This uprooting business is exactly that: pulling up any kind of growth, shaking off the clinging dirt, and trying to pack it into sacks to take to the next "planting". Yesterday, while going through the storage closet, I opened boxes I hadn't touched since coming back to L.A., five years ago. Imagine my surprise,(to quote Holly Near), when I came upon forgotten love letters ...sigh.
Since I'm constantly writing, I don't keep much "old stuff" around. It gets worked until it cannot be worked any more and then tossed. If it gets published, terrific, then I have a book. If it gets rejected three times--into the trash. With the advent of computers, it becomes increasingly irrelevent to hold on to bits of paper,no matter how sentimental...usually.
And therein is the rub: I may have a black-leather-heart (as one ex once told me), but it IS the heart of a romantic. (Even I have to acknowledge that.) In the classical sense...The extraordinary gestures, the burning affairs, the rain-soaked evenings by candlelight (unless the candles got drowned...)I'm bad. Very, very bad. However, I've learned to exist in a (fairly) balanced twenty-first century mode, and don't mingle this romantic's heart with business-- nor with anything other than personal life. (One doesn't survive this long without mastering the basics.)
Given all of this, when I came across those letters in their tin box--letters going back thirty years--something broke a little, inside. (I'm sure the guy downstairs from the loft heard the crack and thought I was vaccuming up an errant nail,again...)
I sat on the futon and pried open the tin. What followed was a complete shock. Truly.
In the past, I'd re-read these tomes (about thirty of them--hand-written on onion skin paper, most of them sent from Kyoto, Japan...) once every five years. But I always carried them with me--from New York to Massachusetts to Los Angeles to Laguna Beach and then back to L.A. Other items were tossed, given new homes or simply abandoned, but not these notes. They were from three, separate affairs, all long-term, all life-shifting, all over. (Forever done.) Yet, the letters were some kind of touchstone. I'd actually been a part of these lives... amid all the comings and goings of many relationships, these were the ones that still haunted me...that I couldn't shake off. They were the tangible measure of where I'd been and who I'd grown into.
So, I leaned back, took a deep breath, (lit a candle) and began the journey backwards.
But this time, something was very different.
About three quarters the way through, I became bored. (Really bored.) I mean, how many times can one get "lectured" from an older lover, about how one's age is a main problem? Or that one needs to shut down the emotional part of one's personality and learn to "maintain a cool exterior--never let anyone see you sweat"--or "don't be hoodwinked by money, exotic looks or clout--remember who you are and act from that confident place, always--cause Toots, it's all you really have to depend on"....
Wise words, on some level, thirty years back. However, words that mostly fell on deaf, romantic ears. (Of course I continued to fall ,ONLY for exotic, wealthy,powerful people--usually older than me--and always ending in a painful mess.) Still, I'd held on to those tough words, as if they were from the Koran or Heart Sutra or the Gita, itself.
But this time, what I had remembered as softly longing, impassioned cries across oceans, were illuminated with the light of experience--my life. My experience.
These lost loves were sometimes boring,very controlling people. (They were neurotic as hell--or at least as neurotic as I was!) They filled the letters with minutia about obtaining cheese for a cheese-pig-out in a cheeseless Kyoto, or how their Sensei wouldn't let them glaze a single pot after throwing five hundred on the wheel; or how they thought they would write at the end of a busy academic week, but now, pen to paper, all they could do was to inform me they were too tired to continue the letter...better luck next week...Or to complain about constant visa problems and boredom in academia, or how they "loved being loved by me"(only to leave me several months later)...
These were people I adored; people I wanted to punch out busses for( macha show of strength...), or dedicate my first Nobel Prize in Literature to...People I had seriously considered having babies with or "settling down" beside...How could I have been so blind? (Or blinded?)More importantly, why did I still have those yearning fantasies--like proving my worth via a spot on "OPRAH"--where they would catch the show and come searching for me...Why did I need these anchors still, in my life?
I called my meditation teacher, at Delphi. She sent me, (immediately), a guided meditation about confronting the Darker Self, (or the memory of these past lovers), one by one, and having a "conversation" with them. (Thanking them, mentally, for whatever their presence over thirty-five years gave me; then, letting them go--off into the distance--with care for the lessons--releasing them to their own karmic wanderings. )A bit corny, as some of the guided meditations tend to be, but great therapy. It felt silly, at first, but I forced myself to finish the excercise. I mean, this WAS my Teacher, after all...
Then, when I rose, I did something which, heretofore, had been unthinkable: I locked up the tin box. I tied it in a yard bag. I threw it into the trash, in the city of Angels, unceremoniously.All candles blown out. Not even any operatic soundtracks behind me.
For a few minutes, I almost dashed back down into the alley, dove in the recycling bin and retreived it--but I didn't.
I haven't seen any of those released people since our final sad acts. They have never sought me out. We have not crossed paths in decades. Yet, I had carried them, like other guilty pleasures; for years. Time to really clean out the closet and let go. So, that's what I did.
Leaving where I've lived my adult life (and taken all my adult lumps!) is no easy transition, but, it's got to be done. (So many lessons...) I'm finally understanding the Zen concept of "Beginners' mind".
