Goin' green. Dreamin' chocolate

TAH DAH!

      Guess ya just don't mess with a Leprechaun - especially on the Ides of March.  But I did.  I was just sooo excited to be breakin' a way-too-long silence - mine - that I parked me sorry arse at the keyboard, mouse potato that I've become, and squeezed my eyes shut.  And there I sat, you know the way you would if you were makin' that special wish before you blow out your birthday candles, and said, "Oh, Muse of Muses, the Greenest of Greens, Shamus of the Unsolvable, - I'm lowering me head, now, as in prayer, for effect - Laddie Leprechaun Himself, create for me the most beautiful shower of sparkling SHAMROCKS so that I may share them with me friends as we approach the grand celebration, known to the uninitiated as 'Saint Patrick's Day', of YOURSELF!"  I was just sayin'.  But it seems He was not amused by my pullin' on his little green leg.  I was denied my shower of shamrocks.  He sent this lovely little Lass to show ME.  "THERE'S yer 'shower'.  And there's no messin' with The Laddie!"  Well, 'fie on im', I say.  Me friends don't NEED a visual.  The world of souls, ALL initiated AND devotees of St. Paddy, have The Shamrock etched on their hearts.  Unlike yours - made of stone - in-scribbled with blarney.  You can take your leave.  The Lass stays. And once again, we're ALL reminded of why we must address a 'con' when utterin' yer name!
      (NEXT! I thought I heard my name, was being paged.  But no.  It was only the anchor.  He was giving us fair warning of which woebegone world event we'd be listening to after the tasteless-but-required "after this".  Shamefully tedious, lately, don't you think?  The 'news', I mean.  But like a responsible little soldier, I'd just strained to comprehend the previous item.  It seems that scientists at Oxford - as in the other side of the pond - had finally concluded the long, laborious - and ludicrous in my mind - study that confirmed, as only empirical scientists can confirm, the FACT that the hateful, destructive racism which has been visited upon those of dark-hued skin for ages, is now an anachronism. 
      Yes, fellow world citizens, They-at-Oxford have eradicated racial - and ONLY racial; you women and gays will have to plod on searching for the THE formula that reduces misogyny and homophobia to particulate ionsofice - discrimination by the one-time, oral administration of a drug identified only as "in the cardiac classification", pharmaceutically speaking.  How about hermeneutically speaking.  I mean is this yet another Druidic plot to conceal the formula for gold?  Hmmm?  You really can't make this stuff up, folks.  Real life wins hands down every time.)
      Patrick has always been a special name in our homes. And the festive behavior surrounding the commemoration of the saint's day, in our family, is always the chief ingredient in the 'Mania Mash' that prevails around March 17.  The parades, the marathons, the 'wearin-o'-the green.  St. Paddy's Day ROCKS.
      I started getting itchy yesterday, actually. Well, I was just being pragmatic.  Out doing the marketing, SOMEhow I strolled right by the fresh veggies and next thing I knew my soles were stuck to the slick floor.  Looking up - for assistance - my eyes locked on a glistening row of glass half-barrel sized canisters each  filled with - Confections?  Of the tiny UFO-shaped variety, brightly-colored sugar-coated chocolate. 
      OK, so this wasn't the chain-variety market that my husband and the rest of the prudent citizenry use when a nation-wide depression is scratching at your porch screen door. Rather it was the kind food snobs like me, who prattle on about Madeleine's as though they'd actually read Proust, patronize.  When Gigi shops for her one little grand peep who, being logistically disadvantaged, requires fed-ex ed treats on special occasions, she can be found here - specialing up all SIX peeps, what with the gas prices these days. Arthritic but not astigmatic, I filled my basquette with little bags of green, white and orange specialities toute suite!
      (Apropos of nothing, our anchor was back muddling through what sounded like a 'Willie Wonka' piece, at first bite.  But color me RED, white and green, he was speaking of the mayor of an obscure little Italian village.  It seemed, for good and sufficient reasons, I'd hoped, the man had just yesterday announced the passage of a new town law. Henceforth - and here the techies out-did themselves as the perfectly sync-ed copy, as uttered by the law-maker in real time, was simultaneously being translated from Italian to English, the words marching lock-step across the bottom of the screen - it will be "against the law to die".
      No snickering, please. And no pun intended.  This chocolate theme is heavy on my gastronomic vocab tonight.  As a direct result of the exhaustion of available real estate, there remained nary a soupcon of sod into which a shovel could be sunk for the purposes of internment.  Ergo, no dirt; no death.  At the time of this stunning reportage, two people had already broken the law.)
      For our newest peep, this will be his FIRST sweet celebration of what, I'm sure his three year-old big sister - of "Mommy, what time does the plane leave?" "What plane, sweetie?" "To- Chi- ca- go, Mom." "What?" "Mom- my, Grams- got-me- a- Bears- Cheer- lead- er- out- fit.  I- have- to- be- in- Chi- ca- go. The- squad- needs- me!" - fame - has excitedly described for him.  So that's one organic household that will be putting on a green "Shite Show" Saturday from sugar shock.  Our son's eldest is running the last leg of the local Shamrock Marathon (raising money for the breast cancer fight) after which, he, his sister (dropped in earlier as "Lass") and their little brother, PATRICK-surprise-baby-four-years-ago Saturday, will be visiting US.
      They offered to detail my car - as MY b-day is almost upon us.  Sweet is as sweet does, Saturday.  Seconds after those Shammys are stored, the guys will settle in for some b-ball hd-duty and the treat marathon shall commence in full force.  It's only once a year.  AND everyone will be in the best of moods.  No bickering, Saturday or no b-day cake apres treats.  I run a tight shoppe.
      (Unfortunately, our boy was back with some glum-chum news that is becoming de rigueur in the Mid East.  'Bickering' is but a tip-toe performance when compared to the colossal carnage in THAT arena.  I heard Syria, then more Afghanistani murders.  Iran - always on stage - was mentioned at some point.  But getting back to the Afghanistan theater, I was reminded, sadly, of an announcement in the 'weekend event' section of our paper.
      Most of the events - the great majority, in fact, had an Irish tinge.  So one - under the "Dance" heading really stood out as no cake walk: "Dances of  Afghanistani and Mid Eastern Rhythm Workshop".  Personally, I think decency demands a cancellation.  The potential for Mephistophelian metaphor is chilling and would stand out as a shocking breach of taste.)
      Of course there's not enough 'riverdancing' hours in a week to burn off the tasty calories we shall - as a family - gain this week.  But it is sooo worth it. It's TRADITION.  My husband and I, in a state of combined confusion/depression after listening to the evening news, toyed with a resolution/closure to the 'news' events we'd just endured.
      If the Oxford boys could only put their cardiac chemical in the Mid East drinking water, they might stop the hate/toxic tornadoes in that region.  Barring that, those suffering the ultimate exit, would die needlessly AND criminally should the Italian mayor's reigning trend spread.  Perhaps, we wondered, it would be well to establish a chopper service - if only for the Italians, that would air-ferry/deposit remains over Mt. Etna.  That way, the unfortunate departed can legally make ashes of themselves.
      (Thank Heaven for St. Patrick. Stay as sweet as you can.  Go green and fulfill your chocolate dreams Saturday.  It could be pouring Sunday. Later, Lorane. . . .)

