Nov. 29, 2014
Heller: These two are never going to be “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf” because that’s not who they are. Both Jane and Lisbon are private, self-contained, protective people. So it’s a love story – but it’s not a very conventional love story. It’s a love story that is consonant with the relationship they’ve had, which is the interesting thing about it. When we started, it was very much… brother/sister is the wrong way to describe it, but it’s that kind of familial affection that over time has turned into something more. That, to a degree, makes the romance harder for both characters to negotiate because they’re not fiery, passionate, crazy people. They’re people who need to work their way towards seeing how this will play out in the future. It’s a very sort of Jane Austen type of romance – the good ones in Jane Austen. The ones you devoutly wish to be consummated [are] between two people who have known each other for years, and you can see that they’re made for each other – not in a fiery, kind of crazy way. But just in a human, gentle, correct way.
I have not written yet about The Kiss that made history in the season 6 finale. It was masterfully done, the most moving kiss I have ever seen on TV. It set the stage for season 7 which begins tomorrow night. I've been trying to dodge the spoilers because I want to see how their relationship unfolds. I like it that Heller considers it a good Jane Austen romance--Elizabeth Bennet and Darcy, or perhaps Emma and Knightley or even Anne and Captain Wentworth in Persuasion, who have to overcome obstacles created by misunderstanding and miscommunication. I think it's interesting that Heller uses "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" as a study in contrasts. George and Martha actively hate each other and I don't recall a single word of tenderness between them. What Heller is referring to, of course, is that while George and Martha are people of openly violent and verbal emotions, Jane and Lisbon are not. But it's not a good analogy. He should have used Cathy and Heathcliff in "Wuthering Heights" because these two characters are violently, openly and verbally (and implied physically) in love, in the gothic, Romantic-era fictional sense. "Wuthering Heights" was written in a different literary era than "Pride and Prejudice": 1830s English literature was dramatically different from the literature of only two decades earlier. The Romantic era had begun, the same age in music that gave us Beethoven and Chopin.
Jane Austen's work, written during the Napoleonic or Empire era of 1800-1820, was roughly contemporary with Mozart and shares the elegant restraint of passion that characterizes his music (with certain notable exceptions in his late works like the Requiem, Don Giovanni, the Symphony in G minor and the Piano Concerto in D minor, and it should be noted that these works were written in the dawn of the Romantic era in Western music, which had its early beginnings in the late 18th century) These categorizations of Western art into periods has never been an exact science. But when I watch Jane and Lisbon's romance unfold, I am immediately reminded of Jane Austen and not of Emily or Charlotte Brontë.
Jane and Lisbon have known each other for over a dozen years in the context of working together and as partners in Jane's quest to destroy Red John. During this time, Jane, a broken man, still loves his wife, whom he lost along with his beloved daughter when RJ murdered them. He still hasn't removed his wedding ring 13 years later, and 3 years after he finds and strangles RJ. (There are no murders in Jane Austen; Patrick Jane turns briefly into Heathcliff in this scene--though one could argue that in his obsessive revenge he has been Heathcliff all along) Even from his first encounter with Lisbon when, fresh from the mental hospital, he asks her if he can see the Red John case files, it is obvious that he makes a strong connection with her. "Love at first sight" is perhaps too strong a term, but there is something, apart from her stunning physical beauty, that resonates with him. The perceptive and insightful con man sees right away that she is intelligent, compassionate, kind, and brave, and he knows that she will help him. (He is to discover that she is not only intelligent but quick-witted and sarcastic, not only compassionate and kind but loving and forgiving, not only brave but heroic.) At first, she explains that it is against CBI policy to allow victims to look at files, but she soon relents. One of the first things she does is minister to his wound when he instigates an agent to punch him in the nose. She is indignant with the agent for assaulting a crime victim. It's the first time of many that she will defend and nurse him. The stage is set for romance six seasons before it actually happens.
[in "Emma," the two main characters have known one another since Emma was a child, with Knightley being 10-20 years older and in almost a father's, certainly a brother's, role. Their love is platonic until they discover it isn't. This is the closest parallel of "The Mentalist" to Jane Austen.]
The nature of the Jane/Lisbon relationship is what is so Austen-like. The passion is there--deeply so--but hidden under a mask of propriety. There is even denial at work until the denial can no longer prevail ("In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.'' Darcy) The situation in which Lisbon is on the brink of marrying a man she does not love to escape the man she loves could have been written by Austen herself. Both Jane and Lisbon have conned themselves into believing that they will be happier this way until events take a dramatic turn that reveals their love for each other.
Also Austen-like is the threat of a rival, Lisbon's Pike and to a lesser degree Jane's Lorelei. In each case, jealousy and heartache are aroused and immediately hidden with varying degrees of success. The viewer is not fooled for a second when Lisbon attempts to establish boundaries with Jane after he has kissed Lorelei to get information from her ("I'm not your girlfriend! I'm an officer of the law!") Or when she tells Jane that he is too emotionally involved with Lorelei to see that she is playing him. There is no longer any doubt that she loves Jane when we see the scene in the church where she has gone to pray for Jane after he has been gone for six months without contacting her despite her "hundreds" of phone calls. She isn't making any attempt to hide her hurt, but thinks that because she's calling him a son of a bitch it means that she doesn't love him, and that's the message he'll get. And oddly (for a skilled reader of people) he does seem to get that message. He apologizes, but he isn't truly shamed the way he is at the beginning of season 6 when they're on the plane together and she expresses her contempt for his selfishness and his control and manipulation of her. By this time, he is aware that he's in love with her and her words cut him to the heart. In both of them, their carefully constructed façades are beginning to crack until they finally crumble in the season 6 finale.
Jane Austen novels always end with a wedding, so it would be in keeping if Jane and Lisbon get married at the end of this final season. Of course Heller gets asked this question hundreds of times and he's not giving anything away. But if any two people were ready to take on marriage, it's these two. After all of their trials for so many years, what could possibly lie ahead that could be worse? Simon Baker says that the focus will be on conflicts between what each of them wants to do with his/her life. Lisbon defines herself by her career, but Jane never wanted to be in law enforcement and still doesn't know what he wants to be when he grows up, since he's through with being a con artist. Can they reconcile this? It might mean they can't work together anymore, but why would that interfere with their relationship? It might actually be better for it. I'm not without hopes that Jane leaves the FBI after discharging his obligation (or maybe a sympathetic Abbott will set him free) Then he could do something else and she could be free to keep being an FBI agent without having to worry about keeping their relationship a secret. Though I suspect that the secret is already an open one and at some point she's going to throw caution to the winds. In any event, I don't foresee any obstacles to their getting married except this one: can they trust each other not to hurt each other? They've hurt each other profoundly in the past, which is one reason why they are so tentative now. I honestly can't believe that any rivals will enter the story now. That time is past. Either they will end up together or each will be alone permanently. There is no other possible partner for either of them. It would be tragic if the series ended with their breakup after everything they have been through. Though it's unlikely that this scenario will take place, Heller has a very dark side and there's no knowing how it will inevitably express itself this season. Just watch his new show "Gotham" and you see how dark he can be.
"The Mentalist," for all its clever repartée, humorous, cute and touching moments, is at heart a dark and tormented story. Not only Jane's story, but Lisbon's as well. For here is a woman who, although her personal tragedy was arguably less traumatic than Jane's, is 1) without any close friends except Jane 2) shut down emotionally 3) driven by her work and rarely has any fun 4) unbearably lonely and at the same time terrified to get close to other people--she has never had a successful romantic relationship at almost 40 years old. Both Jane and Lisbon have some remarkably similar character traits, the main difference between them being Lisbon's ability to forgive,wider compassion, and belief that the law is usually just--Jane is unashamedly a law unto himself. They also have dissimilar traits that complement each other: Jane is mischievous and fun-loving even in the midst of his despair, while Lisbon "hates surprises" and is reluctant to let herself have fun. Lisbon is the closest thing Jane has to a moral compass, even though he disregards her orders and advice; he knows she's right even when he won't admit it to himself. But he also counters her often rigid adherence to police procedure in the name of doing the right thing. She forgives him time after time no matter how much he hurts her, demonstrating the one quality he lacks: mercy. He is darkness, she is light. He needs her light and she needs to partake of some of his devilish darkness.
I am so looking forward to the season 7 premiere tomorrow night. I know I won't see what I want to see the most: a glimpse of them in bed together, perhaps the morning after, sleepily waking up and kissing in a gentle but passionate manner--I don't need to see over the top, I've got fanfiction for that. I just want to see Eliza and Darcy when they wake up together. Is that too much to ask? However, I know what Heller's going for, and I know he won't stint on the romantic and tender moments. Whatever it is, it will be well worth seeing.
Saturday, November 29, 2014
Friday, November 7, 2014
A latter-day Victorian/Edwardian
That's me.
I just finished reading The Portrait of a Lady for the third time--I read it every few years because it is one of my favorite James novels, written when he was young and had not yet developed the complicated and inscrutable style he became famous for, in which every sentence was a lengthy challenge, as often as not a maze. Even in Portrait his sentences sometimes become paragraphs in the Proustian manner (speaking of Proust: James was every bit as keen and perceptive an observer of the nineteenth century upper classes.)
I kept wanting to get a hilighter and yellow over great sentences which kept popping up on almost every page. But then it would defeat the purpose, and I didn't want to deface my book. The prose is quite simply brilliant, as is the story itself. Isabel Archer is the world's most exasperating heroine, and I won't say why so as not to spoil the story for anyone who has not yet read it. It is the kind of book that begs to be read often--something new is invariably discovered each time one reads it.
I have long been aware that I was raised as though I were a girl of the nineteenth century upper classes, in particular the British and American classes that Henry James knew so intimately.
Let me explain.
I'm talking about accomplishments. And the accomplishments of a young lady, in particular.