Back to the packing...
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
GRACIAS, SENATOR GOODWIN
A very large tip of the hat to newly appointed Senator Carte Goodwin, for adding the deciding vote that will allow millions of suffering, long-term unemployed, some tiny breathing space--if only till November.
I can't help but wonder what the final toll over this "fiscal bump" will end up being: how many suicides? How many attempted murders? Robberies? Assaults? What will the cost be for medical conditions exacerbated by the stress? Blood pressure numbers soaring; heart attacks sky-rocketing; strokes or people simply "giving up"? How will these statistics affect the general deficit, in the long run? (Let alone the loss to the individual families and the economic impact on their failing health care providers?)
When Congress screams about the people being on the side of reduced deficits, I wonder how many of those "people"--including the politicians themselves--even stop to consider the factors that extend beyond immediate tax funds? I wonder if any psychologists or sociologists are beginning to track the more far-flung issues? And what is the impact on the spiritual trauma of the masses? I know, up close and personal, the cost in simple donations to worthy causes; to lost funding sources and fewer grants offered to needy organizations. But what impact is all of this so-called "recession" ( I still say it is really another Depression...) on the spiritual lives of the people, long term?
In my hometown in Massachusetts, all the Catholic churches are hunkering down, as the Diocese decides to close them and sell off the properties...even such churches as Sacred Heart, where my family has attended, been baptized in, become wedded and waked in, for generations--even though Sacred Heart Parish is one of the few that meets its bottom line in paying for itself, via congregational offerings. My parents and extended family are left feeling bitter, bereft, and once again, out of control, as the "higher ups" in the Diocese (Bishops, etc.) make the decisions; more or less deaf to what parishioners beg for. Our Federal government, as much as it seeks to be separate from religious organizations, sure seems to be emulating the Catholic Church's management strategies in these tough economic times.
I hear friends tell that their synagogues require payment if a family is to be seated during the High Holy Days! I haven't, yet, inquired what is happening at the mosques--but I will, soon. All around us, even as people are crying out in fear, hopelessness, depression--and seek comfort in the places they've been taught to seek comfort in--places of community and worship and prayer and positive measures--those community centers, gathering places and houses of Light are shutting their doors. Locking them up tight. Or selling them off to the highest developers.
Well, I guess that's why the line at Starbucks is so long...(at least now, I can afford a morning cup of coffee, until November...)
I can't help but wonder what the final toll over this "fiscal bump" will end up being: how many suicides? How many attempted murders? Robberies? Assaults? What will the cost be for medical conditions exacerbated by the stress? Blood pressure numbers soaring; heart attacks sky-rocketing; strokes or people simply "giving up"? How will these statistics affect the general deficit, in the long run? (Let alone the loss to the individual families and the economic impact on their failing health care providers?)
When Congress screams about the people being on the side of reduced deficits, I wonder how many of those "people"--including the politicians themselves--even stop to consider the factors that extend beyond immediate tax funds? I wonder if any psychologists or sociologists are beginning to track the more far-flung issues? And what is the impact on the spiritual trauma of the masses? I know, up close and personal, the cost in simple donations to worthy causes; to lost funding sources and fewer grants offered to needy organizations. But what impact is all of this so-called "recession" ( I still say it is really another Depression...) on the spiritual lives of the people, long term?
In my hometown in Massachusetts, all the Catholic churches are hunkering down, as the Diocese decides to close them and sell off the properties...even such churches as Sacred Heart, where my family has attended, been baptized in, become wedded and waked in, for generations--even though Sacred Heart Parish is one of the few that meets its bottom line in paying for itself, via congregational offerings. My parents and extended family are left feeling bitter, bereft, and once again, out of control, as the "higher ups" in the Diocese (Bishops, etc.) make the decisions; more or less deaf to what parishioners beg for. Our Federal government, as much as it seeks to be separate from religious organizations, sure seems to be emulating the Catholic Church's management strategies in these tough economic times.
I hear friends tell that their synagogues require payment if a family is to be seated during the High Holy Days! I haven't, yet, inquired what is happening at the mosques--but I will, soon. All around us, even as people are crying out in fear, hopelessness, depression--and seek comfort in the places they've been taught to seek comfort in--places of community and worship and prayer and positive measures--those community centers, gathering places and houses of Light are shutting their doors. Locking them up tight. Or selling them off to the highest developers.
Well, I guess that's why the line at Starbucks is so long...(at least now, I can afford a morning cup of coffee, until November...)
Monday, July 19, 2010
IF THE BUDDHA MEETS YOU ON THE ROAD
How many times have we heard that old advice? "If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him"...meaning, (I'm paraphrasing here) it's not the Buddha...or: All is illusion and reality in the same moment...or: you're high...find someplace calm and quiet to rest...
I went down to the supermarket in the later part of a miserably hot day. People were moving like slugs and looking just as greasy. Even traffic seemed affected by the heat wave. But I had no grub in the loft. Literally, nothing. What I had been craving all day was coffee frozen yogurt...Finally, it grew to be about ninety-eight in my space-with-no-air-conditioning, so I had to get out for a while. Hunger and heat. Bad combination. Frozen yogurt: solution.
