Nostalgia As a Way of Life

The funky little theater smelled of popcorn. Gray heads gathered in the center, parents were filing in with little kids, little girls came in pairs and scattered themselves about the house. A musician prepared the keyboard. We are in Rosendale, an artistic little burg seven miles from home, ready to view the Buster Keaton silent The Cameraman. I've seen a lot of Buster Keaton, going back to the Keaton Festival at the Elgin in New York City in the early 1970s. I am a very big fan.

I find a seat and am at once transported back in time, to a different movie house, the Fairhope, in the 1950's. I am one of the little girls excited about going to a movie with a friend. We are chattering like those two I see, I am already hooked on the movies, and it's only going to get worse. I will come to picture myself playing roles on the screen, imagine how I would read certain lines, tilt my head like that leading lady, swoon in the arms of that big strong actor, play that death scene so elegantly with one eye at a time streaming a tear.

I will grow up to major in drama in college, to take leading roles, to enroll in acting classes in New York, to start my own theatre companies in Geneva and in the U.S. I eat this stuff up and it in turn eats me up too.

But now I'm past all that. I'm retired from it all, sitting in an old-fashioned movie house fairly reeking with popcorn which my gastroenterologist has warned me not to eat. I am surrounded by the innocents on all sides and submerged in my own childhood innocence. I am swept into 1928, with Buster Keaton trying to win the heart of a pretty girl and operate a movie camera with a monkey at his side at the same time. As always in a Keaton film, the audience loves it. They are laughing loudly and the little boy next to me is saying, "Go, monkey!" and bouncing in his seat.

Before the movie starts there is the commercial break. Local businesses advertise on slides, and the Rosendale Theatre Collective makes a bid for money to refurbish. They want to raise $300,000, which doesn't seem to me enough, but I look around Rosendale and wonder how the hell they are going to get that much. I can donate--how much should I give? Should I get involved in helping them raise funds? How could I resist? What can I do?

They seem such an earnest lot, and the cause is definitely my kind of thing. This little town deserves a first rate movie house, and it is doing all it can to create one. You too can partake.

Go to their website and see if you don't wish you lived here. See if you're not moved to open your wallet. And if you're ever in the area, you will want to come to a movie. You may even be allowed to eat the popcorn.

Getting It Ready

Phase One was making the move--packing, camping in the midst of my stuff, mostly in cartons, until the apartment was ready. Now I'm just about at the end of Phase Two, which is, moving into the new apartment and placing my furniture and artwork around the walls. I've  hung some art, arranged some favorite pieces of furniture, and started replacing pieces I sold or gave away long ago.

A new rug pulls the furniture, mis-matched and of different vintage, together to look as if their purchase was planned. A designer once told me that if you pick only things you like, they will work together because they'll all be at the same level of taste--your own. I'm counting on that as the only word for my style is eclectic. There are antiques and mid-century modern pieces, and even the art is from different periods of my life and different schools. Because of my long life, my stuff is my biography--and it's a pretty complex one.

Years ago I had a round oak somewhat-antique dining table. I sold it before I moved to Hoboken, in the orgy of yard sales, giveaways, and general purge of that big move in December 2007. I haven't had a dining space since, but now I do again, and it seemed the perfect place for one of those tables.

 It's a little rickety for a kitchen work surface, but it looks right and it's now awaiting a few more chairs so I can serve someone on it. The place is beginning to feel like home.

At last I have an office, even though it is half of my second bedroom. I can do some work here.

Too Good To Be True

I guess everybody's heard enough about Lance Armstrong to last a lifetime, and about Manti T'eo too. I'm still haunted by both their stories and by the media attention, which to a certain degree was the story in both cases.

I don't pay any attention to sports because I think they are a negative force in American society. I'm one of those scolds who thinks way too much importance is placed on athletics and athletes, and, well, if our gladiators have to take performance-enhancing drugs to achieve the fame they seek, their admirers should be aware of that by now. And if one of them believes a made-up online girl is the love of his life, that's probably because he might have never had much of a life outside the big game.