As Long as He Needs Me. . . . Jackie

      I would have told you sooner, but time is no longer of the essence.  Jackie went on - steadfastly - until she was sure she could flee.  When the children finally came, she whisked away the silly air mask (it felt like an extra, fat nose.  Probably looked worse.  And it wasn't necessary.  She had been waiting for the children.  As they entered her 'cell', she was transformed, in regal trappings, having no further need of the pallet upon which she lay.  She was exuberantly FREE and exclaimed, "Ah, I-can-fly!" 
      (A native of Manhattan, nee Mars, it had been a most unusual - often dual, if not duplistic - span of living. Born and nurtured co-operatively by her dear, gentle, beautiful mother, Mary - of an artist's soul so creating Jackie was a canvas explosion of color and metallically-charged energy that glowed as she evolved; this effortless and perpetual motion was performed in the very incubator of natural, growing, giving, living things - the family farm.  How Mary, urbane to a degree and devoted to her God, her family and the Arts, came to love and marry a strong  but softy good man who 'planted his lady-love and their progeny in the isolating but never insular, town of Mars, PA is of no moment.  It was just exquisitely RIGHT and safe for this sedulous salesman of dog food - an occupation requiring constant absences - whose presence was deeply felt at all times by his family.)


Mary lauded Maggie's first efforts - at once inchoate and polished

      Margaret, Jackie's older sister - and the first-born - was blessed with her mother's artistic talent.  Yes, Mary 'farmed', efficiently but in such a charming manner that the children felt they were tumbling along in a fairy tale - one their contemporaries might call 'growing up'.  IS there any other direction?  People are so careless with words, Jackie always thought.  Father had an extra barn erected to house Mary's potter's wheel and art supplies. But the animals were never a chore - to be tended before closing the curtain on the mundane and immersing herself in creation.  hardly.  the animals were family - a natural part of an ongoing creation.  Loved and cared for, they in turn produced AND played.  Moreover, with Father gone, they protected - Mary and the children were theirs to shield.
     

       (Two strapping brothers preceded Jackie.  Indeed, Jackie was the youngest by ten years from the second boy.  Of necessity, then, she stood out, was unique, waif-like 'runt', if one dared.  Nary a one did.  Bursting upon this bucolic, established, peaceful, productive and somewhat egalitarian, came Jackie, debuting as an oddity and maintaining her reputation fearlessly, doggedly throughout the lifetime she was to spend among us.  'Special' being a family trait, well established by her siblings intellectually, athletically, spiritually, Jackie would distinguish herself by maintaining her status - oddity developing quite naturally. 
     
      Indeed, some thought she'd accomplished  her transformation into 'creativity' with a modicum of stealth, as often occurs when the label-lickers are on the outside, behind a thick shard of depression glass, myopically looking in.  Never did such matters concern her.  Once independent enough to walk unaccompanied to the main road to await the school bus - for a while, in that Mary's early morning rituals didn't allow for the luxury of walking her baby to the main road, she trained two large geese, Hansel and Gretel, so-christened by Mary, to trek to and fro and remain with their charge until she was safely en route - Jackie was launched and never looked back.  In ANGER, that is. In reality she remained with Mary long after Mars.  When Father's death came in the form of a sudden, untimely, premature heart attack, Mary lived with her maiden sister after which they both morphed into appendages of Jackie.)
      After graduating with honors from the University of San Fransisco, Jackie married and the couple joined the Peace Corps.  Never intended to be but a faddish gesture, Jackie's stint in Central America was aborted by the most unexpected discovery that she was 'with Joshua', as it were.  Three months into pregnancy, policy placed her on a plane back to New York where she lived with her husband's parents until Joshua, born/bouncing along with doting grandparents, could be weaned from her care.  She catapulted herself into the work force, starting at the lowest rung but reading at night to utilize her considerably creative and proficient skills in math and personal relations and learned/mastered the oil industry - in theory.
     

      When her husband finally returned, announcing they would devote themselves to the family business, expanding his father's green-grocery empire into New Jersey, Jackie naturally went but was lured more by that state's fractionating towers than ferns.  Not surprisingly, the home front became fractious as well, and the oft-repeated mistake of marriage-resuscitation by means of baby addition was made.  The plan was totally foiled but brought Jackie the joy of her life in her daughter, Jennifer.  A repeat performance of hostile housewifery was followed by her return to oil and separation from all things matrimonial.  But by the the time the settlement was dusted off her shoulders, Jackie was carrying the responsibilities that accompanied prompt and persistent promotions as well as the duties of single parenthood.
      (As brains would have it, Jenny, too thrived in New York, with nannies and nice trappings that went with Mummie's rise and raises in the company.  Serendipity stepped in, and one day Jackie discovered an accounting error that, had it gone unnoticed, would have cost the company millions of dollars. But noticed it was, by our girl, who quickly gained equal notoriety within the inner circles of management.  Soon after all the corporate handkerchiefs were wrung out, Jackie was invited to gavotte into the garnished grand 'inner circle' of where-it-all-happens.  Staying only long enough to go through one full dance card and garner enough money and moxie to leave, she formed the first all-female petroleum provision company on the Wall Street District.
     


      The timing was such that 'minority rights' were all the rage and the enticements to proliferate proved most profitable.  I know this first hand because she invited me to spend a week in New York, working alongside the women who ran each respective department.  My participation - welcome enough because I wore skirts and was related to Madame President - was punctuated pecuniarilly as well as it was given to me to produce a polished, illustrated, inventive, attractive, glossy ten 'or so' page brochure introducing the world to the vagaries of the oil business.  I left my saintly father and shaman husband in charge of our four children and bit the (silver) bullet, flying in to New York, waiting whilst George, Jackie's driver schlepped my luggage to the limo, toughed it out in rush hour traffic delays on the LIE - at one point, we were (that would be George and I) stalled in traffic and I simultaneously noticed the spire of my childhood Brooklyn parish and a PHONE in the limo - attached to THE VEHICLE'S REAL LEATHER REAR WALLS!.
     

      Counting to ten, humming "If they Could See Me Now", (George was Russian and didn't 'do' the theater), I called my husband and gushed my circumstances actually trying to elicit pity for this shocking inconvenience.  No go.  "Hanging with the 'SWELLS' are we?"  BRAIN: "You got it, Bucko!"  Lorane:   "Honey, Jackie is YOUR cousin.  I should think you;d be happy for her - after all she's been through!"  And that's the truth, ladies and gentlemen.  As for husband, like the man said, "NEVER have I EVER met a ruder pest!"  Sure, we ate at Delmonico's - a working dinner at three A.M. - and went out one night to a Greek restaurant, crashing a wedding, dancing and crushing good, real stemware with our shoes.  But that was ONE night.)
      There IS no 'short' of it - or I would share it with you.  Over the years I've spent a fair amount of time with Jackie.  I brought our girls up to 'the city'.  She came down here for every illness and funeral we've muddled through.  I became FAR too familiar with limos - but we were following them.  In all of these years, all the hours, days, walks, business excursions, I never saw Jackie pass a homeless person without putting money in his hand or cup.  Never broke stride.  Kept on talking, walking.  Can't recall the names of all the underprivileged folks she 'took in', trained/educated and then hired.  Dear Aunt Mary and her sister visited, then re-visited Ireland before venturing to Rome - the Pope, no less - and Greece and South America.