As I got close to the store, I noticed this filthy wool blanket draped across what appeared to be a pile of sticks. My heart sank. In the one shady spot outside Ralph's, the skinniest old Black man I'd ever seen, sat on the pavement, a red woolen blanket covering half his body. His hair was all natty and flecked with either ash or gray. His beard was grizzled. When he looked up at me from the sidewalk, his eyes were redder than his gums. Maybe two teeth, off to the side, made up his smile. He was mumbling, sticking out a skeletal hand.
I wasn't carrying any money--just plastic. My usual deal. No purse. Part of me had the usual clutch- in- the- stomach- why- the- Hell- am- I- the- one- bothered- it's- too- hot- feeling and the other part of me just melted. How hot was that sizzling sidewalk? He didn't even have an old water bottle. His voice was too soft to be heard above the scarce traffic. What was wrong with him that he was wrapped in a wool blanket when it had to be in the nineties, with no breeze? Should somebody call the cops to at least get him somewhere it was cool? Give him some water? Should I?
But, I'm a real city person these days. I apologized for not having any change,made what eye contact I could, and cut a quick circle around his part of the walk. Then, I went into Ralph's.
The air conditioning hit me like a lover's kiss. I could breathe for the first time in hours. My sweaty face immediately dried; my spikey hair stood up again. I grabbed a cart and took my time walking. I wasn't hungry anymore. I was just enjoying my own skin. Then, when I came down the ice cream aisle, a sudden flash on the old guy on the street corner,hit me. Not like his face appeared on the frosty glass or anything, just a vivid memory. Maybe I should buy him some ice cream?
The trick with homeless people though, is not to give them anything they aren't asking for--many have mental illnesses and to offer them something they aren't expecting only irritates them. Some are on drugs and hallucinating. Approaching them ,with even a benign object, can be terrifiying or threatening. Some are drunk. All they want is money to buy their liquor of choice. And some are proud. They don't want second hand food--even if it is from Starbuck's. (How often have I seen someone offer a sandwich or a cup of coffee, gently placing it by the person on the street, and see that same cup or food be kicked away? Or worse, thrown at the person who thought he or she was doing a good deed.)
In Laguna Beach, once, a guy who had to be wearing six layers of clothes and hadn't washed in what must have been months, stood outside a candy store, singing to his backpack. Some well-meaning touristas watched for a few minutes, and then the husband went into the Subway,next door. He came out with a foot-long, and offered it to the homeless guy. The homeless dude snatched it, opened it, took one bite, then threw it into the face of the startled tourist! "I hate ham!" the homeless dude screamed at the fleeing man and his wife.
Now, there are other people who are thankful--especially if they've asked for food. Or if you have some sort of casual relationship with them. (I wonder, how many mean tricks with people offering "food" to them, have transpired in the past--stuff that was laced with pepper or glass or God knows what...of course they're gonna be wary...). I don't buy the homeless man anything.
I get bread and cheese and some frozen yogurt for myself and some grapes and olives. Then, I leave the store, bracing for the abyssmal heat. It doesn't disappoint. Just knocks the wind out of me. A headache begins to rage. I suddenly realize, because of construction across the street, the only way home is right by the homeless guy. (And now I have groceries.) I feel yucky. However, if I walk one block west, I will add a hot block to my route, but I can circle around and avoid the guy. I decide it's worth it. No more guilt. (I've hit the wall.)
I start my trek. And then, just as I get to the next light pole, who is sitting under the button I must push to get the pedestrian "walk" sign? Yup. Buddha. Still in the filthy, red, wool blanket. Still mumbling. Still with his skeletor hand sticking straight out. Only now, he's in direct sun. From the stench blowing back towards me, he's baking.
I feel the coolness of the frozen yogurt against my chest. I can taste the grapes already. I think of just offering the yogurt to him...but I don't have a spoon and I guess neither does he. (Its a cold brick...how's he gonna eat it?) As I'm trying to avoid his eyes this time, the light changes and I cross quickly. I take the corner, heading back to my loft.
The entire trip back, I feel like crap. I should of offered him the whole bag of stuff. Let him decide if the yogurt was too much to handle. I should have brought him a water bottle from the store. I should have...I should have...I should have...Instead, I avoided contact. I walked away from karmic connection.
(Great way to deflate one's Enlightenment Balloon...)
When I got home, I hurriedly peeled off my sweaty clothes. I unpacked the groceries. I was finally hungry enough to prepare some kind of lunch. Guilty or not, I really wanted to just get a spoon and dig into that yogurt!
I put the French bread off to the side; the olives and gouda next to the big bunch of grapes. I get to the bottom of the bag and--empty! Where was the quart of coffee yogurt? I know I felt it's solid frost against my skin--even through the grocery bag. I know it was there when I ran across the street, trying to avoid confrontation with the homeless dude. Now, at home, the yogurt is gone!
Vanished...
A weird chill scuttled across my skin. I sat down, hard.
I wondered if the Buddha was enjoying his frosty treat,under the traffic signal.
All signs continue to point out: it's time for me to get out of this city.
