright fees. Which of course are due me, even if the phrase is nesting in my neurons.

      When you think about it, and here I resume the memoir (have you ever read Ellen DeGeneres' book My Point: and I Do Have One....?), because death-talk is birth talk. We all know we begin to die the moment of birth (or I guess, conception) (or maybe before, when our parents were conceived, or rather, Adam and Eve were formed). I recently read that sex and death are related. I had never thought about it. Although with some of my experiences, I've wished I were dead, and/or have been accused of being so (but that is another story, a better one, of course, but I'd have to change the “rating” here and may lose readers, which are abundantly numbering about, say, four, at this time.  Actually, I need to change it now, having said the “s” word).

     It's true : once organisms stopped self-replicating (and I don't know why this perfect system fell by the wayside), organisms needed an “other” to continue “living,” well, sort of living, -- continuing the gene pool in some fashion. My daughter is not me, but she's like me (don't tell her, whatever you do; she will come at me tonight at 20 til ten, armed with an arsenal of angry Q-tips). So being born is about dying. This cheering thought probably did not come to me until after I took a breath and looked around. If you could see the drapes and sterile furniture in that hospital, you'd understand. Who was the interior designer in that ghastly place? What was he/she thinking? Had he/she not seen any tv at all? (Oh yes, reality shows had not been invented yet; we had only unreality shows).

     Nowadays, they make birthing rooms in hospitals more home-like, colorful, tasteful, welcoming. But back then, nobody gave a baby-poop. So the minute you were born, looked around, and noticed the awful décor, this is the moment you sense your mortality. Because the only escape is to go back into the womb (and your mother reverts to a two year old, screaming No! No! (not knowing that it would be better than having to raise a kid), or checking out of both hospital and world. Believe me, furnishings can be THIS depressing. I know this like I know the back of my hand (a phrase I've never understood; we've never been even properly introduced). (I've never even understood which is the front and which is the back.) (Life is so confusing!)

     But where we actually left off was with my parents' immediate aging once they became Responsible Citizens, meaning they had a loud, messy, smelly, totally helpless lump of flesh to nurture from then until the day of their own 20 til 10's. I wonder if they felt regret in having had such a good time the previous July 4^th (I'm just certain that was the date). Hopefully, any and all parties public and private were so good, tsuch hat they did not feel regret. Still, they, like all parents, were clueless and suddenly scared to death, or rather Scared to Life (another alternate title, most likely...yeah, this has got to be a religious book title...). I've just noticed that scared and sacred contain the same letters. This is the kind of pointless synchronicity, or rather, stupid attention to detail, that has plagued me forever. If it paid money, I'd be very wealthy. I wouldn't have to publish a memoir and become a billionaire (which surely will happen. Won't it?)

      It could also read red sac, which now has me ruminating on placentas, which, while pertinent to birth, I think I'll not elaborate upon. The reason is that I have seen one, and not ever recovered. I was always the school class winner at scrambling letters to make words. And yet, strangely, I have never learned how to scramble an egg to my husband's satisfaction. This has a lot to due with our impending divorce, but I see I've gotten a little ahead of myself here again, which is always a confusing circumstance. Both of us are moving backwards, as you know, and the self that's ahead is always bumping in the one behind, threatening both of us with concussions and worse. Thus far, this has not happened at 20 til 10, but I fully expect that it could. It might not be such a bad way to go.  At least I'd have company.

  Caveat: this chapter is not going to as funny as others. What's that, you say? The others weren't funny? Well then, this one is going to be a downright dirge. That's because I have to discuss facts. As we all know, fact cannot be funny. Although I take issue with that. (I'm always taking issue with myself, which is a form of painful, necessary introspection. It behooves us to “know thyself,” though why, I'm not sure. I also don't know why we must suffer with the egregious word “behoove,” though I believe it is the Latin root of the well-known vacuum cleaner, and who would deny a vacuum its roots? Nature abhors a vacuum – must we too be so cruel?).

  But back to unfunny-land: the issue of facts, and the issue of taking issue with facts. Take, for instance, the facts of life. Is there anything funnier than the act of propagation? I mean, really. Who could design a more comical situation? Then let's take life itself. To me, it is an absurd circumstance. Funny as heck. But I see I could get in trouble here, metaphysically. I was accused yesterday of not being a serious person. Huh? I'm more serious than that heart attack somebody somewhere had. It's why I need so many escape mechanisms. My father called me Hoolio not because he couldn't pronounce Julie, but rather, Houdini. Escape artist supreme: that's what I am. But that's a different, if the same, story.