In the case of Armstrong, not many Americans paid much more attention to the Tour de France than I did until he came along. He carefully crafted the image of guy-who-has-it-all while in reality behind the scenes was a nasty piece of work and had very little going for him. Prevailing in his bout with cancer may have been the only real thing he did, and his fund-raising foundation, while clearly a good way for him to shelter some of his fortune, achieved millions for a worthy cause--but that was likely an afterthought put in place by business advisers. It does not make him a philanthropist.

The troubling thing about his interview with Oprah Winfrey was his flat affect, his apparent indifference to the magnitude of his deception, and his clarity about his intention to appear to be a normal human being, maybe even a good one underneath. He failed at that and I'm sure he hates to fail. He may end up suing Oprah for defamation of character. As usual, I admired Ms. Winfrey for her direct, non-judgmental hits, just asking probing questions as she tried to make some sense of his version of things.

At first I thought of Manti Te'o as some kind of Li'l Abner type--a big bruiser with a heart of gold and the brain the size of an English pea. Now it becomes clear that he was let in on the prank before he revealed it and may have been more of a participant than he claims. At any rate it was a silly-season kind of joke, if that's what it was, and apparently will have no lasting negative pull on his career as a football player.

Back to the performance-enhancing drugs. I don't understand why people are so up in arms about this. As far as I can tell, sports fans want to win and they want it so much this obsession clouds their vision. Sports are not about what we call "good sportsmanship," if indeed they ever were. They are about winning. Baseball players, runners, everybody in competitive sports takes them, and they work. Whether the Baseball Hall of Fame honors them or not, today's baseball players rack up more home runs than the former all-time greats ever did, and they do it every season. Like Armstrong--a cyclist nobody ever spotted as special--who won one Tour de France after another, they know that winning is the only thing, and that there is a short cut to doing it. Why are the fans surprised, much less betrayed? Did they not think of this? If not, why not?

We pay these brutes millions and millions of dollars every year. We want to see them win and we'd like to think they're not the kind of guys who run dogfight rings on the side. But we know that most of them will do anything to stay on top in their field, and that usually means they have to have a little pharmaceutical help to do so. Nobody forces them to take drugs (well, Armstrong did what he could to coerce his teammates to, and did what he could to ruin them if they told the truth about him, but he is an extreme case). The fans are the ones who want to see those high scores, those high batting averages, those bloated muscles. It's not news that drugs are a part of the scene. What would be so outrageous about taking steps to legalize these essential substances?

Would that not make sports fans relax a bit and continue to worship these physical specimens of unreal looks and ability? Their feet would look less clay-like if we just admitted it at the outset.

Work in Progress

You can tell from the picture that I'm making progress. Unpacking, but far from done. I've got a lot to think about as I go into the many cartons I brought from Hoboken to New Paltz--some purging yet to do, a lifetime of stuff that I once treasured or at least thought someday I'd need. Carton after carton was labeled BOOKS. A preponderance of those, maybe half, were marked COOKBOOKS.

A funny thing happened to me a few years ago when I read of a new cookbook that intrigued me. I thought, "I have recipes for most of those dishes already, somewhere in these books of mine," then I had a major revelation. "I don't really need another cookbook." This was followed by the bolt-of-lightning realization, "I can cook. I don't need one more cookbook." I've been cooking for over fifty years and enjoying it. I've tried many cuisines and settled on what I like and do best. I might try something totally different from time to time, from a recipe in a magazine, on television or the Internet. But I simply don't need one more book.

Yet I kept most of my cookbooks. In the same way I've kept most of my books over the years. This time, since I'm renting an apartment for one year, it would be wasted energy to unpack all my books and put them into my many bookcases, as next January I may well be packing for another move. Many of the cartons labeled BOOKS will go unopened into one of the big closets. I'll pick a few boxes at random and unpack them onto the shelves. I expect to like looking at the dust jackets and displaying the 20 or 30 books for all to see how erudite I am and am not. I'll unpack some of the cookbooks and probably use them from time to time--but then, I cook mostly from memory anyway.