I went down to the supermarket in the later part of a miserably hot day. People were moving like slugs and looking just as greasy. Even traffic seemed affected by the heat wave. But I had no grub in the loft. Literally, nothing. What I had been craving all day was coffee frozen yogurt...Finally, it grew to be about ninety-eight in my space-with-no-air-conditioning, so I had to get out for a while. Hunger and heat. Bad combination. Frozen yogurt: solution.
As I got close to the store, I noticed this filthy wool blanket draped across what appeared to be a pile of sticks. My heart sank. In the one shady spot outside Ralph's, the skinniest old Black man I'd ever seen, sat on the pavement, a red woolen blanket covering half his body. His hair was all natty and flecked with either ash or gray. His beard was grizzled. When he looked up at me from the sidewalk, his eyes were redder than his gums. Maybe two teeth, off to the side, made up his smile. He was mumbling, sticking out a skeletal hand.
I wasn't carrying any money--just plastic. My usual deal. No purse. Part of me had the usual clutch- in- the- stomach- why- the- Hell- am- I- the- one- bothered- it's- too- hot- feeling and the other part of me just melted. How hot was that sizzling sidewalk? He didn't even have an old water bottle. His voice was too soft to be heard above the scarce traffic. What was wrong with him that he was wrapped in a wool blanket when it had to be in the nineties, with no breeze? Should somebody call the cops to at least get him somewhere it was cool? Give him some water? Should I?
But, I'm a real city person these days. I apologized for not having any change,made what eye contact I could, and cut a quick circle around his part of the walk. Then, I went into Ralph's.
The air conditioning hit me like a lover's kiss. I could breathe for the first time in hours. My sweaty face immediately dried; my spikey hair stood up again. I grabbed a cart and took my time walking. I wasn't hungry anymore. I was just enjoying my own skin. Then, when I came down the ice cream aisle, a sudden flash on the old guy on the street corner,hit me. Not like his face appeared on the frosty glass or anything, just a vivid memory. Maybe I should buy him some ice cream?
The trick with homeless people though, is not to give them anything they aren't asking for--many have mental illnesses and to offer them something they aren't expecting only irritates them. Some are on drugs and hallucinating. Approaching them ,with even a benign object, can be terrifiying or threatening. Some are drunk. All they want is money to buy their liquor of choice. And some are proud. They don't want second hand food--even if it is from Starbuck's. (How often have I seen someone offer a sandwich or a cup of coffee, gently placing it by the person on the street, and see that same cup or food be kicked away? Or worse, thrown at the person who thought he or she was doing a good deed.)
In Laguna Beach, once, a guy who had to be wearing six layers of clothes and hadn't washed in what must have been months, stood outside a candy store, singing to his backpack. Some well-meaning touristas watched for a few minutes, and then the husband went into the Subway,next door. He came out with a foot-long, and offered it to the homeless guy. The homeless dude snatched it, opened it, took one bite, then threw it into the face of the startled tourist! "I hate ham!" the homeless dude screamed at the fleeing man and his wife.
Now, there are other people who are thankful--especially if they've asked for food. Or if you have some sort of casual relationship with them. (I wonder, how many mean tricks with people offering "food" to them, have transpired in the past--stuff that was laced with pepper or glass or God knows what...of course they're gonna be wary...). I don't buy the homeless man anything.
I get bread and cheese and some frozen yogurt for myself and some grapes and olives. Then, I leave the store, bracing for the abyssmal heat. It doesn't disappoint. Just knocks the wind out of me. A headache begins to rage. I suddenly realize, because of construction across the street, the only way home is right by the homeless guy. (And now I have groceries.) I feel yucky. However, if I walk one block west, I will add a hot block to my route, but I can circle around and avoid the guy. I decide it's worth it. No more guilt. (I've hit the wall.)
I start my trek. And then, just as I get to the next light pole, who is sitting under the button I must push to get the pedestrian "walk" sign? Yup. Buddha. Still in the filthy, red, wool blanket. Still mumbling. Still with his skeletor hand sticking straight out. Only now, he's in direct sun. From the stench blowing back towards me, he's baking.
I feel the coolness of the frozen yogurt against my chest. I can taste the grapes already. I think of just offering the yogurt to him...but I don't have a spoon and I guess neither does he. (Its a cold brick...how's he gonna eat it?) As I'm trying to avoid his eyes this time, the light changes and I cross quickly. I take the corner, heading back to my loft.
The entire trip back, I feel like crap. I should of offered him the whole bag of stuff. Let him decide if the yogurt was too much to handle. I should have brought him a water bottle from the store. I should have...I should have...I should have...Instead, I avoided contact. I walked away from karmic connection.
(Great way to deflate one's Enlightenment Balloon...)
When I got home, I hurriedly peeled off my sweaty clothes. I unpacked the groceries. I was finally hungry enough to prepare some kind of lunch. Guilty or not, I really wanted to just get a spoon and dig into that yogurt!
I put the French bread off to the side; the olives and gouda next to the big bunch of grapes. I get to the bottom of the bag and--empty! Where was the quart of coffee yogurt? I know I felt it's solid frost against my skin--even through the grocery bag. I know it was there when I ran across the street, trying to avoid confrontation with the homeless dude. Now, at home, the yogurt is gone!
