What Older Folks Can Do for the Young

For the young adults struggling in today’s economy, we older folks can tell them that our country wasn’t always like this. We lived through the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s, when CEOs made less than 100 times what their employees were paid rather than over 400 times as much now; when you could get a college degree and even a Ph.D. at an excellent state supported (not state assisted) university for very little money and no student loans; when “union” was not a dirty word and working class pay was sufficient to raise a family with a stay-at-home mom; when TV news stations actually had investigative reporters on staff and made an effort to be objective, so the populace was somewhat informed; and many other things were different from now.

Why did things change? 40 years of mostly Republican policies after Reagan changed our nation. Taxes were lowered for the wealthy, and since the rich get richer, the top 1% had a huge gain in wealth, while everyone else stayed about the same. Funding for education was cut, for a variety of “official” reasons, but mostly because it was a government benefit for the middle and working classes. Reagan began union busting with the air traffic controllers, and states began enacting “right to work” laws, which should really be called “right to work for less” laws. Reagan began deregulation, and television stations were no longer required, as a condition for using part of the public airwaves, to devote a certain amount of time to publicly beneficial shows such as news. And on and on.

How did they get so many people to vote against their own self interest? Fear and loathing. Yes, fear and loathing. Keep people afraid of communists, criminals, or terrorists, and they won’t think clearly. Keep people hating gays and minorities and “welfare queens” and “Willie Hortons” and they won’t see that they are being screwed and they won’t band together to solve the real problems.

Conservatives tend to use, and Reagan was a master of, the anecdote, which is a short story about a specific case that seems to prove a point. The human brain is wired to respond to stories, to narrative. Certain stories bypass the logical brain and go straight to the emotional centers, thus influencing people’s subsequent thinking. Low information voters are especially influenced by a vivid story, and they don’t stop to analyze the larger context. Liberals tend to use reason, facts, and statistics to make their points. Needless to say, these things do not go to our emotional centers! Yet we cannot solve the complex problems of today unless we are willing to do the intellectual work to look at the evidence and work towards compromise.

Actually, now that I have written that last sentence, I have lost all hope! Sorry, young people.

Today's Haiku

Old Friends

Our hands, once held tight,

Paths diverging, are let go.

Remember, and wave.

Wise Advice from Grandma

About what to look for in a long term partner. Obviously, there needs to be a degree of attraction, BUT -- hormones make us do amazing and sometimes foolish things. You may be surprised how the reduction in hormones changes our perception of people. So do not decide on partners based on physical attraction. There also needs to be many shared values. That’s a well documented finding.

Do not weigh sense of humor highly. My father was a VERY difficult man, and even as children, my sister and I often thought my mother should divorce him. When we’d ask her why she married him, she always said, “He made me laugh.” I have a close friend with a similarly difficult father, and when asked why she married him, her mother also said, “He made me laugh.” Look through the singles ads and you will see that almost all of them specify “a sense of humor.” Everyone wants that, but no one thinks about what KIND of humor. And everyone thinks they have a sense of humor, even when they do not. If you want to laugh, watch Jon Stewart. Or some other comedy show.

What should you look for in a long term partner? Kindness and generosity! Someone with a kind and generous heart is a good bet. The ability to problem solve is also valuable. Other rather obvious things to look for in a long term partner include emotional stability, intelligence, and ability to earn a living. But value kindness and generosity above all.

Ask yourself, “Does this person show kindness and compassion to others?” “Does this person make ME feel loved and cared for?” “Does this person make an effort to meet my needs?” Here’s another tip. Early in the relationship, ask the potential partner to do something for you, to meet a need, and then LOOK AT THE DATA! If the person avoids doing as you ask, do not make excuses, but pay attention and act accordingly.

People act differently when they are in love and when they are courting, and people change as time passes. So a lot of this is random luck, but kindness and generosity go a long way.

Postlife Facetime

Last night I planned our post-life face time video for the grandchildren. It goes something like this.

Hello, grandchildren. At this point in time, February 2012, you enjoy talking on the phone with papa and me through video, called face-time. I began thinking that it might be good to do a videotape for when I’m not around, and you can watch it and pretend you’re face-timing me. I plan to be around for a long time still, but I wanted to start it now while I still look fairly OK. Yes, I know, it is kind of funny that old people have vanity.