      When our kids were in college in DC and she was starting a branch there, they dined well and learned at the four inch heels of a brilliant business mind.  She bought at least one 'house' in Florida - that I know of - so that Mary and sister would be comfortable while sister was having chemotherapy and radiation treatments arranged by Lady Loving.  Jenny has had the best of educations and is probably a decent match for Rand-McNally when it comes to global 'particulars'. When the tables turned, Jenny, the sweetest of young, disillusioned young women - having heard family 'still-on-the-outsiders' speak - with tongues touched by the devil - ill of her mother, the 'black sheep of the family' - I would say to her, "Jenny, listen with the ears of your soul.  Your mind could never comprehend this behavior.  And as you must hear, you must also consider the source.  And then you must forgive and let it go." 
     

       Eventually she was dealt a horrible health hand.  The past twelve years have been devastating physically and emotionally.  But she stayed in the game.  Jackie doesn't fold.  Confined to a wheelchair/scooter, she first braved the busy traffic of 'the city', working part-time.  A series of vascular disasters left her in constant pain, living in 'assisted' dwellings, in the Bronx - one to two hour from her beloved daughter and her little girls.  I recently wrote of the beauty to be found in the resilience of the human spirit - as it is evidenced in children who must face indignities and physical deprivation, pain and suffering. 

      I find myself in the unenviable position this evening of relaying, nay, reinforcing that same resilience - this time found in an adult who worked hard, loved deeply, lost much and trusted implicitly that, just as the good family and friends who cared for her when in need, she would 'light up' at the thought of finding peace and solace with her God. 

      So, Jenny, Sister Maggie, brother Phil, ALL those who care, do not be sad.  And don't be afraid.  (He calls each of us by name), "Jackie, come. follow Me ans I will take you home. And you will have My joy and comfort under His wing.

What Price Success?

      Here we are on this day devoted to a saint by Roman Catholics, to love the world over, to hearts by cardiologists and lovers alike.  Its symbols are personal and universal but always emotionally-spawned.  Candles, and their ambient hues settling on scenes of affection, fields of flowers, with the red rose bed at the top of the hill; images, Heart-shaped and Red, parade across scented paper, peek out boldly, adorning formerly 'white shoulders' as carefully-applied tattoos are displayed as draped shawls slide to giggle with scented elbows at the dastardly scheming of it all, and then - larger than life -burst forth on garish gonfalons announcing "Let those Feelings Fly".
      (As it turns out, this particular Valentine's Day is sharing the spotlight with an equally warm and loving but - it is hoped - far more significant and infinitely more enduring event: the launching of the book, "Every child is Entitled to Innocence".  An anthology of short stories and poems by an international group of authors who are also passionate lovers - of children. 


Indeed, the lovely leader of this movement cum accompanying art, Niamh Clune, has asked all of us - that would be the citizens of neighborhood 'world' - to "Light a candle in your Heart for a Child's Right to Innocence."
      Through the words and experiences of the book's contributing authors, she asks as well that the book sales' LAUNCH leads to an infinite orbit around our world, doing the work of the larger group to whom all sale proceeds will be donated, Child Helpline International.  These saving soldiers man the phones on the worldwide network  managing the child-help support phone lines in the attempt to keep our children safe. Without those who provide shelter in a storm and solace to a child’s wounded heart, many more of our innocents would be lost to us forever.)

       Every Child is Entitled to Innocence (Kindle Locations 99-101). OrangeBerry Publishing. Kindle Edition. Perhaps, you will be more inclined to be on the 'succeeding team' if we take a brief glance at whence success.
      "To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty; to find the best in others; to leave the world a better place whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition; to know that even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded." - Anonymous
      So then.  Light your candle, start the flowering of success with this seed - found on Amazon: www.orangebooks.com - "Every Child is Entitled to Innocence."  See you there, Lorane. . . .
     

ONE RINGY DINGY, ONE MILLION RINGY DINGIES

ONE RINGY DINGY, ONE MILLION RINGY DINGIES. . .



OOPS  "Ringy" needs a dinghy.

          My   good readers,

As promised, when I happened upon this post in the light of day - which occurred two hours after publishing it - allowed as how I must re-visit and re- vise the text at the point - probably four A.M. - at which it began to deteriorate, ultimately achieving gibberish re: meaning/sense.  Blame it on the hour.  Nay, there is NO excuse, only a trip down 'polish lane' to expunge the inherited 'Polish literacy'.  It is hoped, those of you who attempted to follow my train of thought, only to have your analytic skill de-railed, might experience a more intelligible foray this evening.  Or not. L. . . .

      Pack up all your cares and woes.  Here we go - again - and I've got you covered.  My personal provenance classifies me, metaphorically, as a 'globe trotter'.  This because I grew up in NYC, a city steeped in its tradition and then marinated in a vast olio of cultures over, lo, these fifteen or so decades.  I therefore traveled - extensively, internationally - at a very early age.  The concept of 'foreign land' is alien to me.  I simply can't imagine the feeling of  'I've NEVER been HERE before'.
      To boot, I'm no stranger to 'reaching out' and 'touching someone'.  You see, I remember when we had pen pals, shared an exciting day with a friend, then placed it in an envelope and mailed it.  I was in 'touch' with my husband every day of his nine month deployment - still have the letters; he'd be rounding the Cape of Good Hope while I was rounding our checkbook balance UP; I met/got to know HIS dad, who'd been gone from us almost thirty years when, while clearing out the attic of the family home, one of his sisters and I found - color me red - and scanned the letters he had written to his wife while he was serving - as a surgeon -in the European theater during WWII.  We wrote thank you notes, 'dear Johns', 'bread and butters'; we commiserated with friends who were lonely, far away. Then.  Telephone arrived and we'd spend hours on the line - while doing - or getting Herald Trib answers to do - homework.
      The best way to really know someone is by reading their letters.  This voyeur got chummy with Hemingway, Thomas Jefferson, Clare Booth Luce, C. G. Jung, Jennie Churchill and, of course, my father-in-law through their personal writings.  Thoughts, feelings, opinions, beliefs - all flowed unimpeded, languidly, allowing time to craft, find JUST the right word.  Sharing.  Bare-ing.  Mind to mind.  Heart to heart.  It was personal, had a signature - the way t.s.elliot's 'signature' was lower cases; Fred Astaire's, a top hat and cane; Mae West's cup size; FDR's cigarette holder; Emily Post's white gloves and never-on-a-table elbows.
      You get the picture.  You were presented with 'the picture'.
      (We wrote to inform, announce, update.  Today, for example, I listened as a journalist 'told' us a story about whales in their huge, reflecting tanks in California.  The accompanying visuals served to enhance the 'plight' of these glistening leviathans, romping, splashing, jumping UP, diving DOWN, 'puttin' on the' skits for the grinning, droplet-dotted faces of kids of all ages who'd come JUST to watch them do THEIR thing. Rewarded by clapping, cheering, it was one big, wet story of an adventure, a celebration of sorts.  The personal sort.)
      These days, 02/08/12, for one, we continue to write to each other and to 'reach out' with Ma Bell.  But boy-oh-my - such is the admixture - it's a much bigger deal.  You have your 'friends' on Facebook, Google runs you around in 'circles', you 'connect' on Linkedin and you stream with WII - pronounced 'whee', not to be confused with 'the big one'.  And, it's in technicolor and stereophonic - no - make that 'wrap-around' sound and 'hi-def', a compensatory 'widget' to make up for the loss of hearing sequela from the 'wrap-around' sound - now ebbing.
      You've got the whole 'enchalada' right at your fingertips - or maybe you're 'all thumbs'.  Whatever.  You 'tweet', you 'Like' and you 'LOL' - and even if I've been deaf since birth and signing, I 'get it'.


