A House of Dynamite

Although I didn't know it at the time, turns out I watched Katheryn Bigelow's latest film - A House of Dynamite - on the day it was first streamed on Netflix. And a week later, I still haven't shaken it off. This is a movie you don't enjoy, but it's one I'm reasonably sure you will never forget. The last time a film hit me this hard was when I watched The Day After in 1983.   

Each of the three parts - told non-chronologically - is equally terrifying. I was disturbed enough at the conclusion of part one that I considered turning off the TV.  But I didn't. Then, as part two ended, there was no doubt I'd watch part three. Bigelow's total command of film craft is a marvel. I wasn't happy but I was riveted. 

If you decide to watch A House of Dynamite, be prepared. 

That Kind of Book

Unless you are an Uber-snob - and I'm sort of a mid-level snob myself - I can almost guarantee you'll enjoy Tomorrow, And Tomorrow, And Tomorrow (2022). Gabrielle Zevin's satisfying novel has all the elements that readers - except Uber-snobs - look for in a reading experience. It's well written, the narrative arc is strong and believable, the characters are interesting and relatable.

In addition, I can't remember ever reading such a skillful portrayal of a deep friendship between a man and a woman. For me - perhaps because my most enduring and enriching friendships have always been with women - the bond and the bumps that tie and test Sam Masur and Sadie Green's long friendship, thanks to Zevin's masterful yet unshowy prose, elevated this novel. I believed it because I've lived it.

Tomorrow, And Tomorrow, And Tomorrow also reminded me how collaboration in the creative world can be invaluable. It was difficult to read this book and not be reminded of the collaborative creative efforts of my daughter and her writing and directing partner. Isn't it wonderful when the insights in a worthwhile book are reflected in your own life experience? This is that kind of book. I suspect you'll find parts of yourself in it. When you do, be sure to return here and tell me and others about it.     

When Will It End?

OK, it's official. With respect to the music classes I've been delivering and teaching for over eleven years now, I have no respect for my own time. 

Reflections From The Bell Curve: Assist With a Reprise

About a month ago I used the post above to solicit input for a reprise of my course called Tunesmiths. And though initially pleased with the responses I got both online and off, that's also when my trouble began. At this point, I'm beginning to wonder when it will end. 

Short version: Resolved to listen carefully to every song suggested. Created a playlist on Spotify. Been listening steadily since mid-September to determine which artists suggested to me that were not included in 2017 measure up reasonably well against those featured eight years ago. Any "new" artist making that first musical cut = research required to ensure they fit the parameters established for the original course. Getting the picture yet? Though trying not to tally hours spent so far (did I mention my slides will also need updating?), it's not pretty. 

Even my meditation practice is suffering. During several recent visits to myself, instead of being present with my breathing, the soundtrack in my brain wouldn't leave me alone. I love music but I'm thinking, at minimum, I may need to go on the union clock. You know, forty-five minutes on, fifteen minutes off.  

More Rushmore Coming

From my earliest days as an insatiable reader, I've adored short stories. But until recently, my awareness of some of the critical elements common to great short stories hadn't kept pace with my love of this vital form of literature.  Happily, this shortcoming has been remedied a bit thanks to an Act Three friendship with a serious lifelong student of short stories. 

Starting with the first discussion of some short stories I attended that this friend moderated, I could feel my discernment deepening. When was the last time you had a learning experience like this? For me, few things in life are as exhilarating. Although I knew short stories needed to do more with less, the subtle choices made by some masters of the form - word choice, tone, voice - had often eluded me before this astute reader and dedicated student began helping me see those things more clearly. 

Reflections From The Bell Curve: #2: The Mt. Rushmore Series

Soon after attending a workshop led by this friend earlier today, I exhumed the post above from my archives, the second iteration in my long-running Mt. Rushmore Series. Thirteen years ago, these four jumped to the front of my brain as some of my most revered short stories. But after almost twelve years of her able tutelage, I'm inclined to construct a second monument acknowledging what I've learned from my valued friend. This new memorial will not replace my original; I stand by those choices. But enshrining a story by some of the masters my friend has helped me better appreciate - Lauren Groff, Jhumpa Lahiri, William Trevor, to name a few - is now in order.

Construction has begun. In the meanwhile, I'd welcome hearing which short stories you'd put on your Mt. Rushmore.         

No Kings

If you participated in a No Kings event this past Saturday, what do you hope will stay with you?

For me, this is easy. I want to retain the hopeful energy I felt walking up and down the long line of people stretching across both sides of that bridge in Red Bank, N.J. While capturing the content of favorite signs - wearing a NYC People's Climate March t-shirt to signal solidarity - most everyone I interacted with was kind, thoughtful, positive. I purposefully steered clear of bad energy and quickly ended any conversation I sensed was headed toward a divisive rant. I wanted to return home infused with hope, not weighed down with despair. I succeeded.

Next question if you participated. Which were some of your favorite signs? Below are three of the more than fifty I jotted down traversing that bridge a half-dozen times. My blog is PG; give me as many of your non-profane favorites as you like. 

