Memoirous

Empathy and New Year By James Schuyler --an excerpt New Year is nearly here and who, knowing himself, would endanger his desires resolving them …. Awake at four and heard a snowplow not rumble— a huge beast at its chow and wondered is it 1968 or 1969? for a bit. 1968 had such a familiar sound. Got coffee and started reading Darwin: so modest, so innocent, so pleased at the surprise that he should grow up to be him . How grand to begin a new year with a new writer you really love. A snow shovel scrapes: it's twelve hours later and the sun that came so late is almost gone: a few pink minutes and yet the days get longer. Coming from the movies last night snow had fallen in almost still air and lay on all, so all twigs were emboldened to make big disclosures. It felt warm, warm that is for cold the way it does when snow falls without wind. "A snow picture," you said, under the clung-to elms, "worth painting."

I write on the back of a scrap envelope, a message from Target that my account may have been compromised.        Oh, well. The snowy owl teases us at the beach again,      flying from the peaked-hut of Daniel's Mexican Food           to a snow-packed dune, dirty with blown sand. He/She stands as an emblem,           elusive nature in a city by the shore. We have lived here these many years, never migrating --as opposed to the snowy owl we've come to observe--      lived in Uptown on snow-packed sidewalks,               dirty with trash trodden underfoot. We'll see out the old, say goodbye to all that is gone      to friends who have moved on           and to the farm, to the lake, the festival              the businesses that have folded. We are on the cusp of something new,      though it is hard to know, living in this ordinary. We sometimes forget where we've come from      or we are overwhelmed by our frailties, our fears. So that the new star

Already this winter we’ve had a couple of snows with more predicted for this weekend. Yup. A White Christmas!! I was reminded in a recent conversation about a sledding hill I always went to growing up near Kettering, Ohio. It was famously named Suicide Hill. This was a real sled eater. Approaching the climb there were barrel fires fed by broken wooden sleds sacrificed to Suicide Hill. The hill was deceptive. Trees lined the descent so that any veering brought the sledder into contact with them. As a kid I was always bailing, letting gravity take the sled into it’s gentle good night, the tight fist of death. I cannot count how many sleds my brothers, sister, and I ruined. The back of Suicide Hill was just as dangerous as the front—though perhaps not as many trees. A ride this direction was longer and not as fast, but full of moguls or bumps that sent me flying. The community golf course where the hill was located was the product of glacial moraines: imagine icy fingers

Bob Rehak was a young man in the 1970s who took the Purple line in from Evanston into the city to his job downtown in advertising. His passion though was photography, and what he saw from his train window as he passed Argyle, Lawrence, and Wilson L train stops intrigued him. There was a variety of life out on the streets below the tracks. Messy, disturbing life. I’ve noticed that many creative people are somehow energized by chaos, and Bob Rehak was somehow curious enough to bat away his fears, get off the train, and walk the dirty, trash-filled sidewalks with his camera and take photographs. Though I don’t know if he would classify it as “taking” as he describes people in Uptown in the mid-1970s though mostly poor were generous; they gladly gave Bob permission to photograph them. Uptown was a port of entry for immigrants because of the relative low-cost housing in the neighborhoods. There was a large population of migrants from Appalachia, social activists, the down-and-

Mom’s Fruitcake Just the word “fruitcake” evokes nostalgia for some and crass jokes from others. It has been the focus of much ridicule by people especially of my generation. Today’s “kids” probably donn’t even know what one is. (Not sure if they’re lucky or not— see I’m still stuck in a fruitcake stereotype.) I’ll readily admit I’m not a fan of the fruitcake. Maybe it was the rum or the sheer density of the thing. An absolute brick. My mom’s fruitcake probably weighed 11 pounds once wrapped and ready to mail. I remember Dad lugging a couple of these to the post office every year about this time in order for it to arrive before Christmas. I couldn’t help wonder: won’t it be old, stale, inedible by then? I had no idea in my child’s imagination that these things are archival. They literally can last forever. For me now, with both Mom and Dad gone, the fruitcake is a memory touchstone. Mom would shop for the ingredients because none of it was stuff we had around the hous

In 2 days I’ve seen 2 films by directors with the same sounding name. Inside Llewyn Davis was directed by the Coen brothers. We saw a sneak preview at the Block Cinema in Evanston Thursday night for FREE. Crazy. Then the next night we caught Museum Hours (by the director Jem Cohen) also at the Block. The same student was there taking tickets as the night before. I asked him how he’d liked Inside Llewyn Davis and he answered: bleak. I think I could agree with that assessment. Museum Hours was a visual masterpiece. Like most memorable art, it was a revelation of the ordinary. Whitmanesque. Cities of “hurrying, feverish electrical crowds.” “Never was there, perhaps, more hollowness at heart than the present.” (Democratic Vistas, 1871) Just as Whitman represented ordinary American life pre-20 th C, this film displays the hollowness of the post 20 th C. Ugly, urban landscapes beneath winterish bleach skies devoid of a sun. A film or haze settles over the city of Vien