Anyway, the first thing I would want to tell you is how very very much I love you. Words are not enough to express how well you are loved. And besides, last time I said “I love you” on the phone, Maddie said, “I know.” And I know you love me, too, even when you are mad at me, but still I have to say I adore you.

Grandparents are supposed to hand on words of wisdom. I don’t feel very wise, but I like the writings of the Dalai Lama, the one we have now, in 2012. He says kindness and compassion are the keys to leading a good life. Be kind to each other and to your own selves too. Have compassion for others. You are sweet, happy, intelligent grandchildren, so I assume you will learn what compassion means.

Grandparents are supposed to give good advice. The only advice that I know for sure IS good advice, that will actually work and save you pain and trouble, is this: floss your teeth. We only get our one body, and we want it to last, so we have to take good care of it. Because of the nature of germs and bodily inflammation, which I trust you will eventually learn about, flossing your teeth greatly increases your probability of good health and long life. Really, it does.

You should also eat right, so you should read “Grandma’s Gruel.” You used to like it when you were very young.

Right now Maddie, you are four and well on your way to being a centered, self directed, self possessed young lady. Right now, Ryan you are not quite two, your favorite number, and the smilingest little guy I ever saw. I hope you will retain your sweetness and light as you grow up. Right now, Sam, you are an infant, a cute  little baby, and you had to face some real challenges when you were first born. The sturdiness you have shown so far should stand you in good stead as you grow. 

Here's to the Dalai Lama

Kindness compassion

Or consume the whole planet

Humans choose their fate

Haiku Process

Hello and goodbye

The last words of my father

Hid his broken heart

This recent obsession with haiku is related to two things now going on in my life:  (1) there are hours during the night when I cannot sleep and making up haiku fills the time, and (2) I am trying in my painting to define as little as possible and still convey what I mean (see my art blog, judytoddart.blogspot.com). In haiku, you are limited to 17 syllables with which to convey your thoughts and emotions, so every little bit has to count. 

The haiku above is based on the fact that my father actually said, “Hello. Goodbye.” and that was all, on the phone to me, the day he collapsed and became brain dead (he officially died a few days later). He had experienced many disappointments and defeats in his life and one big tragedy when his parents were killed. Yet, like most men in those days, he revealed very little of himself to anyone. He drowned his secrets in alcohol, or perhaps he self-medicated his sadness with alcohol. At any rate, I was trying to convey how he spoke to me, but didn’t really tell me anything, on the day he died, as always.

Did I convey this?

Here are other last lines I considered:

The rest is silence

The rest was silence

All ways unrevealed

His path unrevealed

His pain unrevealed

As usual, I am impressed with how one little word can change the feeling and meaning of the whole, just as one little shape can change an entire painting.

This Old House

This old house settles
Snap creak pops awaken me
To hear night birds sing

My Scrub Jays Moved On

Back yard bereft of
Bright blue cheekiness, mocking
Birds pretend for me.

More Haiku

Universe unfolds

In the heart of a flower.

The sole choice is love.

Hello, grandchildren.

We gift you to the future.

Goodbye, grandchildren.

By the Time I Was 30

By the time I was 30, I had earned a Ph.D. without incurring a cent of debt, had worked for four years as an assistant professor, had married and divorced, had a baby, had bought and sold one home, and was about to buy a house, as a single woman, in Pacific Palisades. This could not happen today. We have allowed our country to change drastically from what it was in our youth, and our children and grandchildren should not forgive us.

In the 1960s I attended a top rated university (UCLA) that had very low tuition and fees, because the state fully funded it, realizing that an educated populace was an asset. Between scholarships, grants, fellowships, and summer jobs, I did not have to take out loans. Jobs were plentiful, and the minimum wage was not bad, because unions set a floor for wages. Banking and mortgage lending were highly regulated and kept separate. Savings and Loans had only savings accounts and they lent out money only for mortgages, at a certain rate above the savings account interest rate. Banks were not allowed to sell mortgages. Unregulated loans did not drive up the cost of homes, so I was able to afford to buy a house, as a single, beginning assistant professor. The difference in wealth between the middle class and the rich was not huge, which was another factor that helped me buy a house. By age 30, I had more wealth than my parents and lived in a much better part of town.