ON AIR. NO COMMUNICATING

      (The 'whale thing' rapidly escalated into a scandal.  As if on cue - "cue the Wackos!" - a sizable, motley crew of representatives from that august body-sans-wit, notorious by the acronym, "P.E.T.A", landed on the calm shores of normalcy.  As the Head Quarters from which this steerage deploys is located not far enough from our home, we've - the community - come to know something of their tacticians and body lunatic.  They are 'People for the Equal Protection of Animals', I think, although in spirit, the hegemony of this sub-culture springs from its 'for-the-prevention-of-cruelty-to-animals' thematic underbelly.

      Not uncharacteristically, they were secretly ebullient while being ostensibly cacophonic and unattractive, albeit clothed - a decided improvement over some more urbane, barely-clad demonstrative displays of 'skin-not-to-be-contaminated-by-the-associated-dermatological-pustulitic-infestations-associated-with-the-donning-of-hides/pelts-of-sacrificed/tortured-mammals.  I've referenced this roiling reverie lest the reader come away with a negative impression of this most recent 'P.E.T.A.' debacle.

      Indeed, the outraged champions of 'Free-Willy-ism' and 'Let-Moby-Dick-Go-ism' actually added a 'je ne sais quoi' touch to an otherwise potentially pallid parade with their colorful placards of indignance.)

      By way of explanation/comparison, the hegemony of the 'e-culture' can best be elaborated upon by creating, if you will - or not - a virtual 'benchmark case', to wit: Conductivity v. Connectivity.  The underpinnings of the former generate a descriptive ability and the extent to which an element/object can transmit/carry something from point A to point B, said objects  being as disparate as messages, electric current, goods and even people - unless the individual's avoirdupois is preclusive! The latter, didactic in nature, is the ability to reach/communicate/inform using words, images and emotional overtones. 

      Presently, I would place into evidence "Plaintiff's Exhibit 1", the soon-to-be-released anthology, "Every Child is Entitled to Innocence", published by The Orangeberry Press.  All proceeds from the sale of this collection of poems and short stories are to be donated to Child Helpline International, an organization that physically provides support, IE, food, clothing, healing and any needed improvements in living conditions to underprivileged/abused children worldwide.  This organization's mission statement embraces/demonstrates Plaintiff's very definition and serves to render tangible meaning to the phrase "reach out and touch someone'.

      (The reason P.E.T.A aficionados were all a-whisper about this 'whale' thing detection was that under the guise of harmless entertainment - for the performers AND audience - what was clearly patent in their pristine tank was cold- blooded, heinous transgression of our nation's constitution in the form of SLAVERY.  Please, readers, scotch any notions of canard in my re-telling of this incident.  One simply CANNOT MAKE THIS STUFF UP. 

      Hard to believe, but the P.E.T. A. pundits were asking us to accept 'THE REALITY' of these insouciant performers-at-play: THEY WERE RESPONDING TO COMMANDS.  "More arc, Moby!", "Wiggle, Willy - or the whip!"  Yes, dear friends, their frolic was FRAUDULENT.)

      In its Opening Statement, Defense indicted itself by utilizing the vapid prediction that it would show how its didactic nature would purport to/succeed in alleviating the plight of these enslaved mammals. 

      Whereas Plaintiff, utilizing a 'non-living' instrument, would typically fail at breaking the chains on this bounty of bondage.  Thereafter, it would resort to a ruse of smoke and mirrors 'a la', "But we will deliver hope and inspiration to churlish children worldwide!" And the whales? "Well, uh, they don't read."

      At this juncture I can only suggest the plausibility of Summary Judgment for Plaintiff if only for pragmatic reasons.  To wit, whence Defendant's 'jury of whale peers'?  And the proposition of  'like/kind', thus allowing dolphins to comprise the panel, will be thrown out by prior case law, refuted but once mentioned in a dissent referencing the use of the human Miami Dolphins.

      Moreover, at what point will the Court permit the erection of the only container that will humanely present the enslaved whales?  Obviously, there can be no appearance without an appropriate tank and, given the severity of the charge, Defendant will be held in contempt if it cannot produce its only evidence - the fatal flaw in Defendant's nature.  And, reading previously taken sworn depositions at trial would be garbled at best but, if allowed, would insure that Plaintiff must prevail because these glorious specimens of contentment would categorically elide their denial of enslavement.

      (Connectivity, then, can only demonstrate, by revealing its superficial, ineffective nature re: correcting wrongs, that it is but a useless widget that is marketed brilliantly as an effective, substantive tool.  When asked to deliver, its diaphanous cape and cause will evaporate, leaving shreds of bare detritus to face the court of reality's wrath - an outcome more in keeping with P.E.T.A.'s previous pontifications.

      Conductivity, by contrast, as evidenced by its own Exhibit #1, will win the day as the anthology, "Every Child is Entitled to Innocence" finds its way into the tiny - previously empty - grasping hands of the very children it is prepared to help worldwide, as the channels open and the 'mana' of hope flows freely to its target.)

      Plaintiff rests.  Minutes later, the Court declares in Conductivity's favor.  Connectivity will bear all court costs and make appropriate restitution to the 'kind strangers' in California for the temporary monetary and, more significant, cultural losses suffered by its citizens.  Adjourned.

Once more, later, Lorane. . . .

