I think I’ve lost my grip on reality.
Being a woman, I am inclined to blame it on myself.
“This must be punishment for something I did long ago that was really bad even though I can’t remember what it was.”

But there’s a light at the end of the tunnel in my head. It keeps blinking, “Blame it on Trump”, “Blame it on Trump”. And his tsunami of mendacity.

In the interest of self-survival, I choose to obey the sign blinking in the light at the end of the tunnel, and blame him.

Which means that it isn’t ME who has lost touch with reality. My vision is clear: I am simply looking at an unreal situation and filing it correctly in my brain. Reality is now a term that needs to be defined in order to be discussed.

My grip is fine, I’m happy to say.
It’s reality that’s lost its grip.
And we are involved witnesses/victims.

Brave on, Us! Brave on, We The People! Keep our collective...

LOVE movies! I make it a point to see as many of each year’s “grown up” movies as I can – the ones that are nominated for a Golden Globe and /or an Oscar. I generally do this between Thanksgiving and New Year’s as that’s when all the last minute contenders seem to be released. Each year, I eagerly run that marathon of movie going.

I am a fan of credits: I wait to see them as I am interested in who designed the sets or costumes, what music was played, who WAS that actress who had that small but pivotal role, who is being thanked for their participation, and so forth. Those scrolling moments of film making are often not seen by the majority of the audience as they have already left the theater. But unless my meter is about to run out – I stay.

My most favorite moments in all the films that I have seen this year – most of which were worthwhile – occurred during the credits of two movies...

I went to the movies this morning and was greatly touched by “Lion.” Yes, because it was a “true” story well told, with the good guys clearly demarcated from the bad guys. And yes, because I am a softie. But mostly,
I think, because I needed a really good cry. Why?

No matter what happened in the first 10 months of 2016, November eclipsed all of that and turned our collective memory into thinking that 2016 has been a crappy year. At least for more than half of the voting humans in the USA. It isn’t because the candidate of our choice lost - or was robbed, as may yet be proven to be the case. It was never about the candidate, as a personality, for me. It was about what she knew, how she was connected, and what she represented. What we got in November is the other guy, someone who doesn’t know anything about the job he’s taking on, is connected to people I never want to know, and who...

2016 is nine days away from ending. I am glad. I don’t want to think, talk or write about it. One thing all that public ugliness has done is make me look way back. Auld acquaintance. PBS has helped me in that endeavor:

John Lennon. Martin Luther King. Robert and John Kennedy. I can’t even type these names without tearing up. And I didn’t even know these people.
I only felt them. Rowland Scherman plied his verbal skills and self-effacing manner to the banter that made him friends with these people. And then he took their pictures.

“Vibrationally serene.” Those are words he used in the PBS documentary that traces his chosen life in photography. He was there in the ‘60’s – big time. Everywhere in the ‘60’s. At least everywhere I wanted to be, or avoided being because of my aversion to huge crowds, which were popular then. He said that the Beatles gave the world a ray of sunshine during...

A dear, wise and cherished friend asked me why I will not be marching on inauguration day. I gave her a too long, too mushy response. While all true, I never quite got to the heart of what would keep me back. This morning, Roger Cohen’s NY Times article did:
http://www.nytimes.com/2016/12/05/opinion/the-rage-of-2016.html?action=click&pgtype=Homepage&clickSource=image&module=opinion-c-col-right-region&region=opinion-c-col-right-region&WT.nav=opinion-c-col-right-region&_r=0

This pithy excerpt offers a shorthand to my reasoning, which is - as so many decisions are - based on fear: “It’s open season for anyone’s inner bigot. Violence is in the air, awaiting a spark.” We have seen random acts of everything. We have no defense against those, any more than we can protect ourselves from organized acts of everything, no matter who heads the coyly named Department of Homeland Security. As if...

I lived in New York. Therefore, I took acting class. Yes, that, along with seeing a shrink, are - I believe, required credentials for residing on the island that lies within the bridges and tunnels. As it is required, I “took class.” (“Whose class are you taking?” “Gotta go. I’m late for class.” This jargon, “taking class” is understood by all Manhattanites of a certain age and inclination. It ALWAYS means “acting class.” Now you know.)

My teacher was Warren Robertson. I’ll save you the trouble of Googling:
http://www.warrenrobertson.org/en/bio.html
I LOVED my acting class, although I am certain that I was and am an awful actress. Theatrics run in my family. Acting is another thing entirely.

My classes were small, but filled with juicy and eager students. I won’t name drop but I will say that the class included a person featured in the most popular show on TV at the time; the husband...

When getting dressed, my father put on his right sock, then his right shoe. Then his left sock and shoe. Then, AFTER he had on his socks and shoes, he put on his pants!

Never heard of such a thing? Neither had I. So I asked, “Daddy, why do you do that?” He replied, “So I don’t wrinkle my pants.” And that was that.
Made perfect sense.

Made perfect sense IF you wore trousers that were wide all the way down in order to accommodate either the wing tip shoes or his favorites – Hush Puppies. So now you know why my slender and perfectly proportioned father wore wide, maybe even baggy - though well tailored - pants.

I love my memories. And I love writing them, hoping that you will find humor, pathos, intelligence, commonality, twist of fate, empathy, sweetness or drollness or whatever else I have tried to convey. For THESE – my memories and your willingness to read them now and then – I am...

When I woke up today, I checked my InBox. There was my daily email from The New Yorker online. I always save that for the last email I read because I love it and want to dig in, but only if I have time enough to really savor it. So I get the rest of the e’s taken care of and then settle in to read the best literary magazine ever (and an excellent commentator on current events and the world in toto). Other publications have contended: Utne Reader, Paris, the New York Times Magazine in the old days, articles of note in many other vehicles. But these days, and more devotedly ever since I actually left New York City to live elsewhere, The New Yorker is my jam.

I am in a good mood. Another beautiful day. A cozy bed with a somewhat handle-able ToDo list for a Saturday, my tinnitus not too bad. It was a very good morning until I started to scroll through the New Yorker’s list of articles. Here...

I left home at 7:15 this morning, heading for Massachusetts and a week of family and friends. It’s raining. The visibility is 3-4 car lengths. Crossing the Susquahanna was an act of faith, as was crossing the Delaware as the rivers were replaced with impenatrable hazy foggy dense mist. Seemingly, an abyss.

That is not just a report of current weather and road conditions. It parallels my emotional state in response to current events: today is November 9, 2016. Donald Trump has been elected to be the 45th President of the United States of America. The rain might well be the Earth’s way of crying. The murky fog may well represent both the mindset of the voters who chose him, and an apt description of what I can see ahead: nothing.

Trying to take an audio break from the politcal yakking, I turned my car radio dial trying tp find something else besides that redundant gab. Anything else...

One of my favorite songs is “Suite Judy Blue Eyes” by Crosby, Stills & Nash. (I guess Young - no relation - wasn’t part of the group yet.) It was written for/about Judy Collins, who does have sweet blue eyes.

The song’s “lacy, lilting” lyrics go to my soul. They tell some of my personal story. And don’t get me started on the harmony and instrumentation. It’s a great song. And because that’s what I think of it, I am also glad that it is a very long song: 7.25 minutes. Good. It can’t be long enough for my taste.

The specific lyric from that song that inspired this blog post is “Fear is the lock, and laughter’s the key to your heart.” Isn’t that true? Laughter DOES open one’s heart. The next line of the song is “And I love you.” That’s logical, because when one’s heart is open, one loves.

So what’s the problem here? I believe myself to be a pretty “open-hearted” person. My mother used to...