As we all know, things began to change with Reagan, who was the smiling, affable front man for the ruling class. As governor of California, he began to cut funding to the state universities, and as president, he continued to undercut all public education. Now the state universities are only “state supported”, not “state funded”, and tuition and fees constantly go up. Without wealthy parents, it is nearly impossible to graduate from college now without a mountain of debt. This effectively makes graduates indentured servants for the years it takes to pay off their student loans.

Reagan began the deregulation of the financial sector, which resulted in all the staid old savings and loans being absorbed by the big banks, which then began marketing and selling all sorts of things, including unaffordable mortgages, which they then bundled and re-packaged to hide the unsustainable loans and sold to our pension funds. If anyone could qualify for a big loan, whether they could afford it or not, then there was a lot of money chasing a few houses, and home prices sky rocketed. Now a single, beginning assistant professor cannot afford a house in Pacific Palisades or almost anywhere desirable in Los Angeles county (unless, of course, she had wealthy parents). The housing bubble that was created burst, and with so many faulty loans, the big banks almost failed, until bailed out by the taxpayers, so bankers can still afford a house in Pacific Palisades. 

Another thing Reagan did was cut taxes for the wealthy, on the theory that if rich people had even more money, they would start businesses and hire people and wealth would “trickle down.” This did not happen. The rich did not feel like doing the work that starting businesses would require and preferred to gamble with their extra wealth by playing the stock market, investing in big banks, and the like. Again, a lot of money chasing few stocks drove up the price of stocks, and it looked like everyone was getting rich, until the market crashed, and the Great Recession began. In the meantime, a few people were getting even richer in this environment, and the wealth gap between the middle class and the rich grew humongous.

Cutting taxes (and we are now the third lowest taxed country among developed nations) means less money for the government, which then issues bonds to pay for the things governments must do. These bonds are mostly bought by the rich, who have lots of extra money because of the tax cuts, and who then get even richer on the interest on the bonds that the taxpayers must pay. It is another way to transfer wealth from the lower and middle classes to the very wealthy.

The recession is officially over, but most people do not FEEL like it is. That’s because they have not accepted the fact that their standard of living has been permanently reduced. It has to be, for the 1% to hold so much wealth. Our children will do less well than we did, something that should make us very uncomfortable.

Reagan also began the dismantling of unions and the deregulation of the communications industry. Television commercials used to be regulated, and I can remember when there were just 90 second of commercials every 10 to 15 minutes. Now there are so many that people are turning away from TV. One truly negative result of deregulation has been the demise of real news in the mass media, and the rise of infotainment and right wing talk radio and TV and the general dumbing down of our sources of information.

How did this happen? Some people think it was deliberately planned to do away with the middle class. But why do people constantly vote against their own self interests? And they had to do so, to get to this outcome. Cutting education may be part of the plan, because uninformed people are more easily manipulated. The neocons use fear, wedge issues like abortion, manipulation and misrepresentation, and outright lies to get people to vote against their own self interests. Read some Thom Hartmann for the full details.

Perseverance and Good Luck

This year I will turn 68, so I composed this poem.

  Birthday Haiku

    Sixty-eight! Really?

Calendar and joints say so.

  Take one step, repeat.

The Commencement Dress

We needed to buy a dress for Kelly to wear for sixth grade commencement, her third such ceremony, having commenced from preschool and then from kindergarten years before. We went to the mall, where she tried on dress after dress at shop after shop. She kept picking out inexpensive casual dresses made out of T-shirt material that hung limply and awkwardly on her prepubescent body. I could not tell if she was trying to save me money or if this was the “in” style, but I would not buy any of them. She began to get impatient and say “Let’s just get this one” at almost any dress.

Finally we went to Nordstrom’s. We were looking through a rack of pretty dresses, and I unerringly picked out the most expensive one. It was about 80% more than I had planned to spend, but it was beautiful and would look wonderful on Kelly with its low cut waist and flouncy cap sleeves. She made a face at it and said it was awful. What was awful about it? It had a ruffle and a bow. She said she would not even try it on! I asked her to try it on as a favor to me, and if she would, then we could go buy whichever of the previous dresses she wanted. 