Till the Cows Come Home

      So this lady walks into a day.  More accurately, for the second time since this 24-hour span was launched, the three am stroll-about thankfully not having taken, this same lady makes her entrance.  Having been married to a doctor for forty three years, she's had more dress rehearsals than Helen Hayes, so start-of-day-interrupted is by no means a novelty.  And, as is her wont of late, she is determined that TODAY, she will dispose of post prandial, post ritualistic putterings and platitudes with admirable dispatch and then proceed post haste to do her own bidding.  Nothing big, but a win nonetheless.  Winning is a habit.  So is losing. All together, now, readers, which habit does she want to go for?
      One of my - OK, I'm 'the lady' - Peri-prandial putterings is doing the daily crossword puzzle - in ink.  And there's no 'pinning of a rose on the nose' of people who do crosswords in ink.  It's just as easy to alter inked mistakes as it is those pencil-penned.  In fact, it's less time-consuming.  One of today's correct responses to 'Arizona Indians' was H-O-P-I.  Even as I printed the letters I felt a grin coming on.
      (Must have been thirty one years ago.  I was gestating cum matriculating, indeed walking the two miles to the university, and, ever the sedulous student, was immersed in the research for my current class - one of the many in which I enrolled to ultimately receive the coveted, relatively new "Certificate in Jungian Studies".  This class was focused on archetypes which Dr. Jung held were paradigms of a sort, cousin to the more familiar prototype, but inhabitants of the unconscious world.  Albeit not readily accessible, they nevertheless exerted considerable control on one's personality type.  When applied to a group, they were referred to as "collective" and assisted one in analyzing, describing, understanding groups, like cultures.)
      Aware of at least two tasks left over from yesterday - editing an important letter one of our daughters was submitting and filling out an evaluation form I'd received from a medical center recently visited in Pittsburgh - I vowed once those promises were kept, it would be win/win day for this lusting-for-fulfillment-lady.  Intrepid though interruptions can be, THIS lady, like Lola, was going to get what she wanted - uninterrupted time to romp with and record thoughts, memories, observations, commentary whatever direction cagey Calliope indicated. 
      In fact, I was acutely aware of Calliope's restlessness.  Just last night, as I was commenting on a friend's post, she inserted her quill, de-inked my ball point, paralyzed my pecking fingers - resulting in a rather artfully phrased passage, one that could rise to the level of 'poetic' had it been a more protracted piece.  And I'm sure I don't have to tell you - but I will - just as with Superman, you don't tug on Calliope's cape.  Today, then, is reserved for composition.  I shall write till the cows come home, as the saying goes.  
 Then why was I getting the distinct feeling that it
didn't look like the cows were coming home any time soon?
      (After reviewing the list of choices of the cultural archetypes the prof had provided, I had decided I didn't like any of them.  So I asked permission to - utilizing Dr. Jung's blueprint, of course - 'create' one by combining several of his most colorful.  I called my archetype "IT" and focused on the culture of the Roaring Twenties, using the Trickster, the Child and the feminine, Anima.  On the day we were discussing titling our masterpieces, I was toying with "Re: Marx" v. "Syncopation and Sin-crony-city" when I  noticed a friend, seated close by, who seemed conflicted to the point of near tears.  I sidled over to her and asked how the title 'thing' was going. 
      Her selected culture was the Hopi Indian tribe and the archetype of the masculine, "Animus".  Recently returned from a vacation with her husband in the Himalayas, she'd been struck by Hopi 'footprints' in that region as impressing as those she'd researched in South America and Mexico.  She was therefore determined to incorporate this "element of the third" into her title and it just wasn't working. I wanted to put her out of her misery - especially since she obviously had no clue as to Jung's notion of "the third" - and brighten her day so I blurted, "Got it!"  She tried to focus her 'blank-tape' eyes on me but those brimming tears were a-bloomin' so I rushed in with "How about, ready?"  Nothing.  "It's perfect, Ann."  I was losing her, so, enunciating with robotic pauses, I mouthed, "Ho-pi-Springs-E-ter-nal". What with finding the little rascals in three huge regions, having exerted mega influence in each, was-there-a-CHOICE?  Help me here, dear reader.  Ann 'shut off' "Re: Me" faster than the "light on Daisy's dock".  Daresay, this 'old sport' could have used a shot of bathtub gin.)
      My penchant for tidiness was the next undoing, IE, doing the writing thing.  Computer on, signed in to access blog site, I - the devil's always busy - checked my email.  You know how it piles up and I'm waiting for an important reply from a doctor in Istanbul - no time to explain - so I checked, downloaded my daughter's letter, but before I could hit the "save" key, I saw it.  A new, talented, friend with whom I've fallen into a rather serious and emotional discourse, had sent a reply.  Well I had to open it.  She lives in Italy.  Something urgent may have happened hours ago that needed addressing. 
      I did and it had - in Bari - and address was executed.  She had posed follow-up questions to aid her in doing ME a favor.  You tell me.  Does one dare say, "Jeez!  I was just gonna create."  No, one responds in kind with answers and Asti Spumanti, if you have.  The issue involved my mother, no less.  A face-off between Mom and Calliope.  Not pretty.  On top of that, the questions involved some geography and I could feel my brain cells going cold.  "Like sand through the hour glass, so" were my thoughts pouring on the rocks, then whipping into a blended frostee.  'Mixed-metaphor-mind', I believe it's called, but I'm not sure. Time frozen.  That's not a cow, is it?  They DIDN'T come home.  They sent a bear.

On ice.  See what happens when you tug on - you know-who's - cape?  No bathtub gin for this lady today.  They're only serving 'cold shoulder'.  Gotta pass. Bad for my circulation.  Can't connect.  No friends here.  Will have to relate - Later, Lorane. . . .

Last Seen Wearing Thin: EXCITING STUFF

Last Seen Wearing Thin: EXCITING STUFF

EXCITING STUFF

      One can never be too early when delivering good news.  And this is a bona fide "Special D".

Every Child is Entitled to Innocence will be the first publication of the newly-formed Orangeberry Publishing Group. Due to release on February 14th, profits from the sales of this e-book will be donated to Child Helpline International.

Says initiator of the project, Dr. Niamh Clune, “I met many writers through the Internet that experienced difficult childhoods yet have overcome their brutal beginnings. I wanted to make the first Orangeberry publication a celebration of  creative imagination. This powerful friend of damaged children plays an essential role in an abused child’s recovery. Gathering this series of stories was a joy. Orangeberry Books has developed special, vibrant relationships with contributors and has forged many lasting friendships.”
We encouraged happy stories that reflected the innocence of childhood when infants feel wrapped in the warmth of loving arms. We wanted to contrast these with the sad ones, making them stand out in relief against a bright backdrop. We felt this comparison would demonstrate, without explanation, what happens when innocence is stolen.
In this book, the reader will find many wonderful, heart-warming stories; whilst the sad ones demonstrate the magnificence of the human spirit as it triumphs against all the odds.
Executive Editor, Karen S. Elliott stated, “While I looked at all the stories in the Every Child anthology, I edited only a few. I thought it was important, for this time, that the writers be able to express the heartbreak and joy of childhoods past without censorship.”
Spokesperson for Orangeberry Books, Niamh Clune, explained how The Orangeberry Group is at the vanguard of a new wave of Internet publishing companies. Orangeberry aims to put quality first and bring exciting, exceptionally talented authors to the reader’s attention. Its focus is not on commercialism, but on quality, beautifully written, well-told stories. Orangeberry will also publish poetry. A further aim of the publishing company is to bring a collection of exceptional artists from across many different art disciplines to collaborate on projects in a personal, hands-on, mutually supportive manner.
The motto of the company is, ‘Paying it Forward.’ The company relies on a well-developed social network, the dedication of the core team members, their talent and enthusiasm coupled with a socially entrepreneurial spirit.
        (I've been lucky to have made the acquaintance of some 'luminaries' in my time. Like the legendary actor Pat O'Brien and his lovely wife, "My Favorite Martian", Alan Seuss and the deeply sensitive, exceptional athlete and Olympic champion diver, Greg Luganus.  But getting to know - via email and the reading of their art - the contributors in this anthology, well let's just say I'm the only person here I've never heard of.)
      The spark of this creative literary pyrotechnical array, our own Niamh Clune, labored tirelessly, and coordinated brilliantly to deliver children of yore to children of now-in-need-of-a-way-out.  My own sharing from the shores of the East River circa 1950s is prototypical of the 'gotta-get-out' syndrome.  Back then, I felt caught in the flypaper of life.  Five or so decades later, however, I'm in 'swat mode' and proud of it.

And this book is 'apple pie a-la-mode' - an oh-so-just-dessert - served up in a way that tingles and touches the taste buds of the oh-so-deserving

       little readers/listeners of tales read aloud.  Tales not full of sound and fury, symbolizing nothing, by idiots who strut and fret their hour upon the stage and then are heard no more.  Hardly.  They are told by loving new friends whose tales are filled with quiet love and meaning that will tip toe through your dreams and hopes - always.
 Later (or hopefully Sooner), Lorane. . . .

Last Seen Wearing Thin: Nary a Word was Spoken

Last Seen Wearing Thin: Nary a Word was Spoken: Just got a wonderful-scary-Enuff!-info-mail from a dear friend. It was a Public Service type of info-sharing dealing with "Smart Phon...

COMMUNICATE: VERB? NOUN? ACTIVITY? WHAT?