"Our Constitution is not a suggestion."

"Science: Because you don't figure things out by praying." 

"We don't disagree politically; we disagree morally."

By accident, I also learned at this event that carrying a book while walking and copying signs was a useful entree to conversations with my brethren. I lost count how many times people commented when they noticed my copy of Gabrielle Zevin's Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow (2022) which I was using as a hard surface while capturing favorite signs on scrap paper. A few of these brief conversations remained on Zevin's book - or literature, in general - while most others morphed into a dialogue about shared values and/or the issue(s) that brought each of us to be on that bridge on that day. 

What do events like these accomplish? Instead of spending precious time debating or arguing over that unanswerable question, I offer the words of one of my heroes to assist those of us who wish to retain Saturday's hopeful energy: "Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter."

 

 

Reunion #9, Lucky Sevens, Goodbye to One

When we all met in Alaska in 2015 on a Road Scholar trip and decided to re-unite every year at a mutually acceptable location, I suspect few of the sixteen of us would have predicted we'd still be doing so in 2025. Our time together this past week at Chautauqua Institution marked our 9th reunion. The only year we were forced to skip was 2020, when Covid paralyzed the world. The fellowship of this group has been one of the highlights of my life over this past decade. What has been a highlight of your life between 2015-2025?

Not counting when we met in Alaska, we've now visited seven U.S. states together stretching from Maine to Washington; our only duplicates have been Colorado and New York. There's a nice symmetry there because our homes stretch from Vermont to Washington and also encompass seven different states. And our face-to-face book discussion this year - The Serviceberry (Robin Wall-Kimmerer) - was also lucky number seven*, although two of those discussions were face-to-face ZOOM-style during Covid. This year, with just six of us at Chautauqua, book discussion #7* was a hybrid = six of us on site/seven of us on a screen. Didn't matter; it was, as always, a rich discussion.   

(* We also did something really cool between reunion #5 (Acadia National Park in Maine) and #6 (Ghost Ranch in Arizona), i.e., a book discussion via U.S. mail. Over that year, each of us wrote our impressions into a single copy of The Sense of an Ending (Julian Barnes), which was circulated across the U.S., then all sixteen comments were compiled into a Word document, sent to everyone. Doing a "book discussion" in that fashion felt natural to people old enough to remember pen pals. Apologies to readers too young to remember pen pals, the spindles in the center of 45 RPM records, asking others for directions, etc.)  

Given our respective ages when we met, the start of our second decade has already delivered predictable events. In May, we lost our master puzzler. Over the eight reunions I spent with her, her unfailing grace never ceased to soothe and ground me. On our second night in Chautauqua, the remaining fifteen of us - led by her devoted husband of sixty years - celebrated her life as a full group, thanks to ZOOM. Because of that celebration I now know her better and my love for every person in this group of people has further deepened. I'm grateful beyond measure for these later-in-life soulmates.  

Reflections From The Bell Curve: Life Is a Series of Hellos and Goodbyes

Live from Chautauqua Institution

Perhaps my biggest challenge while travelling with Road Scholar - if Wi-Fi is reliable - is landing on the focus for my initial blog post while immersed in one of their programs. Secondary challenges include decisions about how many posts I'll publish about whatever program I'm in at the time and whether to attach pictures - inadequate as they can be - and, how to keep my post(s) brief. The latter can be especially difficult given the uniformly rich experiences Road Scholar offers. Commercial - part one - concluded.

Home - Chautauqua Institution

Just one day in, I'm pleased to report that Chautauqua and Road Scholar are a perfect fit. The grounds are striking and the food is first-rate. More importantly, the reputation Chautauqua has built over its 150+ year history for drawing top-shelf guest lecturers was ratified from the start of this program. Phil Shull may not be a household name but his excellent lecture yesterday a.m. on global food security was beyond what I've come to expect from Road Scholar and that bar is high. In addition, yesterday ended with an equally exemplary musical performance by Bill Ward, a talented guitarist, singer, and storyteller who captivated me for over ninety minutes, including introducing me to the material of several unfamiliar but highly worthwhile songwriters.

Beginning with our first Road Scholar vacation to Alaska in 2015, I've steadily evangelized here on their behalf.  If I haven't yet convinced you, I'm hoping this second part of the commercial will persuade you to give them a try. I'm reasonably sure you won't be disappointed.

Unconditional Positive Regard

Months ago, someone in one of my writer's groups spoke of aspiring to live a life of unconditional positive regard for others. Does this ideal appeal to you? If you feel like you've been living your life this way, for how long has that been the case? What strategies have you discovered to assist you to stay in that state of grace?

Since first hearing those words strung together, barely a week has gone by when I haven't reflected on how living my life this way would be undeniably healthier. This is especially so whenever I re-hear poisonous thoughts that have crossed my mind when interacting with certain people. I suppose it's fair to say that the phrase unconditional positive regard has begun to help me at least raise my baseline for being triggered by some people. 