She sullenly followed me into a dressing room, and reluctantly put the dress on over her head. The soft, silky white dress floated down over Kelly,  the pink sash fell right at her hips and lengthened her torso, the cap sleeves added a feminine touch, and in an instant Kelly was transformed from a child into a young lady. She stared at the mirror, transfixed. I could almost read her thoughts as an array of emotions passed over her face:  confusion, amazement, a dawning belief in her own prettiness, and an inner struggle over whether she would stay resistant or admit that mother was right. Finally, maturity won, and she grinned and twirled and said, “Let’s get this one.” 

That was a great dress, a transformative dress. I saved it for six years until Emily could wear it at her fifth grade commencement, and she looked beautiful in it, too.

Three Sentence Mystery

I started a mystery novel once, wrote about six chapters, and then never did anything with it. My cousin Rebecca Huehls spent Christmas Eve writing three sentence mysteries, so I thought I’d do that with my old novel. Here it is:

Dr. Juliet Tierney sat in the all college fall faculty meeting and wondered which of her colleagues in the great hall was capable of murder. Eight days ago, her closest friend among the faculty, Dr. Alfred Butler, came to her office to discuss what he should do about some evidence that had come into his hands, evidence that implicated a colleague in falsifying data in order to obtain grant money that was subsequently embezzled, and then just two days later he was found dead in his backyard swimming pool, a drowning that Julie was absolutely convinced was NOT “accidental,” as termed by the police. After the long meeting, Julie rushed to her office, gathered up all the photos she could find of likely suspects among the faculty, and drove to Alf’s house to show them to his neighbors, none of whom recognized any of the people in the photos, except for the elderly woman next door, who said, “I never saw any of these people, but I saw this fellow back here a few times,” putting her finger firmly on the dean.

Meeting the Queen Mum

Written 12/24/11

For the years 1970 - 1973, I taught evening classes at Birkbeck College, University of London, right behind the British Museum. One night, just as I was walking out with a couple of students after class, we saw some young men in strange outfits brandishing swords on the sidewalk outside the college. We cautiously stopped to see what was happening.

Suddenly this HUGE limousine drove up. It was covered with shiny things and flags. The young men quickly formed themselves into a walkway, with swords held  up like a canopy over the walkway, leading up to the entrance to the college. Two elaborately uniformed chauffeurs got out of the limo and opened the back door. Out stepped the Queen Mother.

 Yes, the Queen Mother. She was wearing a long, blue, evening gown, with long gloves, and she had on gobs of diamonds and jewels with some even in her elegant coiffure. The students and I were standing there open-mouthed in our trousers and sweaters, when she very graciously came up to me, took my hand in hers, and said in that aristocratic British way, “Thank you so much for coming.” She did the same to the two students before gliding under the swords and into the college. 

I was so impressed with her kindness and felt so special to have gotten to meet her like that. Just now I checked her on Wikipedia and found this sentence: “She charmed the public in Fiji when shaking hands with a long line of official guests, as a stray dog walked in on the ceremony and she shook its paw as well.” Oh, well, it’s still a special memory. 

The Chicken Dinner

[I wrote this memory 12/23/11. It actually occurred some time about 1963.  Dad was raised in Terre Haute, Indiana.]

My father absolutely hated chicken. He was a PK (Preacher’s Kid) in Indiana and apparently the parishioners would frequently have the pastor’s family over for dinner and they always served chicken. He also said it was because he had had to kill the chickens for dinners his mother prepared. Whatever the reason, he hated chicken and would not eat it.

My parents, sister, and I were invited to have dinner at the home of the parents and brother of my first serious boyfriend. I was a teenager and extremely worried that my dad would do something crazy or weird or otherwise embarrassing, but I simply did not think to warn Blanche (my boyfriend’s mother) about my father’s aversion to chicken and no one asked. 

We go to their house and gathered around the table, and there it was -- heaping platters of pieces of chicken. My anxiety level shot sky high. As food was passed around the table, I saw that my father used sleight of hand and only pretended to take some chicken. In the hubbub of dinner for eight, he might have got away with it, if he had just kept quiet. But no, he had to make several loud compliments, “This is the best chicken I’ve ever tasted!” and “This is great chicken!” and even “I sure love chicken!”