      It's been a sad-ish few days around the old parsonage, dear reader.  I've not been able to write - turned out Laptop's condition was far more serious than originally thought.Indeed, in the end - well, not the VERY END - the doc, breaking with standard protocol, made a house call.  And he wasn't alone.  Rather, as he is also on staff at the School of Teckie-ology, he had asked - before setting out in the ETS (Emergency Technician Savior) bus, whether he could bring an intern-in-training along.  Of course I dared not object.  Firstly, (and my apologies if that is not a word) you know/should know that I am a champion of clinical experience in the education process.  And - the honest albeit selfish motivating factor - Laptop's condition was deteriorating.  I had already prepared Desktop for the worst when I was with him fetching email. Thought it best.  And now a fledgling healer would be exposed to his first challenging emergency.  What could I do?  You know what they say, "Man proposes, God disposes.". (You remember "They", the users of phrases like, "when I was 'coming up'".  Goes to show this group of pundits can also, on occasion, be profound.
      (You know/have no way of knowing, when I studied - at Georgetown U., I was always struck by the choice of words used by its membership when describing - anecdotally or on patient data templates - the patient/patient's condition. Twenty years later, when one of our daughters matriculated through the very same program, two significant changes prevailed: Four credits of Statistics was required - Color me grateful to be a living anachronism - and "patient" was taboo, "client" now the politically correct terminology -Color me in black avec veiled chapeau.
       By way of example, the patient was not "having" or "in" pain but rather "complains of pain" (c/o).  At the outset, then, our hapless, suffering patient is pre-cast as 'The Complainer' who whines, bitches, demands - runs the gamut of demanding/inappropriate modes of expression EVEN if he's an above-the-knee-amputee who is unable to 'run' at all.)
      Laptop had not been running well for a few weeks.  It had been showing ("presenting with") signs and symptoms ("sxs and sxs") which this observer intuitively associated with pain - displaying prompt after (p) prompt, attempting to 'install' tray applications, only to fail at the task for lack of required disks (CD-ROM) during the start-up process; (I quickly learned to cancel the attempt as soon as I saw the prompt.  I mean, why re-enforce an obviously ailing Laptop's experience of failure?) a fiendish memo informing me that "Microsoft Office 2003 is corrupted", also during start-up and, the most humiliating/damaging sx for Laptop as well as the most eviscerating sx for me - the inability to access the Internet.  Laptop had been exiled from the fold;  I had been cut-off from family, friends, business associates, clients (LAW clients - I no longer practice the art of nursing which deals with patients.) and potentially important updates as well as definitely important help in curing this pathology.  And, I might add, (you knew I would) during ALL of this trauma, not a 'peep' from Laptop.  Never complained; 'sucked it up', as they, our new comrade-in-penning, say. Sadly, this would be the intern's (his name is Christian) first exposure to an on-site attempt at resuscitation.  And even though his mentor, Mike's, skills, knowledge and experience are without equal, Christian was unwittingly about to be launched to the lions.
      (Of course, there was a class of medical nomenclature which was benign in addition to having the same Druidic security encoding as the malignant.  I give you "PND" - which I interpreted as 'post nasal drip' on my first in-hospital cardiac patient assignment.  I quickly learned via my clinical instructor's acuity, that it meant "paroxysmal nocturnal dyspnea" or intermittent attacks of difficulty breathing during the patient's sleeping hours; "SOB" was was not what I was thinking with attendant embarrassment, but rather 'shortnes of breath'; "ataxia" referred NOT to how the patient arrived at the hospital, but problems with balance and coordination; "Hx" was the patient's past medical history, NOT a poorly-scribed prescription; "appy" - NOT the patient's pet.  He'd had an appendectomy in the past; "PAT" - NOT his wife but 'paroxysmal atrial tachycardia (as chatted up in today's TV ads by the doctor/actor in the white lab coat). 
      The heart has four chambers - two upper, the right (R w/ circle around it) and left (L w/ circle around it) atria or chambers and two larger lower, the R and L ventricles or chambers. Our heart rate - incorrectly dubbed 'pulse' - is generated by a pacemaker, an in situ electrical impulse generator, located in the R atrium.  When things are jake, it sends impulses down via the intersection of A and V, to the ventricles which, being healthy, well-mannered  soldiers, OBEY and pump or squeeze in response to each impulsive command - roughly 70 - 80 times a minute.  BUT.  If the patient suffers from the abnormal condition of PAT, gangs of little reprobate pacemaker wannabees start a rumble in the R atrium.  "And the winner is. . . . .THE FASTEST!".  So, as the obedient ventricles will follow the fastest pacemaker, they squeeze their myocardial muscle strands - THE TEAM - OVER AND OVER, FASTER AND FASTER.  Sometimes, for plain old capability reasons, they can only execute every 2nd or 3rd order.      
      Now, we have the mayhem scenario of rebel-controlled atrium trying to beat 350 or so times a minute and winding up just looking silly; the ventricles pumping away with impressive regularity at some 'bad-for-your-health rate; a decrease in blood flow because, let's face it, when you're racing THAT fast, who's got time to fill up at the pit?  And the patient is feeling a funny fluttering - or not or just scared or dizzy.  SO.  It was really a giant step in my learning curve when the cardiologists' lecture took the patient's "wife" out of MY notes.  Now I I could look for those sxs and sxs of PAT & act, with something along the lines of ,"HELP!".)
     When the ETS van arrived, I immediately (STAT) told Laptop that help had arrived.  Mike (Attending) proceeded directly to Laptop - who hangs by my bedside table, directly above the router on the floor below.  Perched on the bed - with Christian at his side, Mike turned Laptop on and watched with furrowed brow as his fingers fluttered over the keyboard assisting him in aborting all of those 'intall' attempts.  Laptop looked - and I KNEW - he was in 'good fingers'.  Noticing the red 'X' on the 'internet access' bars, Mike asked for the password - which I thought was the WEP key & could not locate.  We all trundled downstairs to elicit the password/key from Desktop's router.  (If you need a break, dear reader - go ahead, take that cruise.  "They' will take notes.) 
      Back at Laptop's bedside, Mike swiftly re-stored Internet access.  But things remained dicey with the 'install' rascal.  He couldn't ID it so couldn't stop it.That ole 'Druidic Security'. I shed a few as Mike and Christian carried Laptop out to the van, thence to become an in-patient.
      (What I have indicated as malignant nomenclature in medical terminology covers a broad spectrum.  I guess a soupcon will have to do.  "Patient denies pain" - totally uncooperative;  "admits to smoking" - currying favor with forced confessional info; "reports bloating after eating dairy products" - the kind of bloke who would turn ANY body in, even his mother, especially if she's called 'Elsie'; "refusing assistance with ambulation" - showboating, probably to his own detriment.  Note to BRAIN: Get a psych consult.; "says zero Hx of HTN" - this according to a patient who we KNOW denies.  Of course, he may CONFESS if someone just told him that HTN means high blood pressure;  his "affect is flat" - you want grins from a sick man?;  his prognosis is "poor" - no surprise given he won't play nice;  the outcome borders on "grave" - forget serious, disastrous even.  "grave" has JUST the right imagery baggage.)
      The good news is that Mike tells me Laptop can come home today.  Makes it all worth it.  I'll get right on those notes to the kids and they, in turn will shower me with lols, BTWs, FYIs, smiley faces - their entire arsenal of evocab for which we spent twelve plus years and close to $200K.  So what?  I'll be able to write, the sun will probably rise tomorrow, Christian's a happy camper with all that extra teckie-knowledge bang for his buck and - at least last time I looked, we humans are still biodegradable.  Later, Lorane. . . .