To wit: French, Italian, drawing, playing the piano, singing, dancing, and needlework. With the addition of some things usually only taught to boys, such as literature and Latin. Not mathematics or science, only because my father was not well versed in these, but philosophy and logic In all of these subjects (save needlework, which my mother taught me) my father was my tutor. I don't know what he expected me to become with all of this careful molding. The wife of an erudite man, no doubt, like Gilbert Osmond. Or perhaps Mr. Darcy. However, like Isabel Archer, I lacked one thing: a fortune. (That is, she lacked a fortune until her cousin Ralph made her an heiress and unintentionally caused the beginning of her suffering.) These days, fortunes are not to be had in this manner. My well-to-do grandparents had no grandiose ideas of marrying me off to a lord, or the American equivalent, if there is one. The money I inherited from my grandfather was appropriated by my father, who spent it all mostly in gambling. My millionaire aunt and uncle are still alive, and I certainly don't expect to be remembered in their will. As to my inheritance on my father's death, well, let's just say that it falls well short of a fortune. I'm not poor, but I will most likely not be able to retire. My situation is very drearily twenty-first century and barely middle class. The upper classes are beyond my reach unless I married an elderly hedge fund manager or scion of industry. I'm sure the idle rich (as in living off the interest of their capital without having to get their hands dirty doing an actual job) exist in this country, and undoubtedly in England, but I don't move in the right circles to meet them.
What a pity. When I would so enjoy being one of them.
The older I get, the less I want to work. I know exactly how I'd spend my time if I didn't have to work--I have my music, my art, my languages (hey, those accomplishments!) gardening, decorating, remodeling my house or possibly moving to Europe into a larger, brighter, sunnier house. Castles in the air. Unless my investments pay off big time, or if I somehow get Lady Gaga to hire me as her accompanist, I'll be teaching at Berklee ten years from now. If I'm still alive. Statistically, I will be.
If I were a rich character in a nineteenth century novel, I'd be a lady of leisure who only received guests one night a week. I'd be surrounded by artwork and large bouquets of fresh flowers, with a cadre of servants right down to a lady's maid to dress my hair. Since I'd accomplished my mission of marrying well, I might or might not continue practicing the piano, drawing, and doing needlepoint, but if I didn't, that would be fine because I would no longer need accomplishments. I might be very bored indeed with "society," and not at all interested in the latest Paris fashions, though I would be expected to be "fashionable." I'd like to think I'd be as accomplished a pianist as Madame Merle. I'd have all the time I needed to practice, after all. No excuses because the servants would be doing the housework and errands. I'd have a gardener for all the heavy lifting, so I would be able to just do the garden work that I like.
And reading...hours of reading! No internet or phones.
[To be continued...or not.]
I just finished reading The Portrait of a Lady for the third time--I read it every few years because it is one of my favorite James novels, written when he was young and had not yet developed the complicated and inscrutable style he became famous for, in which every sentence was a lengthy challenge, as often as not a maze. Even in Portrait his sentences sometimes become paragraphs in the Proustian manner (speaking of Proust: James was every bit as keen and perceptive an observer of the nineteenth century upper classes.)
I kept wanting to get a hilighter and yellow over great sentences which kept popping up on almost every page. But then it would defeat the purpose, and I didn't want to deface my book. The prose is quite simply brilliant, as is the story itself. Isabel Archer is the world's most exasperating heroine, and I won't say why so as not to spoil the story for anyone who has not yet read it. It is the kind of book that begs to be read often--something new is invariably discovered each time one reads it.
I have long been aware that I was raised as though I were a girl of the nineteenth century upper classes, in particular the British and American classes that Henry James knew so intimately.
Let me explain.
I'm talking about accomplishments. And the accomplishments of a young lady, in particular.
To wit: French, Italian, drawing, playing the piano, singing, dancing, and needlework. With the addition of some things usually only taught to boys, such as literature and Latin. Not mathematics or science, only because my father was not well versed in these, but philosophy and logic In all of these subjects (save needlework, which my mother taught me) my father was my tutor. I don't know what he expected me to become with all of this careful molding. The wife of an erudite man, no doubt, like Gilbert Osmond. Or perhaps Mr. Darcy. However, like Isabel Archer, I lacked one thing: a fortune. (That is, she lacked a fortune until her cousin Ralph made her an heiress and unintentionally caused the beginning of her suffering.) These days, fortunes are not to be had in this manner. My well-to-do grandparents had no grandiose ideas of marrying me off to a lord, or the American equivalent, if there is one. The money I inherited from my grandfather was appropriated by my father, who spent it all mostly in gambling. My millionaire aunt and uncle are still alive, and I certainly don't expect to be remembered in their will. As to my inheritance on my father's death, well, let's just say that it falls well short of a fortune. I'm not poor, but I will most likely not be able to retire. My situation is very drearily twenty-first century and barely middle class. The upper classes are beyond my reach unless I married an elderly hedge fund manager or scion of industry. I'm sure the idle rich (as in living off the interest of their capital without having to get their hands dirty doing an actual job) exist in this country, and undoubtedly in England, but I don't move in the right circles to meet them.
What a pity. When I would so enjoy being one of them.
The older I get, the less I want to work. I know exactly how I'd spend my time if I didn't have to work--I have my music, my art, my languages (hey, those accomplishments!) gardening, decorating, remodeling my house or possibly moving to Europe into a larger, brighter, sunnier house. Castles in the air. Unless my investments pay off big time, or if I somehow get Lady Gaga to hire me as her accompanist, I'll be teaching at Berklee ten years from now. If I'm still alive. Statistically, I will be.
If I were a rich character in a nineteenth century novel, I'd be a lady of leisure who only received guests one night a week. I'd be surrounded by artwork and large bouquets of fresh flowers, with a cadre of servants right down to a lady's maid to dress my hair. Since I'd accomplished my mission of marrying well, I might or might not continue practicing the piano, drawing, and doing needlepoint, but if I didn't, that would be fine because I would no longer need accomplishments. I might be very bored indeed with "society," and not at all interested in the latest Paris fashions, though I would be expected to be "fashionable." I'd like to think I'd be as accomplished a pianist as Madame Merle. I'd have all the time I needed to practice, after all. No excuses because the servants would be doing the housework and errands. I'd have a gardener for all the heavy lifting, so I would be able to just do the garden work that I like.
And reading...hours of reading! No internet or phones.
[To be continued...or not.]
Ruminations on the gas buggy
I haven't posted on this blog in a very long time, because no one reads it. But that's not really a good excuse not to post.
In December 2013, after my last disgruntled post, my father's house, which continues to appear in my dreams, was finally sold. Hallelujah. For a whopping $180,000. At least we didn't have to resort to calling one of those "we buy ugly houses" numbers. The money was duly divided between my brother and me, and what was left of my half not spent on pricey house repairs was deposited in my savings and invested with Fidelity. I finally bit the bullet and made a huge down payment on...
a Prius!
Yes, my fifteen year old Honda Civic, which still runs beautifully with 147,000 miles on it, has rusted out as all New England vehicles eventually do. My mechanic informed me that within six months my car would be unsafe to drive. This sent me into a tizzy, because naturally I didn't want to wait for that dire eventuality. So...what car to buy? For years now, I have been fantasizing about a Prius, which, while pricey, is at least in the range of the possible, unlike a Porsche or Ferrari. I soon found that a new one was out of the question, so I researched the prices of used ones online. I decided that no way was I dealing with a used car salesman. Instead, I asked Pat Regan, my mechanic, who buys a few used cars and sells them from his service station, to find me a used Prius, no older than 2010.
A few weeks went by as I prayed to my Higher Power to send me my Prius. I wanted the gunmetal gray one but I said I'd settle for any other color. My prayers were heard and answered! My Prius, which I have named "Fairy," is a light silver color and looks quite elegant. As the cashier at Regan's told me, silver doesn't show dirt or scratches as much as a dark color. Another plus! The car, which had one owner, is in admirable condition, with "only" 47,900 miles--this is considered low mileage for a Prius. 2010s are selling for as much as mine with 60, 70, even 80K. And the service manual goes all the way up to 120K. And it's not just optimism. Apparently they just keep going and going, virtually trouble-free. Everyone I've spoken to loves their Prius.
My main reason for buying a Prius (at $16,000 and some change, about $10,000 less than a new one would cost me) is of course the environment. If I keep this car for 120K plus miles, I will be releasing a lot less crap into our suffering atmosphere. Although, as my friend Nelson pointed out, there is still the problem of disposing of the battery: if it ends up in a landfill, it will leach toxic chemicals into the groundwater. I'm hoping that by that time someone will discover how to render theses chemicals harmless.
What I wasn't prepared for was the virtually silent ride the Prius delivers. Smooth. It's not a hot rod, and it doesn't accelerate 0-60 like a Maserati, but hell, it's sleek and beautiful, and it's cool. There aren't as many as you'd imagine on the streets of Newton, being an uncool place. The word is that California is full of them. Proof positive of coolness. For Californians, the Prius is the VW beetle of the 2000's. More evidence that the West Coast is where I really belong.
Other advantages of the Prius are easy loading of equipment due to the hatchback, which creates a higher ceiling inside the car. And the low gas mileage--50 mpg on the highway, the most economical hybrid around. Gas prices are now falling precipitously, and the irony is not lost on me. Oh well, it'll cost me even less to drive my new (used) car.
In December 2013, after my last disgruntled post, my father's house, which continues to appear in my dreams, was finally sold. Hallelujah. For a whopping $180,000. At least we didn't have to resort to calling one of those "we buy ugly houses" numbers. The money was duly divided between my brother and me, and what was left of my half not spent on pricey house repairs was deposited in my savings and invested with Fidelity. I finally bit the bullet and made a huge down payment on...
a Prius!