This time of year always stirs up a lot of memories. And one memory I had over Thanksgiving--actually people kept reminding me--was my mother's cranberry relish recipe. about 5 cups whole cranberries start with 1 cup sugar, but you'll definitely be adding more and 1 WHOLE orange, the whole thing I remember when I called Mom to ask for it--she made a point of saying, the whole orange. But I usually cut it up just to check for seeds and make sure that pimply thing on one end has been removed. Way back when, before what we now call a food processor, Mom had a huge kitchen contraption made out of die-cast metal and weighing about 50 lbs that did almost everything. It was like a wood chipper. A WHOLE orange was nothing for this baby. It could juice a rock. She had attachments she'd put on--like she used to make her own goose liver pâté .The thing actually had more attachments than her ElectroLux vacuum cleaner--another heavy-duty appliance. They were all made out of old

I just can't help myself--James Schuyler (my boy) seems to be saying in his poem "December"-- Each December! I always seem to think I hate "the over-commercialized event" and then bells ring, or tiny light bulbs wink over the entrance to Bonwit Teller or Katherine going on five wants to look at all the empty sample gift-wrapped boxes up Fifth Avenue in swank shops and how can I help falling in love? My sentiments exactly. Every year after Thanksgiving I cringe, sometimes actually feeling sick at all the commercials on TV and how the Christmas season seems to be one big Black Friday blow out sale. I can't stand the big news always focusing on how many people got trampled at Wal-Mart or what the retailers are predicting. Where every Christmas seems to be about overdrive and going crazy with retail frenzy. Then James steps into my heat, mind, soul and says it is so easy to be jaded until we see all the white lights or the colors or the carolers or one nic

I'm in this: Click HERE for link to buy. AND, my story "Exit 24" has been nominated for New Stories from the Midwest  2015 anthology. Fingers crossed it makes the final cut. Thanks to Stoneboat Journal for setting this up.

I watched a very interesting and easy movie a couple of nights ago called Frances Ha. Wasn’t sure what something called Frances Ha was going to be about. It was about this generation of—what are they called? Millennials? Stupid name. Stupid idea of naming generations. The Baby boomers are big on this. Anyway, kids my daughter’s age, the ones just graduating from college, just out now trying to find jobs, their way, the meaning of life—or at least a place to live without having to mortgage their future, a future already mortgaged to forever college debt. Anyway, Millennials looking for an identity. I loved the dialogue. So realistic. I felt like I was listening in to a phone call. Conversations seemingly about nothing, about everything. Reflecting a group that can’t be serious about much because everything is hanging in the balance. Haven’t they been told the world is going to hell in a handbasket? A generation forged by a Recession (just pretend it isn’t a Depression)

I am having the hardest time imaginable getting started this morning (now afternoon), this Monday before Thanksgiving break, this snowy day in the frigid cold, cold that has arrived way too early in the season with temperatures hovering in the low 20s! I have things to do, but all I really want is to drink tea and stay warm. Even crossing the street to my office (I know I have it easy compared to some people) paralyzes me with numb hands and cheeks, my eyes constantly watering from the wind-driven snow. Can’t wait to have time off!! Yesterday I attended and participated in Chicago Book Expo—a fancy name for a pop-up book venue. It was VERY well attended and had top-rate speakers (take it from me; I was one of them!). I’ve already blogged about Aleksandar Hemon. So today I will mention Samuel Park. His book, This Burns My Heart , he said was based upon life experiences of his mother. In particular a story she often told about getting her hair and nails done the day

Have you heard? It’s been 50 years since Kennedy’s assassination. JFK. Sorry I’m not trying to be sarcastic, and I think I touched upon this during the anniversary of King’s speech and the march on Washington. There is just so much media saturation of these commemorative moments that it suddenly turns into something else. Probably how Lincoln’s birthday has degenerated into a time to sell cars or mattresses or bedroom furniture. No one remembers what Thanksgiving is about, because it’s been transformed into the day before Black Friday—and today I read that even Black Friday is getting a make-over because now retailers want to promote the weekend BEFORE Thanksgiving as the big retail day. Geez. So back to the grassy knoll and media overkill. I tuned into PBS last week for a Frontline special on Oswald and the assassination. I really respect public television and Frontline documentaries—but was there overkill? Yeah. I probably saw in 50 minutes Kennedy’s head e

The Chicago Book Expo is a pop-up bookstore and literary fair open to the public being held on Sunday, November 24, 2013, in the Uptown neighborhood from 11am-5pm at St. Augustine College, 1345 W. Argyle in Chicago. I'll be presenting at this @ 4 pm. Pop-Up Memoir, Jane Hertenstein In this pop-up book venue, Jane Hertenstein, author of numerous flashes, will guide participants through a lively workshop of isolating a memory (your first apartment! the one who got away!) and helping you to shape your own mini-memoir. Hope to see some familiar faces: like Aleksander Hemon who will also be presenting opposite of me on the schedule--drat. Aleksandar Hemon: The Book of My Lives [Chaplin Hall]