"Information, How can I Help You?

      Remember her?  Back in the day, we were buds. Even in Brooklyn, I could - rotary -dial "0", and there she'd be,  - And lest you readers think I had it 'bad' growing up in Brooklyn, re: telephone calls I was several "up" on one of my high school classmates.  Mary, one of 6 or so sibs, needed dimes.  Her Dad, a ruddy, frugal chap, SOME how got a Public phone booth installed in the house.  Kids had unlimited use - a REAL person, who REALLY wanted to help me.  Even if I wanted the phone number of someone and only had the LAST name, which was Slavic, contained 19 consonants and I wasn't "REAL sure if that ended in an "i" or a "y".  In fact, often this 'dilemma' morphed into a chatty exchange about how if it ended in "i", it was probably Polish whereas Russian people usually used the "y".
      (You'd REALLY get a kick out of the mess - conundrum being but a 'tip-toe' performance - our family found itself in because of some name-spelling changes -- if I had the time/space here this eve.  Must be some hereditary quirk.  I mean do you REALLY think my name is 'Lorane'?  It started innocently enough - Grampa, for business purposes - he owned a few furniture stores for a while - changed 'Grodzki' to 'Grocki' thinking, for some reason, the 'dz' business didn't sound American, whereas the 'ck' was shorter, cleaner, whatever.)
      On a slow day, with a REALLY chatty operator, you could even go with a few 'asides', comments like, "Boy, those Russian cooks can do stuff with beets that makes you think 'borscht' means 'heaven', countered with, "Yeah, but Gramma makes potatoes SING in her platzkis."  The point here, (c'mon. wake up for the'point') is that you hung up with 'information'  because Olszefski was not yet a common name and when she said "Is it 'Jusef'?", you remembered Celie's father was called 'Joe', PLUS a talk about customs and food - stuff you shared with this 'REAL' person operator.
      (Back in Warsaw our name was spelled 'Grodzki'.  Although it IS true about Gram pa's reason for the spelling change, as I watched the emerging of new, grownup 'aunts' and 'uncles' fresh 'off-the-boat' as it was said, I noticed that Gram pa's 2 brothers and two sisters kept the 'dz' version.  I was MOST interested in Uncle Mike.  First off, Mom REALLY liked him - so his recommendation was from above.  But the guy, like Grampa, was a charmer.  Good-looking, impeccable English, NOT a welcome visitor by Gramma (positive endorsement for me) & kinda mysterious.  He also had this fun, pretty wife - Regina - who was a concert pianist.  I never got the scoop - then - but they split.  Bummer.)
      Well times change.  As do modes of procuring information.  I GUESS the suppliers are REAL people but I KNOW the very notion of a friendly - nay - civil exchange is an anachronism.  This affliction seems MOST prevalent in the need-help-from-customer-service-re:-computer-maladies arena. 
      I either cannot understand the speaker because the English language is being mauled by rapid-fire-Mideastern-British-clipped overlays - accompanied by consistently inappropriate attempts at humorous one-liners that would have demonstrated a modicum of wisdom had they remained unspoken, accompanied by equally inappropriate SOLO chuckles of appreciation or, as with my attempt to inoculate myself from ANY oral 60-cycle-interference by using the fun "chat" option, I STILL hit the wall just this morning as soon as I saw that my "helper", 'information-provider' was one "GEORGIE BANGO" - you can't make this stuff up - who typed WITH A RUSSIAN ACCENT & wouldn't know/care about the difference between borscht & creme freche infused with red food dye.
      (Speaking of 'red', I finally came to realize that Uncle Frank had been infused with a few 'isms' before emigrating and, not wanting to taint the (already miss-spelled) family name with data NOT ABO-TYPING-related, maintained the 'dz'-issue' spelling AND split with Regina after their son, Bobbie, was born for the same reason.  But he was still a 'Big Tent' performer in this family circus.  I heard - by eavesdrop - that he gave rather eloquent, soap box speeches on his personalized, REAL soap box down on 14th street in Manhattan - the forum for this genre of performance.
      Over time, being a cogent, observant and lucid man, his ardor for the 'organization' and what it represented waned to the point that - when I was probably in 5th or 6th grade - he'd made the decision to sever all ties, turn in his card, cancel his subscription to the Daily Worker - in short (I know, too late) he went to his penultimate meeting on St. Mark's place and formally announced his official intentions.  The announcement caused not one choppy ripple in the East River.  Indeed, he was soon-thereafter invited to a bon voyage fete at the very same St. Mark's meeting Hall.
      Honored AND relieved, he gussied up that evening, having shared the news of the event only with his brother, Grampa.  I recon' pillow talk, generated by Pop's pride in his brother's decision, got the info to Stella (Gramma), then everybody.  The following morning, The New York Daily News (a true fount of worthy journalism) dedicated its front page to a  photo of a corpse on a stretcher under which the bleak copy announced that one Frank Grodzki, whilst in attendance at a party in his honor, was the victim of the friendly fire of a masked burglar during an attempted surprise robbery.
      Gram pa's only son-in-law, employed, I was always told, as a 'space-man', leaving me with the impression that he had something to do with aeronautics when, in fact, his job was to find/create office space for new exec-level types in a company in New Jersey, jumped right on it and, lest the (already miss-spelled) family name (which he, of course did not carry to space land - or anywhere else) be compromised in any fashion re: national security, called my dad and his three brothers, and, in hushed, self-important tones that usually go with disinterested/unaffected party-wannabes, instructed ALL to check out the 'front page' & tell the kids that if there are any questions from the nuns at school re: relatedness, recite: "MY name is spelled with 'ck', not 'dz'.  So, I dunno the poor guy.")
      Oh, for the days of "Information, may I help you?".  New York actually had REAL journalism at the time.  One such entity was The Herald Tribune.  I loved that paper.  Knew THEIR info number by heart.  This, because they had a 'general information' service from which you could elicit all manner of accurate, quickly-retrieved arcane material.  Wish I had a nickel for every time they 'provided' my homework in high school.  Now that's REAL help. 'Coourse it would cost Mary a dime, but it'd be worth it. Knowledge is like that.  Worth every penny you pay for it. 
      (Too much knowledge, it is said, can be a dangerous thing.  On autopsy, eavesdropping revealed, a 'dead-center-close-range-bullet-entry-wound' was described as being on Frank's forehead. But I know HE knew the price tag.  And with typical, classy, selfless courage, took THE one for the fam. Cheers, Frank. Here's to a REAL 'can-I-help-you-?' kind of guy.)
      Later, Lorane
     
                  