Yes, my fifteen year old Honda Civic, which still runs beautifully with 147,000 miles on it, has rusted out as all New England vehicles eventually do. My mechanic informed me that within six months my car would be unsafe to drive. This sent me into a tizzy, because naturally I didn't want to wait for that dire eventuality. So...what car to buy? For years now, I have been fantasizing about a Prius, which, while pricey, is at least in the range of the possible, unlike a Porsche or Ferrari. I soon found that a new one was out of the question, so I researched the prices of used ones online. I decided that no way was I dealing with a used car salesman. Instead, I asked Pat Regan, my mechanic, who buys a few used cars and sells them from his service station, to find me a used Prius, no older than 2010.
A few weeks went by as I prayed to my Higher Power to send me my Prius. I wanted the gunmetal gray one but I said I'd settle for any other color. My prayers were heard and answered! My Prius, which I have named "Fairy," is a light silver color and looks quite elegant. As the cashier at Regan's told me, silver doesn't show dirt or scratches as much as a dark color. Another plus! The car, which had one owner, is in admirable condition, with "only" 47,900 miles--this is considered low mileage for a Prius. 2010s are selling for as much as mine with 60, 70, even 80K. And the service manual goes all the way up to 120K. And it's not just optimism. Apparently they just keep going and going, virtually trouble-free. Everyone I've spoken to loves their Prius.
My main reason for buying a Prius (at $16,000 and some change, about $10,000 less than a new one would cost me) is of course the environment. If I keep this car for 120K plus miles, I will be releasing a lot less crap into our suffering atmosphere. Although, as my friend Nelson pointed out, there is still the problem of disposing of the battery: if it ends up in a landfill, it will leach toxic chemicals into the groundwater. I'm hoping that by that time someone will discover how to render theses chemicals harmless.
What I wasn't prepared for was the virtually silent ride the Prius delivers. Smooth. It's not a hot rod, and it doesn't accelerate 0-60 like a Maserati, but hell, it's sleek and beautiful, and it's cool. There aren't as many as you'd imagine on the streets of Newton, being an uncool place. The word is that California is full of them. Proof positive of coolness. For Californians, the Prius is the VW beetle of the 2000's. More evidence that the West Coast is where I really belong.
Other advantages of the Prius are easy loading of equipment due to the hatchback, which creates a higher ceiling inside the car. And the low gas mileage--50 mpg on the highway, the most economical hybrid around. Gas prices are now falling precipitously, and the irony is not lost on me. Oh well, it'll cost me even less to drive my new (used) car.
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
Fiasco
I have been complaining a lot lately to anyone who'll listen. This is because I have lost an entire year of my life (and a hell of a lot of money) to the settling of my father's estate and the attempt to sell his house. My hair is falling out from stress, I can't sleep, and I have no heart to play the piano (though I force myself to practice) I can't handle much of anything beyond getting through the day.
Now, just as it seemed that the buyers were finally getting their shit together, the whole thing falls apart: we find out that they can't get financing. The deal is off, and we are starting from scratch, having lowered the price yet again. So I am complaining. It would be better if I tried to lose myself in writing Mentalist fanfiction--I have to rewrite my story based on last Sunday's season premiere. It's after 1 am and I don't want to go to work tomorrow. I need every dollar I am capable of earning, so I can't take a personal day.
This is not the worst catastrophe in the world--it happens to many homeowners. But the agony is being extended, with no end in sight. My childhood home is empty, just the shell of a home, and every time I think about it I get unbearably sad. Every day I try to distract, distract, distract. It works up to a point, but the fear of ending up with no retirement money never goes away.
One small ray of light is that I received a royalty check for $411 from Berklee Press.
My book is selling!
Too bad it won't ever reach best-seller proportions...
Now, just as it seemed that the buyers were finally getting their shit together, the whole thing falls apart: we find out that they can't get financing. The deal is off, and we are starting from scratch, having lowered the price yet again. So I am complaining. It would be better if I tried to lose myself in writing Mentalist fanfiction--I have to rewrite my story based on last Sunday's season premiere. It's after 1 am and I don't want to go to work tomorrow. I need every dollar I am capable of earning, so I can't take a personal day.
This is not the worst catastrophe in the world--it happens to many homeowners. But the agony is being extended, with no end in sight. My childhood home is empty, just the shell of a home, and every time I think about it I get unbearably sad. Every day I try to distract, distract, distract. It works up to a point, but the fear of ending up with no retirement money never goes away.
One small ray of light is that I received a royalty check for $411 from Berklee Press.
My book is selling!
Too bad it won't ever reach best-seller proportions...
Saturday, August 31, 2013
Up and down and back and forth with the closing
The latest news is that the buyer has been in the hospital (!) for 2 weeks but still wants to close the deal on the house. The question is, why was his wife also MIA? Why wasn't she taking his calls and why didn't she get back to their real estate agent?
Now I have to wait until their lawyer decides to have the closing. It will undoubtedly be on a work day, so I will lose income. I would not have lost any money if it had been the 29th. (Well, $40 for a credited piano lesson, and that's not nothing, but losing a whole day of Berklee teaching would be bad) I am trying to let go of this and enjoy my last few days of freedom from work. I have done everything I could. The house is cleared and swept. The lawn is overgrown, but the estate can't afford $75 every 2 weeks.
I am still feeling as though my father died only recently. It's because I finally chucked his two foot high pile of bluebooks and other notebooks into the recycling bin, because none of his friends wanted them. I was throwing the only remaining pieces of his mind away. My father's remains are literally a pile of dust. There is no more corporeal Jack Davis. And if there is a spiritual Jack Davis, he has yet to visit me. It's very hard to forgive him for what he has put me through with his estate/house. He actually thought he was making things easier for me. Well, it would have been easier had he put even half of his gambling money in the bank. Or saved what was left of his pension each month and paid off his $27,000 loan instead of sticking Joe and me with (as I repeatedly begged him to do.) It's over and done with, and I should let this go, but almost a year following his death it is still causing me terrible anxiety and depression. If he'd kept up the house and grounds as he should have, we'd have sold the place by now.
And now our hope of selling the house rests with a shoplifter. Not a convicted felon, or as my lawyer put it, "not public enemy #1." But someone incredibly irresponsible. I get a daily headache in the upper right part of my skull. I almost never have headaches, so I can only conclude that it's the stress I'm under. When will it end?
Now I have to wait until their lawyer decides to have the closing. It will undoubtedly be on a work day, so I will lose income. I would not have lost any money if it had been the 29th. (Well, $40 for a credited piano lesson, and that's not nothing, but losing a whole day of Berklee teaching would be bad) I am trying to let go of this and enjoy my last few days of freedom from work. I have done everything I could. The house is cleared and swept. The lawn is overgrown, but the estate can't afford $75 every 2 weeks.
I am still feeling as though my father died only recently. It's because I finally chucked his two foot high pile of bluebooks and other notebooks into the recycling bin, because none of his friends wanted them. I was throwing the only remaining pieces of his mind away. My father's remains are literally a pile of dust. There is no more corporeal Jack Davis. And if there is a spiritual Jack Davis, he has yet to visit me. It's very hard to forgive him for what he has put me through with his estate/house. He actually thought he was making things easier for me. Well, it would have been easier had he put even half of his gambling money in the bank. Or saved what was left of his pension each month and paid off his $27,000 loan instead of sticking Joe and me with (as I repeatedly begged him to do.) It's over and done with, and I should let this go, but almost a year following his death it is still causing me terrible anxiety and depression. If he'd kept up the house and grounds as he should have, we'd have sold the place by now.
And now our hope of selling the house rests with a shoplifter. Not a convicted felon, or as my lawyer put it, "not public enemy #1." But someone incredibly irresponsible. I get a daily headache in the upper right part of my skull. I almost never have headaches, so I can only conclude that it's the stress I'm under. When will it end?
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
What happened?
After 5 months on the market and 30 showings without an offer, my father's house finally got an offer. We have the signed purchase and sale, the inspection went without a hitch, and I busted my ass cleaning the house out mostly by myself with some help from Tasha and Curtiss. I didn't get rid of all the books and records until 2 days ago.
Despite numerous calls to both agent and lawyer, I have been unable to find out when and where the closing will take place. We had a date--Aug. 29--on the contract, but no one has been able to reach the buyers. The agent told me this evening that the buyer's realtor has been trying to reach him for 2 weeks and leaving messages, none of which resulted in a call or email back. I can't think of a good reason for this. Why would they go the distance and then run away from the deal?
Curtiss did some research on the buyer online and made a shocking discovery: a young man with the same name as the buyer (and who lives in Conn.) was arrested for sixth degree larceny in 2011 for attempting to steal an air conditioner from a store. I know that real estate agents can't vet their buyers, but how could this happen? Our house was under agreement with a criminal? The name is not a common one and it must be the same person.
The only reason I can think of that he has not been answering his calls is that he's on the run from the police. Could this get any worse?
I sent a link to the newspaper article describing the crime to the lawyer representing us at the closing. I asked both of them if all the financing was in order and if the real estate office had received their down payment (it was a small one because they have a special loan from the USDA with full financing and only a $2000 down payment.) It's a lot easier to turn your back on and forfeit $2000 than $20,000.
Now what do we do? I have spent months getting furniture, antiques and books sold from the house, and only the other day gave the final sweep to the floors. I wasn't worried that anything would go wrong. My brother and Curtiss, who worry about everything, were worried and this confirmed their worst fears.
I might have known that it was too good to be true. Here we were thinking we had finally found the perfect buyer--do it yourselfers who wanted to fix the place up. Reasonable people who waived their rights to inspection for lead paint and radon. People who said that any books we left on the shelves were OK with them. I told myself they were nice people and I looked forward to meeting them at the closing. Now I discover that the husband is a thief. Shock, bewilderment, and even heartbreak don't even begin to describe my feelings.