Vanished...
A weird chill scuttled across my skin. I sat down, hard.
I wondered if the Buddha was enjoying his frosty treat,under the traffic signal.
All signs continue to point out: it's time for me to get out of this city.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
A QUOTIDIAN LIFE
I am a cartoonist. I have been a cartoonist for over forty years. I've only sold my drawings to a few venues--as illustrations--not as "comics". I save the strips for myself.
Years ago, I discovered that keeping a journal was not only risky (my Mom found my diary in high school...ick...)but problematic. So much energy that could be used in other writing was drained away by a diary. I also learned that some situations are better left to "steep", than to immediately put into print. Still, an examined life seems like the only life I could face living--comic strips became the answer.
I've always been a reader (and a collector) of cartoons. From super-heroes to "educational classics in comic form"--anything that was a line drawing pulled me in. Animated "funnies" were great, however, there was something about the drawings on a page--paired with word balloons--instant addictions. Like my other addictions, it continued to grow into adulthood. When I discovered "underground comics", in the sixties and seventies, I discovered a world that was filled with all the weirdness, humor and shocking brutalities of the human mind. I discovered that people were writing about their actual lives! Stuff like break-ups, drugs or losing a job filled their panels. I discovered Harvey Pekar.
Harvey Pekar was a Cleveland file clerk with more depression and neurosis than anyone I had ever met. His low-level civil service job acted like Prozac, though. His mind was free --to deal with his lot in life in a creative way. Though it cost him two wives, and kept his life-style ridiculously humble (boy, can I relate!), it allowed him to develop into a poor-man's intellectual. He became a respected, widely published jazz critic. His personal collection of jazz records was where he sank his money--both feeding his knowledge and comforting his heart. Then, (just like me!) Pekar discovered the underground comic revolution.
Pekar realized, comics had more than "pow" and "zap" appeal--they had intellectual muscles that could be excercised into something insightful. With the right artists, become even beautiful. Pekar knew he was not visual artist. But, he could write. So, for the first time in his life, Harvey began to put to paper the details of his existence. Using stick figures and "balloons" to encircle the words, he wrote about his file clerk job, his divorces, his quest for the perfect jazz "side", his longing for love. But mostly, he wrote about the American people of Cleveland.
When he bumped into the underground cartoonist, R. Crumb, he showed Crumb his scribbles. Crumb recognized a like-minded genius. Crumb took Harvey's work home and illustrated the stories. However, Harvey didn't want to cash in on Robert Crumb's fame. Harvey was Harvey. He wanted to control the process of his comics. So, instead of buying thousands of dollars of records a year, he invested in himself, and began to send the collaboration to a printer, with his own dough. Somehow, he figured out a way to get small distribution of his self-published work. "American Splendor" was born. Later issues contained the illustrations of other artists,whom Harvey paid to bring his scribbles to life. The constantly changing roster of illustrators made "American Splendor" visually fresh. The constantly same themes made the comic a guilty pleasure.
One of David Letterman's writers was from Cleveland and helped get Harvey on the show. But Harvey hated show business. He felt it was all a fake, far less interesting than the people on the streets, struggling with real drama. He let Letterman know. This, along with the poor payment he felt he received, cut his return engagements to the show. Harvey didn't care. The appearances didn't impact on sales of his comics. However, they did impact on his notoriety. Harvey Pekar and "American Splendor" became the new buzz in comicdom. A movie deal was cut, based on the comics, and Harvey was on his way.
Later, Pekar battled cancer, twice, and with his third wife (and true love), Joyce Brabner, wrote about his illnesses in a comic book that became a national book award winner. He and Joyce adopted a daughter,Danielle, and Harvey went on to publish more "American Splendor". For thirty years, this common man, like Walt Whitman, worked on his autobiography. From the streets up. Under his own steam. Realizing the illumination in the ordinary. He was unafraid to share his fears. He touched readers because he showed readers: "We aren't alone." Life IS tough. The rich are in another reality. If we aren't good to each other, in this one, we only make ourselves miserable.
However, Harvey Pekar also wrote about love. He wrote about a man in middle-age, neurotic, funny-looking, rough edged and cranky, who, in the midst of another bout of angst, discovers a woman who will save him. A woman with her own issues, but who sees the real "him" and loves him ,only for that. Like two hedgehogs backing into each other on a dark night, they begin a love affair that saw them through to his death, a few days ago. A working class epic. The real deal. Harvey Pekar called it "the quotidian life".
I call it magic. Thank-you, Harvey. The world is a little darker, today, with your passing.
Years ago, I discovered that keeping a journal was not only risky (my Mom found my diary in high school...ick...)but problematic. So much energy that could be used in other writing was drained away by a diary. I also learned that some situations are better left to "steep", than to immediately put into print. Still, an examined life seems like the only life I could face living--comic strips became the answer.