Resolutions, Revelations. Rallies

      Been hearing all manner of change - that will debut tomorrow.  Hardly a joiner, I most definitely am a mull er.  My musings took me from "Remembering" yesterday to 'and now?' today.  We have scanned, eye to mind, mind touching mind, with all the reverent anticipation of "Looking for Mr. Goodbar", through the frenzied yet purposeful jungle that we call mankind.  If one subscribes to the concept - and I daresay I do - of the 'Whole' of Mankind, then one accepts the thesis (count me in) that mankind is indivisible and the 'mysteries' not yet solved speak not to Nature's disorder but to man's intellectual immaturity.
      Please forgive me the bromides indispensable to pragmatically applying this thesis to my advocacy of the rights to which, I believe, mankind is entitled.  First, you gotta believe that injury to any part of mankind, injures - in part - all of mankind.
      (John Donne drove this home with: "No man is an island.  Each man's death diminishes me for I am involved in mankind.  So, ask not for whom the bell tolls.  It tolls for thee." The boy indeed had a knack.)
      Next, survival in today's world is made tolerable by the enjoyment of living.  This enjoyment is markedly decreased by emotional and psychic disabilities.  Dear Dorothy Parker had a bead on this one in "Coda".
      (There's little in taking or giving,
There's little in water or wine;
This living, this living, this living
Was never a project of mine.
Oh hard is the struggle, and sparse is
The gain of the one at the top.
For art is a form of catharsis,
And love is a permanent flop.
And work is the province of cattle,
And rest's for a clam in a shell,
So I'm thinking of throwing the battle-
Would you kindly direct me to hell?")
      Now these imbalances - and their Siamese twin, physical limitation - rob mankind's life of its pleasures.  The Bard provides but one example.
("Ah, sleep, that knits up the raveled sleeve of care.")
      And at the very heart of mankind's dilemma, bypassing the pulmonary artery - and, therefore, lungs - and hopping right over to the left ventricle (you don't tug on left ventricle's cape, if you get my drift) which launches gallons of weakness through mankind's system per diem, is the loss of what I call the 'sharing experience'.  This because the ability to create and SHARE the creation in communal productivity is a source of great pride.  Losing it leaves a large blank page in our book, "The Pleasure of Living".  You're on your own.  Living isn't pleasing.  It's a crap shoot. 
      (As Groucho Marx opined when his "You Bet Your Life" TV program was challenged on a different network with the very engaging/amusing Bishop Fulton J. Sheen, "Well folks, I guess now you can bet your life or better your life." Re:Marx, nobody could top him when it came to speedy, snappy repartee.)
      It is therefore up to us, dear readers, to ensure mankind's entitlements, overcome this inchoate mentality, facilitate and preserve mankind's pleasure in living.  I know you've all been a-tasking to the nth 'multi' of late, so I have set about fixing the problem.  Mankind's life, I am resolved, shall NOT be robbed of its pleasure!  Debuting on the morrow, I will do the man proud.
      (I refer, of course, to Clint Eastwood/Ronald Reagan's "Go ahead. Make my day.")
      Tutorially speaking, I refer you first to the parentheticals above.  Cherished pearls of wisdom - cast NOT before swine but enshrined, etched, inscribed (any guesses where I'm going with this?) ON PAPYRUS, PARCHMENT, PAPER, then having been marked with 'P', tossed in the oven for you and me.  Obviously, in this scenario, 'oven' is used metaphorically for book/library/collections and the like.  Yes, I READ them.  They were gifts from my friends.  Gifts I could take to bed, a grassy knoll, a sofa by the window, watching the snow fall -quietly, so as not to disturb my READING.
      I'd seen them neatly arranged in book cases with doors made of crafted leaded glass; on shelves over mantels, Moroccan-leather-bound, gilded-edged pages announcing "The Royals are 'IN'"; on the desks of my children in their rooms; the bedside tables of octogenarian nuns; in stores, on subways at launches, the proud author beaming as the lines formed, waiting a turn to have the newly-purchased treasure touched by, actually written in, by its creator.  That, dear reader is the penultimate 'sharing experience', the ultimate delayed so as to be a very private affair to remember - perhaps a soupcon of crackling wood in the fireplace, a fragrant magnolia floating in a Waterford bowl on a nearby Deco ottoman, hints of Beethoven surround-sounding softly, almost a whisper of puppy's breathing, curling up from your feet. 
      And, like the cradle, the curtain will fall.  Bidden or not bidden, the parting will be sweet sorrow.  Sweet because 1) you now become tachycardic, perhaps do some anticipatory panting even, at the very thought of   a brand new 'sharing experience', IE, telling all comers about 'this book I just read," and 2) you know that I'll be sooo happy for you and the chosen-to-be-sharees, that I'll not use ONE MORE HACKNEYED cliche in this post!
      (To be sure, I really did see/admire one such book case when I first visited my husband's home.  Their living room was forty feet long (the baby grand looked like a preemie) and at one end the wall WAS the book case.  He morphed it into an apprentice-piece by lounging over the top shelf - home to every sports trophy he'd ever earned - until the hapless visitor HAD to say, "Gee, Phil, what're all those shiny statues in the book case?"
      And around our home, each dedicated community of books had different bookends.  some were bona fide antiquities; some were from my family or bought by me.  But they have SUCH personality.  Huge solid brass elephants (trunks UP, good luck, you know) support my cookbook collection (remember cooking, Lorane?); carved wood Civil War cannons embrace Phil's sister's collection.  Her ashes were scattered and you'll be as well if you mess with her books; bulbous, contradictory, IRON wing-back chairs support the law books in my study (Contradictory in that you will never find a comfortable chair in a courtroom - save the 'bench' on which his honor perches); Stone, squares, sporting embedded brass ducks support my husband's medical tomes; our son's desk sported leather, 3-D slices of the globe (which always said 'basketballs' to me); one of our daughters used flat, brass squares imprinted with Rodin's "The Thinker" (I suspect, is was the male anatomical precision, not the artistic value that attracted her) and our other little lady had clowns - silent commentary on how she viewed the entire educational 'drill'.
      Whatever shall I do with them?  What will they embrace, adorn?  Whence functionality when 'The Trend' finally becomes 'The Only' means of accruing knowledge, favorite quotes, maps, recipes, fables, bed-time stories? When dawns the day during which what was once known as 'reading material' is generated by robotic, computerized chips or multi-channel analytic towers, information to be characterized, disseminated and osmotically absorbed by the 'end user', AKA humans. 
      The very embodiment (rather, mechanization) of efficiency, its applications have no limits; its productivity matchless as well as eviscerated.  As will be the humans forced to rely upon them.  Is THAT the world we want?  You-show-me-your-new-template-I'll-show-you-mine relationships?  Nay, say I.  Fie on curling up with metallic, meditationally-transmitted data. Dam Data. Any day.  I love dairy products but never wished my parents had been Guernseys.  I thrive on the written word, thought, emotion but would not have traded my folks for a pair of matching, fluorescent transducers.)
      Soooo.  Here's the plan.  Remember those queues, populated with humans, happily, willingly awaiting their turn for hours JUST to 'meet the press', as it were.  Touch the hem.  Perfume the washed feet of the creator.  No holds barred when it comes to that 'shared experience'.  That fulcrum upon which mankind balances its pleasure of living with its wholeness. 
      Well, we're going to bring those lines back.  Introduce the reader to his writer.  Save the jobs of ALL of the workers who perform ALL of the tasks involved in producing ALL of the books produced by ALL of those publishers.  Once again, the writer will stop by, say "Hi" and leave a smidgen of who-what-where-when-why, then SIGN the book, using the same nimble fingers that caressed the keyboard whilst forming the words that, when strung together, formed sentences that built paragraphs which marched step-lock-style across the paper pages, telling a story, drawing a picture, birthing another "shared experience'. 
      I've 'named the baby'.  Stop by the nursery.  The nurse will wheel it over.  Just ask for "Calling Card".  Cute as it can be. And starting tomorrow, I shall embark on a journey of "Deliverance".  I'll still be based on this page, of course.  But here's hopin' NEXT year, if you buy a book for you or as a gift (same thing, really), when you open the cover you'll see an affixed note to you, from the writer.  And if you do, tell your friends about it.  And please tell me.  Like I said, I'll be here; and like Mae West said,
      ("Come up and see me sometime.")
                                   Later, Lorane. . . .