Dinner was ending and I almost relaxed, when Blanche offered Dad more chicken. He said, “No, thanks, I had plenty.” Then Blanche finally noticed and said, “But there are no bones on your plate!” I am dying, but Dad just says, “Well, I REALLY love chicken!”

Taking Communists to Disneyland

In 1966 or 1967 Victoria and I were active members of Women Strike for Peace, one of the more radical anti-war groups of the time. A delegation of Communist women from the USSR were scheduled to visit Los Angeles, and they had requested a visit to Disneyland. Somewhere some bureaucrat must have thought, “Who can take Communist women to Disneyland? Oh, there’s that commie pinko women’s group --let’s ask them.” (I was actually called a commie pinko at demonstrations.) How ever it happened, the President of our Chapter of Women Strike for Peace asked for two volunteers to take the Communists to Disneyland, and Victoria and I were the only volunteers.

Victoria and I were in our early 20s and looked much younger. We were very slender and had long, straight, blond hair parted in the middle (hers was natural). I was wearing my patched bell bottom jeans with a halter top and she had on jeans and a T-shirt. We went to LAX and managed to find the Communist women, who were not what we expected. We met three rather stout, middle-aged women dressed in business suits and high heels. I guess in addition to expecting women nearer our own age, we thought they would look poor and starved. We later realized they were wives of high up Communist officials and not radicals.

We found the women, gave them a brief greeting since I was in a hurry to get to Disneyland before it got too crowded, stuffed their suitcases in the trunk, wedged the three of them into the back seat of my yellow Camaro convertible, and hit the freeway at 80 mph with the top down. With the wind and the freeway noise, conversation was impossible. After a while, I looked in the rear view mirror and saw three completely terrified faces, so I responsibly slowed down to 70 mph. When we got to Disneyland, one of them said, “We’re actually here.” This statement did not reflect their amazement at achieving a life long dream, but, as they later told us, their relief that they had NOT been kidnapped by drug-crazed hippies who were taking them out to the desert to kill them.

We marched them down Main Street and got in line for the Matterhorn. The line was long, so we were finally able to converse, and they relaxed a little when they learned that I was a doctoral student at UCLA and Victoria was a married mother of two. They told us about their families and where they were from: one from Russia, one from Mongolia, and the third I can’t remember. Finally we got to the part of the line that is “inside” the ride, where it winds endlessly between barriers. The Russian woman said in disgust, “Typical capitalist deceit! Just when you think you reach the end of the line, there is another line.” She may have been serious, but Victoria and I giggled and started riffing on all the capitalist propaganda in Disneyland, such as Walt Disney’s idealization of Main Street, the exceptionally clean environment, and the unrelieved cheerfulness of the staff.

We five had a grand time, and at the end of the day they hugged us and gave us gifts (we, being clueless, had none for them). Looking back, I can see there were many cultural misunderstandings, but I like to think we overcame them to some degree. We were surprised at how conservative they were, and they were surprised at how liberal we were. We shared a good laugh over their thinking we were drug crazed hippie kidnappers, something they had apparently been warned against before they came. We were mocking their propaganda and our own, and I think they were mocking ours and their own. We were all women simply trying our best to make a better world for our children, and to have a little fun on the way.

An Unusual Report

(This was written in the 1980s when I wondered how humans might look to other species.)

Safety Issues with Killer Squealers

This report by the International Safety Council has been prepared for the purpose of summarizing the current level of knowledge about killer squealers in order to make safety recommendations to the community regarding contact with them. While squealers, so named for their characteristic cry of greeting, are known killers, having murdered hundreds of thousands of us over the years, recent reports that some of them may be approached safely have raised questions in the community as to how best to behave towards them.

Scientific knowledge about killer squealers is based on the reports of the few individuals who have wandered far into their territories and lived to tell about it, as well as on systematic observations of their summer herding behavior. During warm weather, millions of killer squealers herd together at the edge of the sea. It is quite a fantastic sight: there are so many of the nearly identical creatures that they turn the beaches pink with their bodies.

Killer squealers are small mammals with a small head and four long appendages. Two appendages are used for locomotion, while the other two are used for manipulating objects and for contact with others of their species. Many of them are covered with a smooth, pale skin, while many others are brown or almost black. Most killer squealers have a bit of varicolored fur of various lengths on their heads, which seems to have signalling and mating purposes.