We will have to shut the house up for the winter because we can't afford to keep the heat and utilities going without a tenant to pay them. There's no furniture in the house, so how could we rent even if we could meet the stringent landlord requirements?
I haven't told anyone about the buyer's rap sheet. I don't know how to tell anyone. It was bad enough having to tell my brother that the buyer has simply disappeared and is incommunicado.
My aunt Joan says that there will be another buyer and not to make myself crazy over this.
But I can't sleep. I don't know what to do. There is nothing I can do. Can we hold them to the contract? Did they even succeed in getting the loan?
We've spent over $4000 to the law firm, so they'd better give us some good legal advice.
I need some answers. It's not so bad that the closing isn't taking place this Thurs. as planned, but a buyer missing in action? Maybe on the run from the law?
Why is this happening when I worked so hard to bring about the sale?
Despite numerous calls to both agent and lawyer, I have been unable to find out when and where the closing will take place. We had a date--Aug. 29--on the contract, but no one has been able to reach the buyers. The agent told me this evening that the buyer's realtor has been trying to reach him for 2 weeks and leaving messages, none of which resulted in a call or email back. I can't think of a good reason for this. Why would they go the distance and then run away from the deal?
Curtiss did some research on the buyer online and made a shocking discovery: a young man with the same name as the buyer (and who lives in Conn.) was arrested for sixth degree larceny in 2011 for attempting to steal an air conditioner from a store. I know that real estate agents can't vet their buyers, but how could this happen? Our house was under agreement with a criminal? The name is not a common one and it must be the same person.
The only reason I can think of that he has not been answering his calls is that he's on the run from the police. Could this get any worse?
I sent a link to the newspaper article describing the crime to the lawyer representing us at the closing. I asked both of them if all the financing was in order and if the real estate office had received their down payment (it was a small one because they have a special loan from the USDA with full financing and only a $2000 down payment.) It's a lot easier to turn your back on and forfeit $2000 than $20,000.
Now what do we do? I have spent months getting furniture, antiques and books sold from the house, and only the other day gave the final sweep to the floors. I wasn't worried that anything would go wrong. My brother and Curtiss, who worry about everything, were worried and this confirmed their worst fears.
I might have known that it was too good to be true. Here we were thinking we had finally found the perfect buyer--do it yourselfers who wanted to fix the place up. Reasonable people who waived their rights to inspection for lead paint and radon. People who said that any books we left on the shelves were OK with them. I told myself they were nice people and I looked forward to meeting them at the closing. Now I discover that the husband is a thief. Shock, bewilderment, and even heartbreak don't even begin to describe my feelings.
We will have to shut the house up for the winter because we can't afford to keep the heat and utilities going without a tenant to pay them. There's no furniture in the house, so how could we rent even if we could meet the stringent landlord requirements?
I haven't told anyone about the buyer's rap sheet. I don't know how to tell anyone. It was bad enough having to tell my brother that the buyer has simply disappeared and is incommunicado.
My aunt Joan says that there will be another buyer and not to make myself crazy over this.
But I can't sleep. I don't know what to do. There is nothing I can do. Can we hold them to the contract? Did they even succeed in getting the loan?
We've spent over $4000 to the law firm, so they'd better give us some good legal advice.
I need some answers. It's not so bad that the closing isn't taking place this Thurs. as planned, but a buyer missing in action? Maybe on the run from the law?
Why is this happening when I worked so hard to bring about the sale?
Saturday, June 15, 2013
The piano teacher
Ally (age 7) and me at her piano lesson (June 12, 2013)
Ally: I really like the inside of the piano! It looks like a place where fairies could live.
Me: It does! But--how would they get in and out?
Ally: There's a space in front ( pointing to the gap between the music rack and the strings)
Me: There is!
Ally is a real character! She spent the better part of her lesson composing her music. I wrote it out for her and it contained some interesting melody lines that were quite un-childlike. She is very smart, very willful, and a touch spoiled, but she's very cute and imaginative. She told me that she wanted to finish her piece but that her younger brother tore it up. "Oh, that's terrible! You've got to keep your music away from him," I said before I actually saw the piece of paper in question. It had a large jagged tear which was easily mended with a piece of tape. Ally goes for the drama every time.
She also knows that unlike most adults, she can tell me about where the fairies live and I will believe her.
Ally: I really like the inside of the piano! It looks like a place where fairies could live.
Me: It does! But--how would they get in and out?
Ally: There's a space in front ( pointing to the gap between the music rack and the strings)
Me: There is!
Ally is a real character! She spent the better part of her lesson composing her music. I wrote it out for her and it contained some interesting melody lines that were quite un-childlike. She is very smart, very willful, and a touch spoiled, but she's very cute and imaginative. She told me that she wanted to finish her piece but that her younger brother tore it up. "Oh, that's terrible! You've got to keep your music away from him," I said before I actually saw the piece of paper in question. It had a large jagged tear which was easily mended with a piece of tape. Ally goes for the drama every time.
She also knows that unlike most adults, she can tell me about where the fairies live and I will believe her.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Stuck in limbo
I have brief periods of respite from depression. Last weekend, for example, I attended my friends' wedding, and was distracted for two days from the unpaid bills on the estate, the worry over the house not selling, the fear that I am sick with something serious instead of merely having a chronic stomachache from anxiety.
Depression and anxiety, my old friends. I was probably experiencing them in utero.
Certainly, I was a depressed child and teenager. As an adult, I take my antidepressants faithfully to ward off falling deeper into the abyss. Now the feelings are exacerbated by grief. I've arrived at the stage where I accept the fact that my father is gone forever.
My intent in writing this is not to gain pity. It is simply to describe what it's like. Sometimes the writing makes it clear that things could be, and have been, a lot worse than they are now. But I have terrible money karma and that I have used up whatever good gig karma I had more than 9 years ago when I left the Four Seasons. If you believe in karma. Maybe it's just terrible luck. I don't believe that people create their own success. People have other people who help them succeed. People with rich parents have an advantage over the rest of us.
I'm trying to enjoy the spring flowers. I'm trying to motivate myself to do something creative with the free time I have left before starting work again on the 28th. But mostly I end up online and watching endless TV. At least I did about 90 minutes of yard work yesterday.
But I feel defeated.
Depression and anxiety, my old friends. I was probably experiencing them in utero.
Certainly, I was a depressed child and teenager. As an adult, I take my antidepressants faithfully to ward off falling deeper into the abyss. Now the feelings are exacerbated by grief. I've arrived at the stage where I accept the fact that my father is gone forever.
My intent in writing this is not to gain pity. It is simply to describe what it's like. Sometimes the writing makes it clear that things could be, and have been, a lot worse than they are now. But I have terrible money karma and that I have used up whatever good gig karma I had more than 9 years ago when I left the Four Seasons. If you believe in karma. Maybe it's just terrible luck. I don't believe that people create their own success. People have other people who help them succeed. People with rich parents have an advantage over the rest of us.
I'm trying to enjoy the spring flowers. I'm trying to motivate myself to do something creative with the free time I have left before starting work again on the 28th. But mostly I end up online and watching endless TV. At least I did about 90 minutes of yard work yesterday.
But I feel defeated.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Sunday, May 12, 2013
The house that wouldn't sell itself
My father's 18th century stucco over fieldstone and clapboard mixture house has been on the market since mid-March with about 15 showings and no takers, even when the listing price was taken down from $220,000 to $200,000. Mind you, this house comes with extraordinarily crafted old stone walls and 3.5 acres of land, including a tarn (don't ask) an old barn, garage, and guesthouse, which back in 1960 has an outhouse which my brother and I delighted in, but which has since sunk into the surrounding woodland.
The old saying, "Location, location, location" was never more true than in this case. The house is located in a historic district full of lovely 18th century houses (some even older) in various states of disrepair, or remodeled with the modern kitchen and master bedroom suites which are de rigueur nowadays, at least if you believe the shows on HGTV. The problem is not so much that my father's kitchen and bathrooms have not been remodeled since 1967 (though the kitchen has a floor only a few years old) but that there is nothing to do in Mansfield. Not unless you are Emily Dickinson (I can hear my father laughing at that one) or perhaps an herb farmer or horse owner. The house is an 8 minute drive from the University of Connecticut, which was a selling point for my father when he got the teaching job at UConn. My mother was sold on the beautiful grounds, upon which she eventually created an herb garden, rose garden, perennial beds, and vegetable garden, all lovingly tended. If only a couple like them could materialize today. An unworldly faculty couple who don't notice if there are ants in the non-trendy kitchen, or the occasional mouse. People who regard the phrase "master bedroom suite" with scorn if not derision.
Writers, people whose lives are largely in their minds, as my father's was.
You wouldn't want it as a vacation home even though there is Echo Lake nearby where you can go sailing or boating (at least when I was a kid) and there wasn't a town beach then, though maybe there is now. No, it must be a year-round residence (unless you have a vacation home somewhere else, in which case you'd be rich enough to afford an upgraded house with all the demands of modern yuppie life) My brother wanted to hold on to the old homestead for our sons, but my guess is that neither of them would want to live there, nor would they want to be absentee landlords. And I would never want to put them through the sheer pain in the ass that selling this house has turned out to be.
Land, you say? "It's the only thing that lasts! Tara!" Well, not exactly. Land is almost worthless in Mansfield because of its lack of desirability as a residence--after all, the nearest mall is a couple of miles away, and it doesn't have Abercrombie & Fitch because the beautiful people don't shop there. For some reason, it galls me that my father's land is worthless. And it's not just any land. It's land that was lovingly cultivated for years, and then lay fallow after my mother's death 28 years ago. Old apple trees and evergreens. Lilacs taller than you. Boxwood hedges kept clipped as topiary, large round balls which look as though they belomg to a much grander house. (Not sure whose idea this was; someone probably suggested it to my father.) A hidden garden (or what used to be one) in the foundation of the original barn which blew or burned down in the hurricane of '38.