But soon after I begin congratulating myself for evolving, something gets said that sets me back. Over the several months I've been working on getting healthier in this domain, I've noticed a common element in my setbacks: Politics and the toxic air infusing modern-day conversations about that subject. When did the demonizing of people with views different from our own take such an ugly turn? Connected to that question is another aimed at myself. Reflect on it with me only if you think it's worth it. In my remaining years, can I evolve enough to give others unconditional positive regard, more than just in passing?

Book Sorcery

Among the resolutions I made before stopping full time work in 2010, getting immediately involved with book clubs was my smartest. Four of the six charter members of my own book club - started in 2017 - are folks I met in earlier clubs sometime between 2010-2015. All four have enriched my life.   

Today's post began taking shape when some book sorcery occurred with one of these folks. She'd read Richard Powers's novel Playground before me and recommended it here in a comment late in 2024. Because I value the opinion of this reading soulmate, it took a place in my unmanageable queue. 

Reflections From The Bell Curve: The Line of Beauty

The post above was published June 8. Soon after, this faithful reader made another comment on my blog saying she planned to read The Line of Beauty soon, mostly based on a comparison I made therein between Alan Hollinghurst and Richard Powers, who both of us have adored since being transformed by The Overstory. Her comment spurred me to move Playground to the top of that nasty queue of mine. Fair is fair, right?

OK, now the book sorcery. I finish Playground early on June 29. My mind is blown. I go to the gym buzzing, trying to fully process what I just experienced. While working out, I resolve to write an e-mail the minute I get home; I've got to talk to her about this book. I get home. An e-mail from who do you suppose is at the top of my in-box? And what book was she writing to me about? The Line of Beauty, naturally. (BTW, she didn't like it as much as I did.) I insist we meet for coffee right away so we can further commune about our shared adoration of Powers and Playground and I can further extol the craft Hollinghurst brought to The Line of Beauty. I know she'll listen carefully and remain open to my evangelism.       

It gets better as the story ends. Over coffee, I mention to her how we each had - very close in time - finished books we'd recommended to the other. Then, we'd written - or were getting to write - e-mails to each other about those different books. And this occurred even though her recommendation to me was several months old; mine, just a few weeks. Crazy coincidence, no? She says - "Coincidence is God's way of remaining anonymous". How lucky am I to have friends who remind me of Albert Einstein's wisdom? And all because I joined a book club in Bradley Beach ten years ago.

Reflections From The Bell Curve: Help Me Keep This Buzz, Please

Words That Can Haunt Me, Part 20: Loyalty

loyalty: faithfulness to commitments or obligations

Loyalty - as defined above - has always been a bedrock value for me. Unfortunately, because a secondary definition - faithful adherence to a sovereign, a government, cause, or the like - has taken hold in our contentious national conversation, loyalty has now joined a long-running list of words that can haunt me. 

This is disheartening; being unfailingly loyal to friends and loved ones has long been a source of pride for me. But the toxicity recently attached to loyalty has infected me. How to begin reclaiming the word without aligning myself with a concept like taking a loyalty oath? Trying to ensure faithful adherence to a person - vs. being committed to uphold the laws of our land - is a distortion of this sacred value. Keeping commitments and fulfilling obligations are words to live by. A loyalty oath unconnected to the Constitution is antithetical to our democracy.

Ever felt a connection to someone you don't know well based simply on your sense that the person is fiercely loyal? I have. But the variety of loyalty that draws me toward someone has little to do with their faithful adherence to a sovereign, a government, cause, or the like. I'm drawn to those who are loyal to friends and loved ones. In my experience, loyalty is not something easily faked. Chronically disloyal people? Easy to spot; they reveal themselves by deed, oath or not.          

An Ending to a Beginning

When my first grandchild was born one year ago tomorrow, I was home alone. I'd spent the days leading up to that in regular contact with my wife, waiting for news, a flight to L.A. scheduled for October 5. 

Until early today, it hadn't registered with me that last October 2 was probably the first time since 1998 that the anniversary date of my beloved father's passing had slipped by without me continually thinking of him. I'm not even sure if the eeriness of back-to-back milestone dates occurred to me this time last year, given how understandably consumed I was with my daughter's imminent delivery. 

But this October 2 was different than last year. Today, Dad was by my side early. While driving to see some friends, I offhandedly remarked to my wife how sweet it would have been had he lived long enough to celebrate his great-grandson's first birthday tomorrow. Thoughts of him later surfaced during our walk with those friends and again during our lunch. Given my daughter was only eight years old when Dad died at seventy-nine in 1997, I realize any ruminating about him ever having had a chance to meet his great-grandson is pure fantasy. What's the harm? It kept him in my heart all day.  

I'm not superstitious. Nor do I attach any cosmic meaning to the proximity of the two dates. Still, when this post began taking shape in my mind as we arrived home, I decided right then I'd wait to publish it close to midnight - as October 2 turned to October 3 - no matter the time I started or finished writing. What the heck. From an ending to a beginning - twenty-seven years and one day.