Like us, killer squealers usually travel in friendship/kinship groups composed of two to six or more adults and several young. When they greet each other or when they first see us, they make their characteristic loud squealing sound. They also make quiet, short, repetitive sounds almost constantly. They emit these sounds through their small, flexible mouths, which are in almost constant motion. It is believed that these sounds have signaling and communicative purposes, probably of use in bonding.

The killer squealer has limited swimming ability, virtually no sense of smell, and a limited sense of hearing. It apparently has an acute sense of vision. In spite of their nearly identical appearance, killer squealer mothers easily recognize their own young among the herd. It is hypothesized that killer squealers are able to distinguish subtle variations in the physical appearance of their own kind, so that the mothers learn to recognize their young by sight.

Killer squealers seem to be very attached to their own young. If a baby killer squealer becomes separated from its mother at the seaside, she will run frantically up and down the beach squealing loudly until she is exhausted. If she does not find her baby within a short period of time, her screams become louder and more piercing and water pours from her eyes. A curious observation is that when the mother is reunited with her baby, some mothers hold the baby in their appendages and pour more water from their eyes, while other mothers scream and strike their young. In spite of their apparent strong attachment to their young, killer squealer parents strike their young for no apparent reason quite frequently, and some experts believe that this behavior helps the young develop their aggression and killer instincts.

Recent reports from the Northernmost Sea, the Middle Coast, and the Southern Gulf suggest that a subspecies of nonviolent killer squealers may have evolved. It was reported two years ago that killer squealers rescued three adolescents who had been trapped in winter ice in the Northernmost Sea, where squealers have murdered us for centuries. It is well known that during certain months along the Middle Coast, hundreds of squealers crowd daily into sea vehicles in order to observe us go by, and they do so without killing anyone, although they are a nuisance. Likewise, in the Southern Gulf, some squealers enter small sea vehicles in order to closely observe us with our babies, rarely causing any harm. Some mothers even allow their babies to play with the squealers while they take a nap.

Nevertheless, because of their long history of extreme violence towards us and because of their continued violence toward their own young, which is likely to heighten their murderous tendencies, the International Safety Council has concluded that killer squealers remain highly dangerous, despite recent reports that some are not. It is recommended that extreme caution be exercised at all times, even along the Middle Coast and in the Southern Gulf. The Council recommends that all killer squealers be avoided.

Translated by Prof. Zenar-2-4 Bondad, noted Grayback linguist

Poems from the 1980s (Mostly)

Without Hugs     (1/20/83)

Without hugs

My paper skin is stretched on stiff wires

My flesh dries away, my edges crumble

Only hungry guts

Keep me three-dimensional

Ode to the Oil Refineries      (2/14/83)

Under a dangling crescent moon

Under smoking L.A. skies

The molecules of dinosaurs

Course through the starry lights

On the skeletons of refinery towers

And rear their heads again

Ungraspable millions. Dead millions of years.

Extinguished for almost eternity.

Enormous grand creatures, reigning for eons,

Gone forever.

Yet their blood turns on the refinery lights

Enormous grand structures

Grotesque spewing towers

Frozen mid-stampede

Glow and glower over the city.

They come alive at night.

Changes     (11/21/83)

Sometime

In the not distant enough future

I must give back the molecules

That temporarily organized

Into my life

Will there be a feeling of release

When I let go

And entropize into the universe

Sometimes I wonder

With peaceful envy

What my molecules

Will form into next

Dirt and worms I bet.

Eventually

Maybe birds and stars.

In eons

Maybe one or two

Will make it to a star.

In Kenya     (1984)

Lines of a million wildebeests

Like black ants crawling

Over the plains

From one luminous horizon to the other 

Fill the eye

Stun the mind

Life here is extravagant

Profligate in diversity, number, beauty

Life to spare

A few thousands

To death

Bones and bodies among the herds

Replenish vulture, lion, crocodile

Barely dead

At once enter life again

Life into death into life

The eternal cycle renders

Familiar dichotomies irrelevant

life death

good evil

human animal

kind cruel

free determined

Have no meaning

It is all beautiful

It is all pure

It is the garden of Eden

Without the will of man

It is paradise

Thoughts on Separation      (3/8/85)

So I made every change

You said you wanted

Now you say

I didn’t love you.

What do you call

All my trying?