Tomorrow I am going to the house at 21 Browns Rd. I will be consolidating bank accounts and paying off the last $400 odd dollars that are owed on my father's loan. Tuesday at noon I meet with Paul Johnson, the landscaper who has worked for my father for eons and who wants to do some things that will give the house more "curb appeal."
There is a broken-down fence in back that should be taken away--I hope he can do that, because even if I could fit the wood into my Civic, the town of Mansfield makes you pay for the priviledge of dropping off your oversized trash at the dump.
Then there's the problem of the junk in the garage left there by a handyman friend of Dad's for a few years and which I hope he has taken out by now. If he hasn't, I will have to take legal action to get rid of it which will cost me another $1000+. And the old mattresses in the barn--I have to pay to get someone to cart them away. And the carpenter ant problem in the kitchen. And the leaky roof. This is my karma. I wonder what I did in a former life that was so terrible that I deserve this punishment in this life. I want to be paid a nuisance fee for having to be the executor and give my brother less than half the estate. But this will foment discord, which is more bad karma.
Someone will buy the place. Someone. But when?
The old saying, "Location, location, location" was never more true than in this case. The house is located in a historic district full of lovely 18th century houses (some even older) in various states of disrepair, or remodeled with the modern kitchen and master bedroom suites which are de rigueur nowadays, at least if you believe the shows on HGTV. The problem is not so much that my father's kitchen and bathrooms have not been remodeled since 1967 (though the kitchen has a floor only a few years old) but that there is nothing to do in Mansfield. Not unless you are Emily Dickinson (I can hear my father laughing at that one) or perhaps an herb farmer or horse owner. The house is an 8 minute drive from the University of Connecticut, which was a selling point for my father when he got the teaching job at UConn. My mother was sold on the beautiful grounds, upon which she eventually created an herb garden, rose garden, perennial beds, and vegetable garden, all lovingly tended. If only a couple like them could materialize today. An unworldly faculty couple who don't notice if there are ants in the non-trendy kitchen, or the occasional mouse. People who regard the phrase "master bedroom suite" with scorn if not derision.
Writers, people whose lives are largely in their minds, as my father's was.
You wouldn't want it as a vacation home even though there is Echo Lake nearby where you can go sailing or boating (at least when I was a kid) and there wasn't a town beach then, though maybe there is now. No, it must be a year-round residence (unless you have a vacation home somewhere else, in which case you'd be rich enough to afford an upgraded house with all the demands of modern yuppie life) My brother wanted to hold on to the old homestead for our sons, but my guess is that neither of them would want to live there, nor would they want to be absentee landlords. And I would never want to put them through the sheer pain in the ass that selling this house has turned out to be.
Land, you say? "It's the only thing that lasts! Tara!" Well, not exactly. Land is almost worthless in Mansfield because of its lack of desirability as a residence--after all, the nearest mall is a couple of miles away, and it doesn't have Abercrombie & Fitch because the beautiful people don't shop there. For some reason, it galls me that my father's land is worthless. And it's not just any land. It's land that was lovingly cultivated for years, and then lay fallow after my mother's death 28 years ago. Old apple trees and evergreens. Lilacs taller than you. Boxwood hedges kept clipped as topiary, large round balls which look as though they belomg to a much grander house. (Not sure whose idea this was; someone probably suggested it to my father.) A hidden garden (or what used to be one) in the foundation of the original barn which blew or burned down in the hurricane of '38.
Tomorrow I am going to the house at 21 Browns Rd. I will be consolidating bank accounts and paying off the last $400 odd dollars that are owed on my father's loan. Tuesday at noon I meet with Paul Johnson, the landscaper who has worked for my father for eons and who wants to do some things that will give the house more "curb appeal."
There is a broken-down fence in back that should be taken away--I hope he can do that, because even if I could fit the wood into my Civic, the town of Mansfield makes you pay for the priviledge of dropping off your oversized trash at the dump.
Then there's the problem of the junk in the garage left there by a handyman friend of Dad's for a few years and which I hope he has taken out by now. If he hasn't, I will have to take legal action to get rid of it which will cost me another $1000+. And the old mattresses in the barn--I have to pay to get someone to cart them away. And the carpenter ant problem in the kitchen. And the leaky roof. This is my karma. I wonder what I did in a former life that was so terrible that I deserve this punishment in this life. I want to be paid a nuisance fee for having to be the executor and give my brother less than half the estate. But this will foment discord, which is more bad karma.
Someone will buy the place. Someone. But when?
Thursday, May 9, 2013
The word from Bruno Heller
Well, it seems in the last Bruno Heller interview he says that Red John is "definitively" not
Patrick Jane.
That's a relief!
I was afraid the series (hitherto one of the best on TV for 5 seasons) was going to degenerate into a cheap imitation of Fight Club. Heller also says that Red John is one of the 7 suspects on the list. But which list? a fake one meant for Red John or Jane's real list, which exists only inside his head? Or is the list we saw in photo form and heard Lorelei read on the DVD THE REAL LIST?
I still think that of all the suspects, Brett Partridge fits the profile the best.
Honestly, I don't know why McAllister and Reede Smith are even on the list; they are such minor characters and each only appeared in one episode. Is this the "disappointment" of which Heller speaks? That some nobody will prove to be Red John? The banality of evil and all that?
I don't recall Smith at all, and my main memories of McAllister are
1) my mistaken belief (and intentionally misleading story line) that McAllister was the murderer of the red-headed women in the episode because he acts very suspiciously when Grace is acting as a decoy to entrap him. It turns out that the murders were committed by a nutjob chef and his wife who liked to watch.
2) McAllister loses at several rounds of rock, paper, scissors, with Jane. But then Jane always wins at poker and chess, so it's reasonable to surmise that no one beats him at a game. Which is why Red John loves the challenge and is sure he will win this time.
Hmmm, Gale Bertram could easily be the one: head of the CBI, on the inside in an important position, probably told Timothy Carter to meet Jane in the food court in the finale of Season 3, is involved in some shady plan with Kirkland that involves Lisbon ("can we trust her?") And he quotes William Blake's Tyger Tyger, which RJ recites when he talks to Jane who is bound up with tape. Later on, a dying RJ operative taunts Jane with "Tyger, Tyger." This is obviously some sort of secret word among RJ acolytes.
Kirkland? It seems more likely that he himself wants to catch RJ. Either that, or he stole the timeline from Jane to find out what Jane was thinking in order to mess with his mind.
Kirkland kills Lennon in the hospital for unclear reasons--Lennon worked at the women's shelter where Lorelei's sister Miranda stayed. He asked Lennon "do you recognize me?" and seemed to think he was doing Lennon a kind favor by dispatching him. The type of thing RJ might say--he is a showman about death, as though it were something to be staged in a play.
Ray Hafner? Certainly a suspicious character, trying to co-opt Lisbon into working for him and asking her pointedly if she stays on the job because of Jane (much as Lorelei tells Jane that she thinks he stays with the CBI because of Lisbon.) She discovers he's a member of Visualize, which was harboring the young RJ. So...he certainly is connected, if not the man himself.
Bret Stiles? Too old. Why is he on the list? He's a slimy bastard for sure, and he's got something to hide. He may be enjoying the RJ/Jane show and manipulating both of them--a puppetmaster of sorts. But RJ? No.
And why are there two guys with the name Bret? (tt)?
Getting back to Partridge: He makes an appearance on the season finale after not being on the show for a very long time. Jane hates him, calls him a ghoul, says he likes his work too much (works for CBI coroner and is a crime scene examiner) He also admires "great" killers. He says that Eileen's murder is a RJ copycat, and when Jane asks him if he's sure, he says he's just guessing, and Jane is the expert. He could just be a serial killer groupie like the zombies on "The Following," or he could be RJ himself. We don't know much about him.
To be continued...
Monday, May 6, 2013
The Mentalist Season Finale (Season 5) Red John: Psychic or Mentalist?
The following is the only explanation that makes any sense to me.
"This is the final chase," Heller says. "We will know who Red John is and we will catch him next season. Everything that has happened over the past five years will come to a head, and things will change drastically. This is the biggest finale in terms of game-changing and setting up for the last act of the Red John saga. This is as definitive and revolutionary as you can get." [from the Red Blog]___________________________________________________________________
__________________________
BUT THE REAL MYSTERY IS THIS:
It would seem that either
a) Red John IS psychic, otherwise how would he know not only Jane's exact final list of suspects which only Jane knows, but also Jane's memory of the girl Eileen whom RJ murders? also, that the memory was a treasured one, which he destroys on purpose by killing Eileen. (Note: Heller obviously wants us to believe along with Jane that there are no real psychics, only clever fakers, so I doubt that this is the answer.)
OR
b) Red John is Patrick Jane (how else would RJ know these things if there are no such things as psychics and only Jane knows them?)
OR
c) Red John is a mentalist like Jane and is using trickery to make it seem like he is really reading Jane's mind when actually he is just using info he got from carney people from Jane's youth, and his list of suspects matching Jane's is the result of theft...see explanation below.
If we are going on the assumption that there are no real psychics and Red John is NOT Patrick Jane (this would be horribly obvious and derivative--Fight Club already did this better than Heller would be able to do, and it would be a simplistic plot device not worthy of TM writers.) then we must find out how the hell could RJ have possibly known things known only to Jane himself.