  Don't most autobiographies (I've been told I can't label this a memoir, as I'm not dead yet), go a bit back in time, I mean, further than I have? I've mentioned my parents, and my father's people, but that's it. Don't I need a slew (sloo? slue?) of ancestors, as in a Russian novel, or a host of begats like the Bible boasts – (not to be sexist or anything; there could be hostesses too, in fact, would have to be). I mean, if I am part-Russian ( 1/8^th, or /1/4^th, I'm not certain on the math; it's either one leg or one foot), shouldn't this read a bit like a Russian novel? (yes, I realize that a novel is fiction). Doesn't it need a million characters, with a huge family tree in the preface, replete with large branches, smaller branches, maybe some leaves, bird nests, and etc., such that it is a virtual if un-virtuous Pinocchio nose? Or does it just need a million pages? No, definitely it needs tons of people, and it must all be so confusing and confounding that one constantly must return to the tree, like a dog who has swallowed an ocean, and it would be really good to have a better title too: something along the lines of, say (just to pick out three words at random) Crime and Punishment. Being only part Russian, however, it would best read “Punishment,” which seems most apt for reader and writer alike.

  It does take two for a successful begetting, which has been discussed, though just in terms of recent history, I.e., my parents. Having pointed out the obvious, it must now be noted that these days, a little jaunt over to the “bank” can help out a female who has not met Mr. Right (You can see where I'm going with this, which is a good thing, since I can't). She can make the most important withdrawal and then deposit of her life, even if Mr. R exists, if only in part, as a microscopic frozen squiggle. Just think of it! No messy personality to deal with. No arguments as to who takes out the garbage, whose turn it is to do the dishes. No worries over this one can't stand to live in the city, this one in the country. No ridiculous and three-sizes-too -small girdle regarding loving, honoring, and obeying. Just grab the ice and go, like a jog to the quickie stop.

  The you-know-what bank sets me to thinking about cryogenics, wherein celebrities are having their heads frozen (usually after death) (though with some, it's hard to tell) for posterity, to be attached to bodies when the technology emerges. I find this extremely exciting, not because I want those celebrities back (with the exception of, say, of Woody Allen or Al Pacino (which raises a philosophical question about whether we can really be ourselves, in a different body) (posing a religious dilemma regarding the afterlife) (I won't go into this, having enough problems with the before-life) --- except for the fact that I'm not a celebrity – yet. Time is not on my side, maybe because a dog and a husband are in the way. Both are nearly impossible to budge.

   Recently an AuthorsdenHappyDen acquaintance told me to give up foolish dreams such as celebrity. (Not dreams of being attached to a different body. This could not possibly be foolish. This would make everyone, especially me, ecstatic, and I would be so relieved of the burden of this physical concatenation I wouldn't need the catharsis of writing at all.) (But I see here I've unwittingly insulted all writers (please just try and keep in mind that my two middle names are Un and Wittingly) (which is strangely like my very best friend's first two names: Anne and Whitney (she'll appear later, when I've reached the age of 3, though at this rate, I will never escape Kentucky Baptist, and should be by now be converted, baptized and given Extreme Unction, or the Baptist version of Extreme Unction – Nearly-Extreme Unction? Sort-of Extreme Unction, or if the conversion, baptism, etc., don't quite “take” - Extreme Malf-Unction?) -- Anyway, I'll give up foolish dreams when I think of other foolish dreams with which to replace them. Oh wait, I have those. I hope to come back in my next life as a pet owned by me. I also dream of going to the ocean, and of being a male, so I can hitchhike without fear. Though now that I think of it, look at me (re-read the above): I would be the feared rather than the fear-ee. But the result would be the same: I wouldn't make it to the ocean. Although, with the help of cryogenics, I might make it, say, a few hundred years from now. But I'm a bit impatient. And what if my new body is afraid of water?

  The fact is, I can't create a big family tree, because I don't know enough. My father's parents came from Russia to escape religious persecution, settling in the most glamorous city in all of the western hemisphere: Chattanooga, Tennessee (whose claim to fame was to have the worst air quality for decades running). My mother's parents came from somewhere equally exotic: Brooklyn, NY. My father's grandparents: I don't know: presumably Russian as well; my mother's grandparents: some talk of Polish or French blood in there; her maiden name is Grumet (but not pronounced Gru-may; rather, Gru-mette). (It is the Polish part that makes of the Non-Russian leg a Polish joke, which has to do with the in-turned-knee, but here we stray again).