Now you’re leaving me

Now you’ll become

Everything I wanted

Why do you need to leave me

To do what I wanted?

Why didn’t you love me enough

To stay and do what I wanted?

Why didn’t you love me enough

To grow up?

Sing Song     (8/1/86)

My little lost girl

Appears before the concrete walls

That years of competence helped build

I told you so, I told you so, she skips and sings

I told you not to fall in love

Then she goes into hiding again

My well kept secret from myself

I used to try to catch her

Coax her out with offers of care and kindness

But she doesn’t believe me either

When I think of love I sometimes cry and

She sometimes leaves the bunker to come sit by me

My Babies     (11/6/87)

Last night I cried for my babies

I turned my head for a blink of time

Just to do something or other

Earn a living, write a book

I can’t remember what it was

And they were gone

Whenever I see a baby

A little like mine

With big round eyes and

Toothless grin spreading dimples and sunshine

Or pudgy knees or the way

They stretch out their little baby feet

My gaze is captured

My head will not turn

My arms twitch with longing

Until the nervous mother

Pushes the cart into the next aisle

Or disappears down the street

When I was lucky

I should have held them

All day, all day

I would give anything

To hold them again

The Fake Mom    (2/88)

You’re not my real mom

My indignant six-year-old said today

My real mom wouldn’t yell at me

Then go live with her

We spoke burning poison

A few tears sparkled in her eyes

I revealed nothing

You’re cold, she said, 

At only six

After I had fixed her french toast

Dad     (2/14/88)

When I dream of you now

You never speak

While in life

You were such a good talker

Though you said little

When I was little

I could not risk

Exposing my feelings to

You who demanded the

Proper amount of joy

And allowed no sadness

Pain or anger

And you with all your sadness

Pain and anger

Never spoke of it

Letting it leak out in

Bits of puzzling behavior
Fits of rage

Frightening little me

Into a tower of strength

When I was big

The habits of denial

Became a suit of armor

Rusted shut

And we spoke not

Hello    Good-bye

Your last words to me

When you telephoned

Nothing in between

As always

We did not relate

You didn’t know me, father

I didn’t know you, father

I cried for you today

Nine years late

Exposed     (3/17/88)

Like a naked sea urchin

Stranded on a city sidewalk

Mortally wounded by an unintended touch

I search puzzled

For my spears

And fallen armor plates

I finally put them down

He said it would be alright

And without their weight

Ran wildly free

For a minute

In the sun

The protecting spines keep things out

But also in, I forgot,

Ripping off a scab,

And the blood of ancient wounds

Begins to run

In salty tears

Happiness     (1/28/89)

Happiness creeps in on little fog feet

Unlike misery crashing in

Or the felling blow of hurt

Quietly, softly, it seeps in

I have great children

I have my dear mother

I earn a decent living

At work I mostly enjoy

I own my own house in Pacific Palisades

I have my independence

I have my health

Most of the time

Happiness creeps in on little fog feet

Quietly, softly, it seeps in

So you may not notice it

Until it’s gone

Heart    (2/14/89)

Ten years past

I spent Valentine’s Day

Burying my father

In earth and red roses

Amazed and impressed

That he had managed to die

I had never imagined

Ten years without him

Hello, Darkness (with apologies to Simon and Garfunkle, 9/21/05)

To the tune of “The Sound of Silence”

Hello, Darkness, my old friend

It’s time to walk with you again

Good parts of life are done

My mother is gone

My daughter is lost

Darkness, let’s review it all once more

Time’s flight explains a lot

But not the daughter who is lost

To an obscene world

That destroys her soul

And the drugs that

Seal the deal

Look here, Darkness, tell me this

A rare day of happiness

Seems unseemly

Until I can feel

It’s acceptable to accept

The unacceptable

Now 2011

Dad has been gone for over thirty years

Darling Mom for nearly nine

The lost daughter came back to us

The older daughter has three children

Whom I adore with abandon

My life is rich with hugs

I get to hold my babies again after all

My molecules are still pretty well organized

I’ve grown a lighter set of swords and armor plates

Darkness is countered with gratitude lists

Painting replaces poetry

Plenty of challenges to embrace (I hope with grace)

Time too short to do other than

Enjoy all that I can while I can

And give only money to good causes