At first glance, it seems that the only possibility here is that Jane told someone else about both the memory and the suspect list, but whom and when?*
It would have to be someone who either told RJ directly or someone RJ got this info out of by force or by bribe. For the Eileen memory, it might be someone from his past who observed that Patrick was happy at the scene we see when he was 12 years old. Or maybe just someone who knew the kind of memories Jane would treasure of someone RJ could kill. Possibly Sean Barlow, the creepy psychic who probably is a mentalist almost as good as Jane, gave RJ this info. Eileen was his niece, so he probably saw them playing together. He has already disowned her, so he doesn't care if she dies. He does want his grandchild, so RJ makes sure he has an accomplice kidnap the baby.
The list of suspects is trickier. The only way someone other than Jane could access it is someone who broke into his room and was able to find it. Jane is far too clever to leave the real suspect list where an intruder could find it, so he probably memorized it and left a fake written list. There was an earlier break-in in which Kirkland ends up with the RJ timeline collage (also almost certainly faked)
What might have happened is that Jane left a fake suspect list where an intruder found it and conveyed it to RJ. So only Jane knows the REAL suspect list but RJ got the fake list. (Jane's photo cards with the suspects' faces on them are also fakes--he actually has a whole different list in his head) So the list Lisbon sees is not the real list and Jane knows it. He also has managed to fool RJ. Jane undoubtedly prepared for the event that RJ gets hold of his suspect list by creating a fake one to throw him off the scent.
The appearance of Lorelei on the video reading RJ's letter was not a surprise to me; I have always thought that she faked her own death, that it was staged. The video could not have been made before her "death" because Jane did not have the final 7 suspect list yet. So we know that Lorelei is still alive. She says Red John will not make her suffer as much if she reads the letter to Jane, so RJ must be holding her hostage.
* actually, RJ makes no direct reference to the actual scene of the memory that we see. It was enough for him to make it seem like he knew the exact memory when in reality he only knew that it was a memory--any memory--of Eileen would be enough to hurt Jane. All he would need to find that out is someone who knew Jane and Eileen as kids and saw them playing together. This points to Sean Barlow for sure. He could have told RJ to stick it to Jane by killing Eileen.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
WHAT DO YOU THINK?
"This is the final chase," Heller says. "We will know who Red John is and we will catch him next season. Everything that has happened over the past five years will come to a head, and things will change drastically. This is the biggest finale in terms of game-changing and setting up for the last act of the Red John saga. This is as definitive and revolutionary as you can get." [from the Red Blog]___________________________________________________________________
BUT THE REAL MYSTERY IS THIS:
It would seem that either
a) Red John IS psychic, otherwise how would he know not only Jane's exact final list of suspects which only Jane knows, but also Jane's memory of the girl Eileen whom RJ murders? also, that the memory was a treasured one, which he destroys on purpose by killing Eileen. (Note: Heller obviously wants us to believe along with Jane that there are no real psychics, only clever fakers, so I doubt that this is the answer.)
OR
b) Red John is Patrick Jane (how else would RJ know these things if there are no such things as psychics and only Jane knows them?)
OR
c) Red John is a mentalist like Jane and is using trickery to make it seem like he is really reading Jane's mind when actually he is just using info he got from carney people from Jane's youth, and his list of suspects matching Jane's is the result of theft...see explanation below.
If we are going on the assumption that there are no real psychics and Red John is NOT Patrick Jane (this would be horribly obvious and derivative--Fight Club already did this better than Heller would be able to do, and it would be a simplistic plot device not worthy of TM writers.) then we must find out how the hell could RJ have possibly known things known only to Jane himself.
At first glance, it seems that the only possibility here is that Jane told someone else about both the memory and the suspect list, but whom and when?*
It would have to be someone who either told RJ directly or someone RJ got this info out of by force or by bribe. For the Eileen memory, it might be someone from his past who observed that Patrick was happy at the scene we see when he was 12 years old. Or maybe just someone who knew the kind of memories Jane would treasure of someone RJ could kill. Possibly Sean Barlow, the creepy psychic who probably is a mentalist almost as good as Jane, gave RJ this info. Eileen was his niece, so he probably saw them playing together. He has already disowned her, so he doesn't care if she dies. He does want his grandchild, so RJ makes sure he has an accomplice kidnap the baby.
The list of suspects is trickier. The only way someone other than Jane could access it is someone who broke into his room and was able to find it. Jane is far too clever to leave the real suspect list where an intruder could find it, so he probably memorized it and left a fake written list. There was an earlier break-in in which Kirkland ends up with the RJ timeline collage (also almost certainly faked)
What might have happened is that Jane left a fake suspect list where an intruder found it and conveyed it to RJ. So only Jane knows the REAL suspect list but RJ got the fake list. (Jane's photo cards with the suspects' faces on them are also fakes--he actually has a whole different list in his head) So the list Lisbon sees is not the real list and Jane knows it. He also has managed to fool RJ. Jane undoubtedly prepared for the event that RJ gets hold of his suspect list by creating a fake one to throw him off the scent.
The appearance of Lorelei on the video reading RJ's letter was not a surprise to me; I have always thought that she faked her own death, that it was staged. The video could not have been made before her "death" because Jane did not have the final 7 suspect list yet. So we know that Lorelei is still alive. She says Red John will not make her suffer as much if she reads the letter to Jane, so RJ must be holding her hostage.
* actually, RJ makes no direct reference to the actual scene of the memory that we see. It was enough for him to make it seem like he knew the exact memory when in reality he only knew that it was a memory--any memory--of Eileen would be enough to hurt Jane. All he would need to find that out is someone who knew Jane and Eileen as kids and saw them playing together. This points to Sean Barlow for sure. He could have told RJ to stick it to Jane by killing Eileen.
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WHAT DO YOU THINK?
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Boston Marathon 2013 Tragedy
It's too soon after this horrific event for me to be articulate, so I will postpone my commentary until more information is available. My heart is broken for the parents of the 8 year old boy who was killed in the blast, and for the families of the others killed and terribly injured. I am sending healing Reiki and prayer and I am praying that the killer, who is still at large, will be captured.
Saturday, April 13, 2013
Kata Kozma: My former student and genius
"Genius" is not a word I apply lightly. It's a rare thing, and I know it when I see it. Even as a Berklee professor teaching at a college where there is an abundant amount of extraordinary young creativity, I have only come across genius once among my many students.
I first encountered Kata Kozma in my Reading 2 lab at Berklee. We got to talking about Diana Krall, Oscar Peterson, and jazz piano/singing in general, and I learned that she had an extensive background in classical piano. What astonished me was her jazz piano playing ability--she could swing harder than any student I had ever heard, and had excellent technique and improvisatory skill. She was extremely modest about this, and expressed her admiration of Diana Krall, who was her role model at the time.
I did not see Kata again for a couple of years. When she was a senior, I was pleased to have her as a private lesson student. Before this, I had heard that she was selected by a panel of famous jazz pianists (including Joanne Brackeen, who also had Kata as a student and has very high standards) to perform in a concert featuring young female jazz pianists at the Kennedy Center in Washington, DC. I watched the video of the concert and I am not exaggerating when I say that she was by far the best of the performers. I also listened to tracks she made of her own performances on both piano and vocals: she performs both standards and originals in a very original way
By the time she became my private student, I wasn't sure there was anything I could teach her. Yet she insisted that she needed help in learning how to replicate open position jazz voicings with tensions, so we worked on that. She and I made some informal recordings of us playing jazz piano duets and vocal duets which are amazing. Also at this time (2010) Kata helped me revamp my website, designed new business cards, and took professional photos of me. It was then that I discovered that Kata is not only a brilliant musician but also a painter and graphic designer, and a phenomenal photographer who could be a professional--she even made an aging and unphotogenic college professor look beautiful and glamorous! She and I share a love for Lady Gaga (at least as she was then) and I had a secret hope that with Kata's help I might become the Lady Gaga of jazz. It hasn't happened yet, and I'm afraid the jazz world already has its over-the-top diva in Haromi. But you never know...
Kata is a young woman who could excel in several different fields. By the time she graduated, she was more interested in being behind the scenes (producing) than she was in performing. I was a little disappointed because she was such an extraordinary jazz player/singer. But I wanted her to follow her dream, and I believed she ought to be in New York. I told her so, as did many other people, and at first she was not convinced, but now she realizes that New York is where talent like hers belongs.
I have been following Kata's career with interest on Facebook. In a remarkably short time, she has established herself as a writer/producer with her own production company in New York and has created a jingle-writing collective. She produced Sanura's first CD and is currently producing CDs for several up-and-coming neo soul artists. She is the hardest-working person I know.
There is no young musician I know who is more deserving of an artist's visa than Kata Kozma. Someday the world will take notice of her and give her the acclaim she deserves.
I first encountered Kata Kozma in my Reading 2 lab at Berklee. We got to talking about Diana Krall, Oscar Peterson, and jazz piano/singing in general, and I learned that she had an extensive background in classical piano. What astonished me was her jazz piano playing ability--she could swing harder than any student I had ever heard, and had excellent technique and improvisatory skill. She was extremely modest about this, and expressed her admiration of Diana Krall, who was her role model at the time.
I did not see Kata again for a couple of years. When she was a senior, I was pleased to have her as a private lesson student. Before this, I had heard that she was selected by a panel of famous jazz pianists (including Joanne Brackeen, who also had Kata as a student and has very high standards) to perform in a concert featuring young female jazz pianists at the Kennedy Center in Washington, DC. I watched the video of the concert and I am not exaggerating when I say that she was by far the best of the performers. I also listened to tracks she made of her own performances on both piano and vocals: she performs both standards and originals in a very original way
By the time she became my private student, I wasn't sure there was anything I could teach her. Yet she insisted that she needed help in learning how to replicate open position jazz voicings with tensions, so we worked on that. She and I made some informal recordings of us playing jazz piano duets and vocal duets which are amazing. Also at this time (2010) Kata helped me revamp my website, designed new business cards, and took professional photos of me. It was then that I discovered that Kata is not only a brilliant musician but also a painter and graphic designer, and a phenomenal photographer who could be a professional--she even made an aging and unphotogenic college professor look beautiful and glamorous! She and I share a love for Lady Gaga (at least as she was then) and I had a secret hope that with Kata's help I might become the Lady Gaga of jazz. It hasn't happened yet, and I'm afraid the jazz world already has its over-the-top diva in Haromi. But you never know...