I just got over my birthday--it sounds like a sickness. Actually it's a plague. The first week in November brings about 7 birthdays that need to be observed. Not just a Facebook quickie, but card-worthy. If not even out to eat necessary. So for the third time this week I was fêted--even as I fêted and lauded others. While at the same time Christmas keeps coming soon. Maybe it is the desperation of retailers who this year have to contend with a "late" Thanksgiving--throwing everything off. But the past two days, days out celebrating, I've heard Christmas music playing in the stores and walked through Macy's where the windows are decorated and the floors displays are all about the "holiday." A little sad really. That things do no have a time for every season. The seasons all get rushed. No wonder people feel crazy. Global warming and our own internal clocks are throwing the planet off-kilter. Or maybe I'm getting old. The years keep rushing b

  Sarah Polley’s latest movie (I loved Away From Her , Julie Christie was transcendent!) is right up the Memoirous alley. One one level it is a young woman’s exploration of her own creation myth while on another level it is about how a talented director chooses to edit—what to leave in and what to take out of the story of her own life. The film is a mirror with many facets. It is also smoke and mirror—as a viewer we’re not sure what is real. Sort of in the same boat as Polley as she proceeded with this endlessly puzzling project. Once again truth is a mystery and memory is only one part of the whole. At one point in the film, toward the end, when we think (as a viewer) all of it has been told, there are no more revelations, her brother asks into the camera: What is this movie about? And Polley stumbles for a succinct answer. “It is about memory and how we tell the story of our life.” She goes on to relate that she chose to focus on the discrepancies, where each character i

Happy Halloween! The world is celebrating 75 years of war. The radio broadcast of “War of the Worlds” by the Mercury Theater headlined by Orson Welles (adapted from H.G. Wells’s novel, a confusing bit of wells) is celebrating its 75 th anniversary. I bring this up at my blog Memoirous because of a documentary that was on the other night on public TV ( American Experience ). A number of people later reported after hearing the radio drama that they actually smelled the sulfur in the air, people reported witnessing bright lights, seeing ash on the wind. Fear took hold of their imaginations and caused them to physically react to what they thought was an invasion from Mars. This is how memories can get blurred. We can be totally positive of something, that it happened a certain way. Of course, we take into account it is from our perspective, but the event we claim ACTUALLY HAPPENED. Only to be told later that it wasn’t in that sequence, or that we have conflated it with s

Beautiful fall-ish weather. The last two weekends I’ve been out on my bike—rambling not too far, but to entirely new places. I especially love riding my bike through piles of crisp leaves—except I can’t ride through them without remembering something my sister said to me once long ago (I think we were both in high school) and I can’t think for the life of me what spurred her to think so bizarrely. We were on bikes riding down our street and it was fall and I said, I love riding my bike through piles of leaves! And she said in return: What if there is a baby in there? I can’t remember what or how I answered her, because it was so random and illogical. Maybe I said something like, I’d feel pretty bad if I ran over a baby hidden in a pile of dead leaves. What I remember mostly is being very confused. So now, every fall, I ask myself that question, every time I ride through a pile of leaves. So last weekend I went and toured Chicago Open House . My address , the building I liv

What we talk about when we talk about The Walking Dead. Are we talking about life without coffee? Tea-colored skies, choked with smoke and ash and residue. Or are we talking about sleepless nights, sleepless days, hell no sleep at all? Because there are no days, only nights, and we’re tired to death. Tired of government big, small, not at all. Tired of media, talk radio, Obamacare, who cares? What we talk about When we talk about zombies, or the “other,” the enemy, the devil, the felon, the ex-con, homeless, tramp, hobo, homo, Roma, trans, the teacher, the cop, the man at the top,   the Mexican, migrant immigrant, ignorant, illegal, alien, Martian, cosmonaut. When we talk about The Walking Dead we’re usually talking about Them. You. Me. Us.

Because we don’t know the future (think: recent debt ceiling, sequestration, even the 2008 market crash) I’ve always thought that it is better just to go for it now. Easy enough to write. Time and money are detracting factors. Even still, I’ve tried to take advantage of my good health and high energy level. That’s why this past April a friend and I hopped on Megabus with our bikes, boxed and in the bay beneath, and de-bused in Nashville in order to ride the Natchez Trace. A few weeks earlier sequestration put a pinch on our plans. Bathrooms along the route would not be open or every other would be open. No matter—all systems were go. I’m so glad. Because we never know the future. There was no way I’d guess then that my riding partner of 10 years would make a sudden move to Minneapolis. (Her husband’s desire to devote himself full-time to getting his Bachelor’s degree necessitated this.) The last few days of this autumn season have felt raw and rainy. Today, though there is