I've always been a reader (and a collector) of cartoons. From super-heroes to "educational classics in comic form"--anything that was a line drawing pulled me in. Animated "funnies" were great, however, there was something about the drawings on a page--paired with word balloons--instant addictions. Like my other addictions, it continued to grow into adulthood. When I discovered "underground comics", in the sixties and seventies, I discovered a world that was filled with all the weirdness, humor and shocking brutalities of the human mind. I discovered that people were writing about their actual lives! Stuff like break-ups, drugs or losing a job filled their panels. I discovered Harvey Pekar.
Harvey Pekar was a Cleveland file clerk with more depression and neurosis than anyone I had ever met. His low-level civil service job acted like Prozac, though. His mind was free --to deal with his lot in life in a creative way. Though it cost him two wives, and kept his life-style ridiculously humble (boy, can I relate!), it allowed him to develop into a poor-man's intellectual. He became a respected, widely published jazz critic. His personal collection of jazz records was where he sank his money--both feeding his knowledge and comforting his heart. Then, (just like me!) Pekar discovered the underground comic revolution.
Pekar realized, comics had more than "pow" and "zap" appeal--they had intellectual muscles that could be excercised into something insightful. With the right artists, become even beautiful. Pekar knew he was not visual artist. But, he could write. So, for the first time in his life, Harvey began to put to paper the details of his existence. Using stick figures and "balloons" to encircle the words, he wrote about his file clerk job, his divorces, his quest for the perfect jazz "side", his longing for love. But mostly, he wrote about the American people of Cleveland.
When he bumped into the underground cartoonist, R. Crumb, he showed Crumb his scribbles. Crumb recognized a like-minded genius. Crumb took Harvey's work home and illustrated the stories. However, Harvey didn't want to cash in on Robert Crumb's fame. Harvey was Harvey. He wanted to control the process of his comics. So, instead of buying thousands of dollars of records a year, he invested in himself, and began to send the collaboration to a printer, with his own dough. Somehow, he figured out a way to get small distribution of his self-published work. "American Splendor" was born. Later issues contained the illustrations of other artists,whom Harvey paid to bring his scribbles to life. The constantly changing roster of illustrators made "American Splendor" visually fresh. The constantly same themes made the comic a guilty pleasure.
One of David Letterman's writers was from Cleveland and helped get Harvey on the show. But Harvey hated show business. He felt it was all a fake, far less interesting than the people on the streets, struggling with real drama. He let Letterman know. This, along with the poor payment he felt he received, cut his return engagements to the show. Harvey didn't care. The appearances didn't impact on sales of his comics. However, they did impact on his notoriety. Harvey Pekar and "American Splendor" became the new buzz in comicdom. A movie deal was cut, based on the comics, and Harvey was on his way.
Later, Pekar battled cancer, twice, and with his third wife (and true love), Joyce Brabner, wrote about his illnesses in a comic book that became a national book award winner. He and Joyce adopted a daughter,Danielle, and Harvey went on to publish more "American Splendor". For thirty years, this common man, like Walt Whitman, worked on his autobiography. From the streets up. Under his own steam. Realizing the illumination in the ordinary. He was unafraid to share his fears. He touched readers because he showed readers: "We aren't alone." Life IS tough. The rich are in another reality. If we aren't good to each other, in this one, we only make ourselves miserable.
However, Harvey Pekar also wrote about love. He wrote about a man in middle-age, neurotic, funny-looking, rough edged and cranky, who, in the midst of another bout of angst, discovers a woman who will save him. A woman with her own issues, but who sees the real "him" and loves him ,only for that. Like two hedgehogs backing into each other on a dark night, they begin a love affair that saw them through to his death, a few days ago. A working class epic. The real deal. Harvey Pekar called it "the quotidian life".
I call it magic. Thank-you, Harvey. The world is a little darker, today, with your passing.
Friday, July 9, 2010
COMING HOME
The die is cast. Contrary to everything I ever thought would occur in my life, it's time to head East, again. I am shocked at this karmic turn of events--and also surprisingly accepting. While I had lit out from there about thirty-five years ago, (over a lost love who was much too old, and a lame-brained plan that if I "proved myself", I might be taken back...)only returning for visits consisting of a few days (and a few fights), I just never believed I would return to northern Massachusetts.
Let me be real: New England courses through my veins. New Englanders are as deep-seatedly fanatical about their small geography as Texans are of their larger one. Equally disconcerting, the somewhat "hidden" belief that "only New Englanders" are serious and sane. Practical. Discerning. Frugal. Hardy. Plain-spoken. Dependable. Well-educated. And much more deeply steeped in all the traditions of America...(Some say that the South never died...well, as we've recently witnessed, neither has the Boston Tea Party.)
I am returning to my blood rooted family. I am returning and trying to re-insert, to re-boot, to re-join them. They have clearly defined roles and hierarchies and I am clearly not part of that well-oiled familial machine--not anymore. Yet, my destiny in the West-- as my eighty year old Mother pointed out: "Well, nothing really works out for you in California, does it?"--has left me burned up and bleeding out.
I understand her persective. Given my professional, money-earning life over the last five years, she's correct. Given my personal life over the last three and a half decades, again, she is batting a perfect score. (As a writer, well, we are all still waiting...the see-saw is holding at mid-point these days...)However, there is one area where she can't discern my wild success--an area that leads back and forth between New England and California in a well-worn track: my friendships.