Kata is a young woman who could excel in several different fields. By the time she graduated, she was more interested in being behind the scenes (producing) than she was in performing. I was a little disappointed because she was such an extraordinary jazz player/singer. But I wanted her to follow her dream, and I believed she ought to be in New York. I told her so, as did many other people, and at first she was not convinced, but now she realizes that New York is where talent like hers belongs.
I have been following Kata's career with interest on Facebook. In a remarkably short time, she has established herself as a writer/producer with her own production company in New York and has created a jingle-writing collective. She produced Sanura's first CD and is currently producing CDs for several up-and-coming neo soul artists. She is the hardest-working person I know.
There is no young musician I know who is more deserving of an artist's visa than Kata Kozma. Someday the world will take notice of her and give her the acclaim she deserves.
Saturday, April 6, 2013
First post in 2013
It has been almost 6 months since my father's death in October. His demise was followed not long after by the decline and passing of my Uncle Buddy, beloved patriarch of a large family with 6 great-grandchildren, husband of 60-plus years to my Aunt Joan, who has suffered a crippling loss.
Of course death has been on my mind these many months. And instead of becoming less depressed, I become more and more energyless and despondent. I have forced myself to deal with matters concerning Dad's estate: the minutiae are endless and they have robbed me of any creative spirit I might otherwise have had. A composition I began months ago sits on my desk with a note on it saying "Edit in Finale," but I don't have the energy to work on it. I'm not practicing much due to tendinitis in my right elbow which doesn't go away. I used to deal with this by practicing with my left hand only, but now it's easier just not to deal.
On weekends I lie abed late in the morning. This morning I awoke at 11, full of free-floating anxiety about what needs to be done, even though it's Saturday, not even a business day. My faithful cat is nestled beside me hoping I won't get out of bed. His mute empathy (or so it seems) is the one thing that comforts me, and I close my eyes and go back to imagining various final episode scenarios for The Mentalist until I fall asleep again briefly. I wake up again a few minutes later trying to think of a good reason to get out of bed. I'm not hungry, so it won't be necessary to cook breakfast. Curtiss, who never sleeps much, is already up and at his computer.
Finally I pull myself out of bed and go into the kitchen to confront the huge pile of bills and other paperwork that I have been avoiding. Not only must I pay my own bills, but there are my father's bills too--the cable/wireless, electric, and the $700/month oil bill that gets deducted from the new estate bank account I set up two weeks ago. The other day, the new credit card was rejected when the oil company ran it, and I had to run to the bank to activate the card by using the ATM. I expect things like this to happen. This morning I find an email from my father's accountant saying she still needs some more papers to file my father's return by April 15, which is looming. I have to wait until Monday to get any business done, and I already have several to-dos on my iCal for that day. I make a note of the phone calls I must make, then make a call and leave a text trying to track down a "handyman" who has been using my father's garage as a storage facility for two years. My father, in a weak moment, apparently agreed to allow him to do this. The man is said to be an alcoholic and utterly irresponsible. The good news is, he's apparently come to take away some of it. The house is being shown, and it doesn't help to have the garage stuffed floor to ceiling with junk.
Then there's the contractor I've been playing phone tag with. The hall light ceiling fixture in dad's house has filled with water and no longer works, and there is water leaking from the roof in another part of the house according to our house sitter, Tasha. I can only hope that the house doesn't need a whole new roof. As Dad's gambling habit grew worse, he neglected repairs to the house. The landscaper who mows the lawn and prunes the trees said that Dad had neglected the grounds for years because he didn't want to pay for the care that would have prevented the property from becoming overgrown.
There is about $6000 in the estate account. This has to be enough to pay for remaining expenses, or I will have to dip into my inheritance money which is supposed to be for our retirement in France or Ecuador, whichever will take us with the least problems. (To that end, I am reviewing my French and learning Spanish online, also reviewing my Italian since it's there--this has become a daily distraction from the bureaucratic black hole I have been sucked into.) Of course, the sale of Dad's house will enable us to pay any unpaid bills, but who knows when or if that will occur? There have been at least 3 showings but no offers. The beautiful old 18th century house with its barn, guest house, and garage on 3.5 acres of land enclosed by extraordinary stone walls, with ancient trees and my mother's perennial beds which still survive 28 years after her death. Selling for $220,000 asking price, which means we will be lucky to get $210,000. It's a travesty--the house was assessed at $350,000 just a few years back. But Connecticut is in a depression. The state is out of money, so the Town of Mansfield levies taxes on every possible thing, including the privilege of taking your bulky and large trash to the dump. The Holts' Georgian mansion, furnished with antiques, now a bed and breakfast, is still on the market, down to $800,000 from the original listing price of $1,000,000. Mrs. Holt is the heiress to the Holt, Reinhardt, and Winston publishing fortune, and if her mansion were in Newton, MA, it would be selling for 2.5 million.
I have come to believe that I am unlucky as far as money is concerned. It's not because I don't manage money well--I do--it's just that my father gambled away the money my grandfather meant my brother and me to have, and Dad just assumed we'd recoup the money when we sold his house. He also thought that when he hit the big jackpot at the casino his kids would be set for life. Instead, if he ever won any money, he just gambled with it again. And lost. He died without any winnings.
No one compelled me to become a musician. In my 20's, I thought with the arrogance of youth that I would make a lot of money some day. Instead, it meant a hand-to-mouth existence my entire adult life, always worrying that I would not have enough money to pay the rent or later, the mortgage. What I feared most was ending up on the street, a bag lady muttering to herself. While this has never even come close to happening, I have had to budget strictly. I have not bought a new car since 1999 and I paid cash so as not to have loan payments. Even then, I had to beg my father to give me the $12,000 I needed along with $3000 I borrowed from Barbara. My own condo needs repairs that we cannot afford. Curtiss, who generously gave me a lot of money (when he had it) to do repairs on the house, is now on disability. I am 60 years old and have no pension--I am part-time, paid by the hour, lucky to have health care thanks to the Berklee union. I have been functioning this way since 1995. I will probably not be able to retire--they say you need at least 1 million saved up. I work very hard, am always exhausted, and make very little money. I have a lot of company. The corporate culture has created this scenario for the majority of my generation. And now they are taking away our Social Security, which in any event will be a pittance and not enough to retire on.
I remind myself every day that there are things to be grateful for.
my eyesight: saved by Dr. Sang, one of the best retinal surgeons in the country
my son: doing well at his job in Ecuador, planning to go to grad school along with his girlfriend, whom I also love
Curtiss: one of the few people who always have my back, who is getting well slowly but surely, and talking about getting a job
Barbara: another of the few who always have my back, still my loyal friend after all these years
my other girl friends: Debbie, Fay, Jeri, Phyllis, Lori, Yanni. They keep me sane.
my little students: Gavi, Ella, Ally, Sarah, Ava, Pete, Aashini, and Pranati. Learning to play the piano, improving, getting ready for a recital in May! Their drawings have covered a wall behind my piano.
my cat Sparky: a lap cat, doglike, he follows me around trying to console me in that mute animal way
my Aunt Joan: who also has always had my back, now needs me to have hers. I have never seen her cry before until she lost Buddy. Like me, she is embarrassed to cry in front of others and usually manages not to. At 83, she is hanging onto her health, talking optimistically about coming to visit me in June or July and having me show her around Berklee. She still goes to work every day as a counselor. She is strong and courageous, but she has been crippled by this loss. Something of her energy may have been lost for good. She used to be relentlessly optimistic, cheering me on through my darkest hours; now her optimism is still there, but for the moment it is eclipsed by grief. We spent some time with her in NJ and Curtiss made a video of her talking to me. I am afraid of losing her, too, and if she dies this year I will be overcome with despair. But I have to face the possibility. Not be prepared, because no one can be prepared for the death of someone you love. Death will always drag your loved one to the unknown. No matter how hard you hold on, your grip will be broken and Death will win.
One day I will open my arms to life again and stop thinking about death. I must embrace life or I will never perform or write music again. Life is what gives us the ability to create. At the moment, I am just getting through each day. I sit in front of the TV night after night, anesthetizing myself as I multitask with Facebook, email, word games, language lessons, and various web sites so I don't have to feel the pain. I feel guilty about being a slug, so I forced myself to go to my personal trainer on Thursday and signed up for a once a week session for a month. I'm not exercising as much as usual, and eating sweets and other unhealthy carbs. It's not that I don't care anymore--I just have to muster the strength to care.
Of course death has been on my mind these many months. And instead of becoming less depressed, I become more and more energyless and despondent. I have forced myself to deal with matters concerning Dad's estate: the minutiae are endless and they have robbed me of any creative spirit I might otherwise have had. A composition I began months ago sits on my desk with a note on it saying "Edit in Finale," but I don't have the energy to work on it. I'm not practicing much due to tendinitis in my right elbow which doesn't go away. I used to deal with this by practicing with my left hand only, but now it's easier just not to deal.
On weekends I lie abed late in the morning. This morning I awoke at 11, full of free-floating anxiety about what needs to be done, even though it's Saturday, not even a business day. My faithful cat is nestled beside me hoping I won't get out of bed. His mute empathy (or so it seems) is the one thing that comforts me, and I close my eyes and go back to imagining various final episode scenarios for The Mentalist until I fall asleep again briefly. I wake up again a few minutes later trying to think of a good reason to get out of bed. I'm not hungry, so it won't be necessary to cook breakfast. Curtiss, who never sleeps much, is already up and at his computer.