A crisis occurred when I realized I don't need all these encyclopedias. I struggled to buy encyclopedias in the early 1970s, when a good set was still a necessity of my life. The Encyclopedia Britannica offered many sales plans--ways for the customer to pay in installments. Their telephone salesman was insistent that I use one of them. When I asked if I could just pay the total amount outright I was told no, that wasn't among their plans. I tried to get off the phone with that guy for weeks. He had my number and kept calling although I told him over and over I didn't want to pay in installments. We reached a stalemate and he finally gave up. On vacation in Maine I bought an unused set from a housewife who had fallen for the telephone pitch and had no use for encyclopedias after all.

I took a modicum of pride up until a few years ago that I was still referring to my Britannicas for little questions that might arise, pulling up biographies and pearls of information from decades past. But more and more I was using the Internet for such information, and by the time I got to New Paltz, with my grandsons lugging the heavy boxes to my apartment and asking, "Why do you need all these encyclopedias?" I finally asked myself the same question and had to admit it had been at least two years since I'd opened one. Now, where to donate them--or do I just put them out with the recyclables? The set is dated 1969 and there is a volume missing. Does anybody read encyclopedias? I can't think who that might be.

I continue to look through detritus and hope it's all valuable. I always thought when I moved the next time I'd find those green earrings I wore so often and suddenly couldn't find. In carton after carton I see forgotten mementos and artifacts of pasts epochs from my past. Most are fun to find; some cause me to ask, what on earth did I ever want this for? So far, no luck on the earrings. 

Just Beautiful Music

Wednesday night I attended a musical event featuring the Rondout Valley High School Concert Orchestra and Chorus. It was one of those evenings that left me with a feeling that in spite of everything, all is truly right with the world. I'm a sucker for young voices singing American classics, in harmony, and interludes of music by a serious, full-scale youth orchestra.

The peppy choral director is Dr. Barbara Wild, who had the 60-voice mixed choir singing folk songs, hymns, and Aaron Copland's evocative American music. She immediately won the audience over with her upbeat style and her request to "take a picture now, not after we start. This is a human, non-electronic program." The brass ensemble, under the direction of Randolph Loder, led with a rousing "Fanfare for the Common Man" and the orchestra played such heartwarming Americana as "Shenandoah"as well as a smattering of selections from early American composers.

I was sold on the content, but what really touched me was the verve of the singers and musicians. I could hardly take my eyes of a certain singer of the bass section, who happens to be my 15-year-old grandson. Andy cut a striking figure onstage with his glowing complexion and earnest approach to the work. Andy plays goalie on the school soccer team and the demonstrates the same charisma on the field. But to my mind it takes a lot more guts to sing in the concert chorus than to play a sport, any sport. I might be a little prejudiced. I'll admit it.

Living in this area, I'll be able to watch him and his brother develop in the next few years. Different as brothers can be, I've always had a special place in my heart for Andy, the little one who could sing "This Old Man, he played one..." before he could really say the words, and announced to us that when he grew up he would be a "ballet singer!" Over the years, the self-consciousness of the world eked its way into him and he said he couldn't sing, but he gravitated to the chorus. He won't take a solo assignment at this point, but says he loves singing harmony to classical music. He has a gift for languages, too, and something in me sees the opera in his future.

His brother is thriving in his first year of college, and we all can't wait to see what he will make of himself there. One of those smart boys who had no patience for high school, he had a few brushes with life-threatening situations and always bounced back as if nothing has happened. At this point he has nothing but good to say about college and his grades are mostly A's. This is after one semester, mind you. We don't know what to expect. This is me talking, and I say there is every reason to expect good things. A glimmer of the possibility of greatness in both grandsons. And a rising wave of support from all sides, including having Grandma near to consult with. If only they will.

It's the reason I moved up here, this beautiful music of family, possibilities, and hope. Wednesday night was a good beginning.

What Now, My Self?