Sometimes it seems to me that I am living an ancient "teaching fable"--one where the hero has thousands of problems heaped upon her head...she is battered and scarred and torn up into pieces over and again...yet, at the end of the story, she comes upon a fabulous reward. A Higher Power intervenes and suddenly, all the terror, the pain, the losses are forgotten. That which was being sought might not be exactly granted, but instead, something far better is acquired.
All through my life, from early kidhood, till exactly this minute, I have had deep friendships. The kinds of friends who mail you a rusty skate-key, knowing you'll "get it"--because you strapped group-shared-family-skates to your sneakers, the kind needing a key to adjust--and raced each other down Lincoln Street hills, barely avoiding parked cars and moving traffic. Or the kinds of friends who, from thirty-five years ago and a last shared Mai Tai Punch, track you down and bring you back from the brink of desperation, kicking and screaming that you aren't worth the efforts. They don't buy it. They want you home. They are waiting for you to arrive. They don't care who you've become or what you haven't yet accomplished...they remember who you were to them;are interested in who you have grown into. They want to share wisdom they've acquired; war stories and baby pictures and introduce you to their married families. They aren't shy about telling you that you are loved. Don't worry. We will all weather this bad season together. (Just as they all pulled together last winter in the biggest ice-storm in over a hundred years!) You are worth welcoming back. (O New England child. O lost California runaway. Ditch the despair!)
Or the college best friend who has an autistic daughter, now becoming a teen-ager with all the inherent worries that comes with that unfolding--who, even with her own professional life booked to the brim--finds time to cry with you, or laugh with you, or fly and meet you half way between the three thousand miles that separate you, just to spend a night up, drinking coffee and remembering. Or older friends who are "mentors"; who believe in your adult self , reminding you of what you have accomplished in the West. Friends who have seen you in successful times and remember.
Friends weathering foreclosures, divorces, dead babies, bankruptcies and passing parents--sharing the same issues of aging. Friends who "get you", no matter if you don't "get" yourself. Not bound by sibling rivalry, nor familial patterns that help the bloods survive with each other--and which you have excluded yourself from--the friendships I'm speaking of have a different kind of bond. "Found Family"--as opposed to "Blood Family". Just as fierce. Just as intense, but maybe less complicated? (No disrespect to the bloods--they are the people having to "take me in"..."because you are Family...we have to...") Or perhaps, it is because my friends are true peers--touchstones in time--even if our lifestyles are wildly varied. We have witnessed exactly the same histories and histrionics. We have walked on the same paths exactly at the same moments. Our geographies are superimposed in a different way?
In any case, wherever I have travelled in the last thirty-five years, and even before, there have been those friends who have imbued their lives with mine and vice versa. We didn't have to fight for the attention of the same parental units; we didn't have to argue over who got to drive the family car or whose room was the biggest or who got the better Christmas present or party on their birthday. We didn't have to live up to each other's expectations, I guess, at least not in the same way that we did, and do, still, for our parents--regardless of their ages.
There are decided differences between bloods and friends. Both so necessary for a balanced life. I am thankful for that balance. I love my bloods. I love my parents. I love my friends. At this single pinprick point in time, I am in absolute need of both. No lie.
So, even as I worry what next chapter is unfolding, or that my family is unsettled about my return (but "have to take me in" because I'm family...) it is the open arms of remarkable people, scattered all over the place, who have told me it's all right. Come home. For now, it is the right thing to do.
Let me be real: New England courses through my veins. New Englanders are as deep-seatedly fanatical about their small geography as Texans are of their larger one. Equally disconcerting, the somewhat "hidden" belief that "only New Englanders" are serious and sane. Practical. Discerning. Frugal. Hardy. Plain-spoken. Dependable. Well-educated. And much more deeply steeped in all the traditions of America...(Some say that the South never died...well, as we've recently witnessed, neither has the Boston Tea Party.)
I am returning to my blood rooted family. I am returning and trying to re-insert, to re-boot, to re-join them. They have clearly defined roles and hierarchies and I am clearly not part of that well-oiled familial machine--not anymore. Yet, my destiny in the West-- as my eighty year old Mother pointed out: "Well, nothing really works out for you in California, does it?"--has left me burned up and bleeding out.
I understand her persective. Given my professional, money-earning life over the last five years, she's correct. Given my personal life over the last three and a half decades, again, she is batting a perfect score. (As a writer, well, we are all still waiting...the see-saw is holding at mid-point these days...)However, there is one area where she can't discern my wild success--an area that leads back and forth between New England and California in a well-worn track: my friendships.
Sometimes it seems to me that I am living an ancient "teaching fable"--one where the hero has thousands of problems heaped upon her head...she is battered and scarred and torn up into pieces over and again...yet, at the end of the story, she comes upon a fabulous reward. A Higher Power intervenes and suddenly, all the terror, the pain, the losses are forgotten. That which was being sought might not be exactly granted, but instead, something far better is acquired.