  Which reminds me -- at my grandfather's funeral (you'll have to pardon my Billy Pilgrim-ness; one minute my grandfather is bald, ruddy-faced, and smiling, the next he's – wait -- bald, ruddy-faced, and smiling), the rabbi went on and on and ON about how wonderful Sam Grumet was. All about everything, as though the two of them were inseparable – best friends, brothers, twins, Siamese. Every other word was an adjective (superlative, of course), or Sam Grumet. The problem I had with this glowing tribute was that throughout it all, he referred to my face/moustache-sake as “GRUH'- mit), indicating of course, that the rabbi was utterly clueless as to who the man in the box actually was. I should give give him a piece of my mind, I thought (which occurs to me all the time, but which I reject, feeling I can't spare any, but it must be remember eed that I am ruminating on this rejection with the same mind) – so I did exactly that.

  I said that to us family, it all rang false due to the mispronunciation. Gru-METTE, not GRUH-mit). And thus, everything he said was suspect. (I didn't actually say that, just thought it). I didn't know my grandfather very well. So I could only say to myself, either the rabbi's guesses were correct, or my grandfather was the Anti-Christ. I think the rabbi mumbled an apology and made a mental note not to attend MY funeral, which hopefully would be soon. Or to indeed deliver the eulogy since he now, unlike the situation with my grandfather, knew everything about me of any importance whatever: which is that my forte, my purpose, my function, the basis of my personality, is all about being a pain in the.....asteroid belt.

  My father's parents were Isidore and Dora Shavin. I don't recall her maiden name. We called him Zayde (Yiddish for Grandpa) and her, simply, “Mom.” To me, they were always ancient. My father was their youngest child, there had been two miscarriages either right before the first of the three children, or right before my father. No one seems to know for certain. Zayde was in the junk business, by which I don't mean drugs, I mean junk parts. The family moved from one low-income neighborhood to another, many times, over, in beautiful blacklung Chattanooga (which did finally clean up its air, and is very proud). Chattanooga is actually a very lovely place. My father's brother Seamour settled on Missionary Ridge (I won't make that joke), a hilly place encircled with sidewalks, in the only Frank Lloyd Wright house in the southeast (I think that's correct). I have much to say about this house, but won't, at least not now. It was built to meld into the environment, and did. The view of the city is spectacular. His wife, my Aunt Gerte, still lives there. The middle child, my Aunt Pauline, who married Alex Parker, lived in Chattanooga with their two daughters but moved to Atlanta, Georgia after my father and mother did.

  Whoa: how did we get to Atlanta? I haven't yet left the hospital, Kentucky, or Mississippi. I'm not sure how long my mother and I were in the hospital. I may have to call her to find out. The problem with that is that I would have to, you know, call her. Which really isn't so bad, if we stick to politics, extended relatives, my brother's continued status as her favorite daughter, money, my hairlife, and all my ass-backwards life-choices. We can't discuss the weather. WAY too controversial. At any rate, there you have some background. I've heard it said that once one is gone, one is barely remembered by grandchildren, and even less so by great-grandchildren. And then – well, it's like you've never been here. Unless, of course, you leave behind something (besides descendants) – you know, like art. Great art. Or maybe an autobiography (which has always sounded to me like the Story of My Car(s). Or maybe your head waiting for its better body.

  It's a depressing thought, so I'm going to try something a friend has been encouraging: transcendence. I'm going to try and rise above this depressing thought (I could substitute a new thought, but I'm a firm believer in believing what one believes, unless there is proof to the contrary). Ok, I am currently transcending. I am gorging on gallon after gallon of Rocky Road ice cream straight out of the container (s), with whipped cream and chocolate syrup. Also, pecans. Across from me sit Al Pacino and Woody Allen, and their heads are on the bodies of Matthew McConnoughey and Pierce Brosnan. We are all watching Annie Hall for the hundredth time, and I am winning at Scrabble. My husband, Mahatmas Ghandi, my mother, Mother Theresa, and my children, who are all waiting on me hand and foot but also begging to go to sleep early, are there, and my father, a writer, (and remember, part Russian) is working on his autobiography, “The Idiot,” which of course refers to moving to Mississippi (OK enough with Dostoyevsky) (and my apologies to Mississipans), and finally, my husband has budged, along with the dog, such that I can be beside myself, this time, with joy. Once again, I have company with my other self, only this time we're alive, revved to the max on sugar, and happy as clams. To my knowledge there has never been an unhappy clam, but I've never understood how that is determined. It may have something to do with transcendence, (you thought you were swirling in a disgusting polluted dark ocean, but actually....), which reminds me of this great joke about the only Jewish man in a town of Catholics. It's a good one. There's a chicken in it. Which reminds me of another joke with a chicken.