I'm staying temporarily in an apartment without cable, internet or telephone service. Otherwise, it's quite comfortable, but it is not where I want to be.

I thought it would probably be good for me not to have access to the invidious intrusion of television, and in light of the recent wall-to-wall (I assume) coverage of the national tragedy in the Sandy Hook CT elementary school, it probably has. I would have time to think, to meditate, to shake off what I fear has become a form of geriatric ADD as a result of too much information, most of it wrong.

It's awfully quiet in my temporary digs. I start the day at a chain breakfast place that offers wi-fi access so I can check my email, write and review the traffic on my blog(s), and play with Facebook. Then I go home for lunch or grab a sandwich somewhere, and later on visit my daughter's and mooch her wi-fi until I go home for supper and four hours of reading and listening to NPR. The surprise is that I'm ready for bed at 8 P.M. and the hard part is making myself stay up for another hour and a half. I'm up at 5 anyway if not before, and usually wake up in the night for an hour or so. It's just so damn quiet!

This morning before I left for my morning coffee NPR had a segment about how easy and successful it is to create an eBook. I've heard this one before. Interviews with writers who have made a bundle on their eBooks, almost immediately snapped up by a major publisher and soon to be a major motion picture. All the author has to do is pay an editor, an artist to design the cover, a web designer to create a beautiful website, and wait for the money to roll in from sales of the book.

It didn't happen that way for me. I spent a couple of years hacking out my novel That Was Tomorrow, going over the product with two editors until I felt it was as good as I could make it. I envisioned it making a beautiful movie. After I'd paid all those who assisted me, paid for the formatting of the book into an eBook, and gotten the word out through my Facebook network, I sold about 75 eBooks and all sales ground to a halt. I approached all the groups and individuals I thought would be touched by the content and style of the book and one by one I've sold a few more. There were good reviews in the local press surrounding Fairhope, the locale of the book. But there seemed to be no interest there. Many people responded to my urging that they read That Was Tomorrow by saying they had no means to read an eBook and no intention of ever getting same. Others didn't even respond to personal emails. I was able to garner 13 reviews on amazon dot com and the response was universally good, except for one self-styled writer who took it upon himself after reading a few pages to critique the book as "far from your best writing." I never attempted the Great American Novel, but this is a guy who begged to read it in hopes that I was the next George Elliot. I'm not kidding, he did that.

Well, it will all be a tax write-off, as my other books have. Check out my writing and my website if you'd like to see for yourself why self-publishing is sometimes not profitable (your comments are welcome here), or if by some chance you actually want to read my eBook or buy my other books.

I'm excited to be starting a new life in New Paltz in a couple of weeks. Will I write more? Will I take some university-extension classes that expand my horizons and inspire me to move in another direction? I'm almost sure of it. Will I get cable TV? Almost certainly. And I'll unpack, hang my pictures, and meet some new people. Will I get a new website and self-publish more books? Not bloody likely.

Empowered

Kingston, but on my way

There's something empowering about having the morning to yourself in a strange city. This morning I awoke to below freezing temperatures, a car covered with frost, and a few errands to run. I needed to find an Internet hot spot, of course, and I got to Starbuck's at 8:50, which was before it opened. Just down the mall a bit was a Panera Bread that opened at 6, so I found my way there, glancing into the windows of Pier 1 and Coldwater Creek on my way. When I got through with my morning check of the New York Times online, looked over Facebook and posted a pithy note or two, downed a coffee, and was ready to move on.

By now my car had thawed out. I found the nearest supermarket and bought supplies I needed for lunch and a few more meals. Weaving about in traffic I felt empowered. No big deal. I have a lot to get done and everything seems to be falling into place.

I'm getting organized here. I expect the closing on my Hoboken apartment Friday or early next week at the latest. Soon I'll be flush and in three weeks I'll be moved into my new apartment in New Paltz. 
I can't wait until I have Internet service and cable tv in my own place, and have my stuff there, unpacked, sign myself into a gym and get into a comfortable routine again. In the meantime I have Christmas and New Year's Eve to deal with. I can handle anything.