All through my life, from early kidhood, till exactly this minute, I have had deep friendships. The kinds of friends who mail you a rusty skate-key, knowing you'll "get it"--because you strapped group-shared-family-skates to your sneakers, the kind needing a key to adjust--and raced each other down Lincoln Street hills, barely avoiding parked cars and moving traffic. Or the kinds of friends who, from thirty-five years ago and a last shared Mai Tai Punch, track you down and bring you back from the brink of desperation, kicking and screaming that you aren't worth the efforts. They don't buy it. They want you home. They are waiting for you to arrive. They don't care who you've become or what you haven't yet accomplished...they remember who you were to them;are interested in who you have grown into. They want to share wisdom they've acquired; war stories and baby pictures and introduce you to their married families. They aren't shy about telling you that you are loved. Don't worry. We will all weather this bad season together. (Just as they all pulled together last winter in the biggest ice-storm in over a hundred years!) You are worth welcoming back. (O New England child. O lost California runaway. Ditch the despair!)
Or the college best friend who has an autistic daughter, now becoming a teen-ager with all the inherent worries that comes with that unfolding--who, even with her own professional life booked to the brim--finds time to cry with you, or laugh with you, or fly and meet you half way between the three thousand miles that separate you, just to spend a night up, drinking coffee and remembering. Or older friends who are "mentors"; who believe in your adult self , reminding you of what you have accomplished in the West. Friends who have seen you in successful times and remember.
Friends weathering foreclosures, divorces, dead babies, bankruptcies and passing parents--sharing the same issues of aging. Friends who "get you", no matter if you don't "get" yourself. Not bound by sibling rivalry, nor familial patterns that help the bloods survive with each other--and which you have excluded yourself from--the friendships I'm speaking of have a different kind of bond. "Found Family"--as opposed to "Blood Family". Just as fierce. Just as intense, but maybe less complicated? (No disrespect to the bloods--they are the people having to "take me in"..."because you are Family...we have to...") Or perhaps, it is because my friends are true peers--touchstones in time--even if our lifestyles are wildly varied. We have witnessed exactly the same histories and histrionics. We have walked on the same paths exactly at the same moments. Our geographies are superimposed in a different way?
In any case, wherever I have travelled in the last thirty-five years, and even before, there have been those friends who have imbued their lives with mine and vice versa. We didn't have to fight for the attention of the same parental units; we didn't have to argue over who got to drive the family car or whose room was the biggest or who got the better Christmas present or party on their birthday. We didn't have to live up to each other's expectations, I guess, at least not in the same way that we did, and do, still, for our parents--regardless of their ages.
There are decided differences between bloods and friends. Both so necessary for a balanced life. I am thankful for that balance. I love my bloods. I love my parents. I love my friends. At this single pinprick point in time, I am in absolute need of both. No lie.
So, even as I worry what next chapter is unfolding, or that my family is unsettled about my return (but "have to take me in" because I'm family...) it is the open arms of remarkable people, scattered all over the place, who have told me it's all right. Come home. For now, it is the right thing to do.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
TEN MILLION AND COUNTING
The latest stats released today regarding American Unemployment states that approx. 7.9 million jobs are NOT coming back. On top of that shocker, estimates have begun to seriously consider all the factors that we, the unemployed, have been pointing out--with population growth, new workers entering the arena as they graduate from school,etc.--the real-life statistics say that approximately 10 million new job openings are necessary to put America back to work. At the rate that we are going, it will not happen till at least 2013.
2013 ! Meanwhile, it is also being noted that the current level of unemployment, across the country, is 9.5 %; something that has been unheard of for decades. Even as the government releases these numbers, it is also telling us that retailers are hardly hiring, as they, too, await the next wave of "the big recession" to hit. Meanwhile, Congress has adjourned for their vacation,not to be back to discuss unemployment benefits for the people who have no other safety net, until July 12th. Interesting, because it is around July 12th that the astrologers have predicted the giant planetary alignment of the "cross in the sky" and the next solar eclipse...hmmmmm. Something that has only occurred during great political upheaval and key historic moments in Earth's recorded past.
Will this conjunction have any meaning at all for people with no money for dinner that day? No money to pay for the mortgage or rent? No money to pay for their electric bills, or gas, or tuition for their children? No money for dentists nor for medical insurance coverage of any kind?
I guess we'll just have to wait and see...looking, as always, to the Heavens, for our destiny. Perhaps for our survival.
2013 ! Meanwhile, it is also being noted that the current level of unemployment, across the country, is 9.5 %; something that has been unheard of for decades. Even as the government releases these numbers, it is also telling us that retailers are hardly hiring, as they, too, await the next wave of "the big recession" to hit. Meanwhile, Congress has adjourned for their vacation,not to be back to discuss unemployment benefits for the people who have no other safety net, until July 12th. Interesting, because it is around July 12th that the astrologers have predicted the giant planetary alignment of the "cross in the sky" and the next solar eclipse...hmmmmm. Something that has only occurred during great political upheaval and key historic moments in Earth's recorded past.
Will this conjunction have any meaning at all for people with no money for dinner that day? No money to pay for the mortgage or rent? No money to pay for their electric bills, or gas, or tuition for their children? No money for dentists nor for medical insurance coverage of any kind?
I guess we'll just have to wait and see...looking, as always, to the Heavens, for our destiny. Perhaps for our survival.
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