  There, I've successfully transcended! I've completely and totally spaced it about how I'm soon to be gone and forgotten, a brief blip on the cosmic compass, and then lolling in a box with an esteemed servant of the Lord mispronouncing my name at least 100 times in twenty minutes. I'm hoping my granddaughter will take him to task, but by the time I have a granddaughter (having had children very late in life), I'll have a new body under my head and can do it myself.

THE “SOME CHILD LEFT BEHIND” ACT

Woodland Park schools are bullish about leaving no child behind, even if he/she is severely challenged academically. Recently, we advocated for our son, who was reading four years below grade level, and struggling in everything else. But the authorities were adamant, insisting that being held back would be dire, very dire indeed.

But what about children left behind at holiday time? Enter," 'tis the season!' " (to be unconcerned). Back when I was in kindergarten in a school that was 1/3 non-Christian, we learned "Away in a Manger," and there was a (useless) parental outcry. Thirty years later my eldest child returned from preschool singing "Jesus Loves Me." After Thanksgiving, a third grade teacher explained she was decorating with pine trees “for no reason.” Middle school: we requested our child be excused from Christmas movies (to the library, computer lab, even home): no compliance, and there followed a full-day outing to the mall, “a school activity for learning about money.” Right. The high school rooftop is yearly adorned with reindeer and sleigh.

Not everyone desires, or can afford, parochial school. But when we object to religious trappings public school, there's a stock answer: "oh, please come and share your own traditions...children should not feel left out!" Our reply is “no religion (even watered down from manger to Santa) belongs in public school; these celebrations are for religious institutions.”

The fact is, though, that my children are different. There are other “different” children who need accommodation: wheelchairs, special ed, etc.) Now, we “minority” adults do learn to live as such (barring injury or worse), but to expect such of a child, who may be ridiculed, and/or become depressed, especially when it violates law and is unnecessary, is hazardous, is not, I'd even say, in the “spirit of the season.” I could play devil's (pardon the expression) advocate and suggest that maybe such ostracizing actually prepares minority children for life later (but do we allow racial slurs? Of course not!). Some youngsters will be minorities anyway, variously talented or challenged, etc. Children are susceptible to being teased, and don't cope well with feeling like outsiders. Why saddle them with further stress? They're kids! And consider teenager-hood: there are enough problems with fitting in.

This is not an issue of whether my child is learning, so he/she can have a future: it is an issue that shouldn't even be one. History has exposed the terrible dangers of that notorious mixed marriage, religion and government. The concern, then, is not just that lip service is paid to some traditions while the entire environment is festooned for only one), but also the larger message: that religion in any guise belongs in public school. That lesson is false!

Recently, a friend told me how a person had died for humanity's sins. I said, yes, I know many believe this – but not all.” “Oh, she protested, “you don't have to believe it for it to be true, and for everyone.” Now, consider: you may believe the earth is flat, although science (via the brains that the God you're positing gave us) says it's spherical. You can say it's flat, often, and loudly; it doesn't make it so. Opinion (or belief) often differs from fact.

Likewise, you can believe in burning bushes, a seven-day creation, virgin births (there are many of these among religions), physical resurrection to afterlife (ditto), the tooth fairy, etc. A problem arises that I'll call “individuation.” Nearly all religions teach that humanity are all family -- this is a good thing! But individuals do differ (What, you don't discuss politics with the extended family during the holiday meal?). My daughter believes in the tooth fairy, but I won't (even if invited) preach tooth fairy lore, songs, etc. in school. Neither should expression of other beliefs be labeled “school activities."

So, if you really don't want to leave any child behind, then keep public schools secular! Otherwise you're sending a message that's proved unwise, dangerous, even deadly. Why involve schools in such an endeavor? We already teach three “R”'s. But it is not, in the public arena, in any way justifiable, to any of our children, to include religion as a fourth.