Finally I pull myself out of bed and go into the kitchen to confront the huge pile of bills and other paperwork that I have been avoiding. Not only must I pay my own bills, but there are my father's bills too--the cable/wireless, electric, and the $700/month oil bill that gets deducted from the new estate bank account I set up two weeks ago. The other day, the new credit card was rejected when the oil company ran it, and I had to run to the bank to activate the card by using the ATM. I expect things like this to happen. This morning I find an email from my father's accountant saying she still needs some more papers to file my father's return by April 15, which is looming. I have to wait until Monday to get any business done, and I already have several to-dos on my iCal for that day. I make a note of the phone calls I must make, then make a call and leave a text trying to track down a "handyman" who has been using my father's garage as a storage facility for two years. My father, in a weak moment, apparently agreed to allow him to do this. The man is said to be an alcoholic and utterly irresponsible. The good news is, he's apparently come to take away some of it. The house is being shown, and it doesn't help to have the garage stuffed floor to ceiling with junk.
Then there's the contractor I've been playing phone tag with. The hall light ceiling fixture in dad's house has filled with water and no longer works, and there is water leaking from the roof in another part of the house according to our house sitter, Tasha. I can only hope that the house doesn't need a whole new roof. As Dad's gambling habit grew worse, he neglected repairs to the house. The landscaper who mows the lawn and prunes the trees said that Dad had neglected the grounds for years because he didn't want to pay for the care that would have prevented the property from becoming overgrown.
There is about $6000 in the estate account. This has to be enough to pay for remaining expenses, or I will have to dip into my inheritance money which is supposed to be for our retirement in France or Ecuador, whichever will take us with the least problems. (To that end, I am reviewing my French and learning Spanish online, also reviewing my Italian since it's there--this has become a daily distraction from the bureaucratic black hole I have been sucked into.) Of course, the sale of Dad's house will enable us to pay any unpaid bills, but who knows when or if that will occur? There have been at least 3 showings but no offers. The beautiful old 18th century house with its barn, guest house, and garage on 3.5 acres of land enclosed by extraordinary stone walls, with ancient trees and my mother's perennial beds which still survive 28 years after her death. Selling for $220,000 asking price, which means we will be lucky to get $210,000. It's a travesty--the house was assessed at $350,000 just a few years back. But Connecticut is in a depression. The state is out of money, so the Town of Mansfield levies taxes on every possible thing, including the privilege of taking your bulky and large trash to the dump. The Holts' Georgian mansion, furnished with antiques, now a bed and breakfast, is still on the market, down to $800,000 from the original listing price of $1,000,000. Mrs. Holt is the heiress to the Holt, Reinhardt, and Winston publishing fortune, and if her mansion were in Newton, MA, it would be selling for 2.5 million.
I have come to believe that I am unlucky as far as money is concerned. It's not because I don't manage money well--I do--it's just that my father gambled away the money my grandfather meant my brother and me to have, and Dad just assumed we'd recoup the money when we sold his house. He also thought that when he hit the big jackpot at the casino his kids would be set for life. Instead, if he ever won any money, he just gambled with it again. And lost. He died without any winnings.
No one compelled me to become a musician. In my 20's, I thought with the arrogance of youth that I would make a lot of money some day. Instead, it meant a hand-to-mouth existence my entire adult life, always worrying that I would not have enough money to pay the rent or later, the mortgage. What I feared most was ending up on the street, a bag lady muttering to herself. While this has never even come close to happening, I have had to budget strictly. I have not bought a new car since 1999 and I paid cash so as not to have loan payments. Even then, I had to beg my father to give me the $12,000 I needed along with $3000 I borrowed from Barbara. My own condo needs repairs that we cannot afford. Curtiss, who generously gave me a lot of money (when he had it) to do repairs on the house, is now on disability. I am 60 years old and have no pension--I am part-time, paid by the hour, lucky to have health care thanks to the Berklee union. I have been functioning this way since 1995. I will probably not be able to retire--they say you need at least 1 million saved up. I work very hard, am always exhausted, and make very little money. I have a lot of company. The corporate culture has created this scenario for the majority of my generation. And now they are taking away our Social Security, which in any event will be a pittance and not enough to retire on.
I remind myself every day that there are things to be grateful for.
my eyesight: saved by Dr. Sang, one of the best retinal surgeons in the country
my son: doing well at his job in Ecuador, planning to go to grad school along with his girlfriend, whom I also love
Curtiss: one of the few people who always have my back, who is getting well slowly but surely, and talking about getting a job
Barbara: another of the few who always have my back, still my loyal friend after all these years
my other girl friends: Debbie, Fay, Jeri, Phyllis, Lori, Yanni. They keep me sane.
my little students: Gavi, Ella, Ally, Sarah, Ava, Pete, Aashini, and Pranati. Learning to play the piano, improving, getting ready for a recital in May! Their drawings have covered a wall behind my piano.
my cat Sparky: a lap cat, doglike, he follows me around trying to console me in that mute animal way
my Aunt Joan: who also has always had my back, now needs me to have hers. I have never seen her cry before until she lost Buddy. Like me, she is embarrassed to cry in front of others and usually manages not to. At 83, she is hanging onto her health, talking optimistically about coming to visit me in June or July and having me show her around Berklee. She still goes to work every day as a counselor. She is strong and courageous, but she has been crippled by this loss. Something of her energy may have been lost for good. She used to be relentlessly optimistic, cheering me on through my darkest hours; now her optimism is still there, but for the moment it is eclipsed by grief. We spent some time with her in NJ and Curtiss made a video of her talking to me. I am afraid of losing her, too, and if she dies this year I will be overcome with despair. But I have to face the possibility. Not be prepared, because no one can be prepared for the death of someone you love. Death will always drag your loved one to the unknown. No matter how hard you hold on, your grip will be broken and Death will win.
One day I will open my arms to life again and stop thinking about death. I must embrace life or I will never perform or write music again. Life is what gives us the ability to create. At the moment, I am just getting through each day. I sit in front of the TV night after night, anesthetizing myself as I multitask with Facebook, email, word games, language lessons, and various web sites so I don't have to feel the pain. I feel guilty about being a slug, so I forced myself to go to my personal trainer on Thursday and signed up for a once a week session for a month. I'm not exercising as much as usual, and eating sweets and other unhealthy carbs. It's not that I don't care anymore--I just have to muster the strength to care.
Friday, November 9, 2012
My father's students
I have been getting emails full of praise for my father from his former students. They are eloquent in their grief and in their recounting of the worlds of great literature that my father introduced them to. They were as deeply affected by his charm and kindness as by his erudition. It's good to know that he transmitted his excitement and enthusiasm for knowledge to so many people. We all have a wider influence than we know upon the lives of others.
As a teacher myself, I am acutely aware of the responsibility I have to nurture the gifts of my students and to mentor them. I have viewed their successes with satisfaction, knowing the important role I played in their development as artists. I remember my father's pride at being the advisor to such writers as Anne Beattie and Elaine Scarry. He must have felt a pang of envy at times, because the one thing he was unable to accomplish was writing a book. I believe that he was paralyzed by the inability to write a first draft--he was a perfectionist and wanted his work to spring fully formed from his mind like Athena from the head of Zeus.
After writing my first book, I realized that I had accomplished what my father failed to do.
Somehow, I overcame my fear of failure and worked doggedly at draft after draft, occasionally reluctant to include the suggestions of my editor. I spent every spare moment of 2011 writing. Whenever I am tempted by the idea of writing a second book on improvisation, I remind myself that the amount of work required would take me the better part of a year to complete. Though maybe the second book is easier, like giving birth to the second baby. Sometimes I want to quit performing entirely and devote myself to composition and writing about music.
Dad's work required a certain type of performance--some teachers (and I am not one of them) take the stage as they address their classes. They challenge, bait, provoke, pontificate. They are very much like the conductor of an orchestra. These are the born teachers. My father was one. I am not. I had teaching thrust upon me with no formal training in it. I had no advanced degrees. Fortunately, I had a long performing career by the time I applied to Berklee, which trumped my lack of formal academic credentials.
An impatient person by nature, I had to cultivate patience for years. It is my firm belief that no teaching can be effective without patience. And so I am loath to give up on any student, even one who does not practice and skips class. I have seen many students respond to my approach. The courses I teach are generally not inspirational--I have more success with teaching lessons one on one. My manner is not flamboyant, but I convey my love of music to each student.
I wonder if the ability to teach is inborn. Not everyone is a good teacher. I think I inherited some of my father's teaching genius, but I am not in his league. To this day, students from 30 years ago and more remember him and mourn his loss. This is a major achievement. He never boasted about it, and I suspect he did not value it. He once told me he felt fraudulent because he never wrote "the book" and because he got his PhD from Columbia without taking his oral exam (he did write a thesis, which I have been unable to find among his papers.) He was so nervous that he developed severe stomach trouble (ulcers?) and since he was so highly regarded by his professors he was excused from orals. But this hardly constitutes fraud. After all, it was they who made the decision.
He had to live in the shadow of Lionel Trilling and Jacques Barzun, his teachers. Even so, he was universally regarded as brilliant and as a star teacher. But like Leonard Bernstein, who did not value his greatest achievement, West Side Story, because it isn't "serious" music (and he wanted to be another Mahler) my father never realized that being a great teacher is just as great an achievement as writing a book.
My piano teacher, Charlie Banacos, was a brilliant jazz player and prodigy who gave up performing while still young and devoted his life entirely to teaching. He never wrote a book, but his many students became his disciples and used his teaching methods, keeping the tradition alive. He said he didn't have to "prove" anything to anyone, and refused every plea to perform in a concert or at a club. Charlie was a genius and he probably knew it, though he never acted conceited and certainly never boasted about his teaching.
I wish Dad had been more like Charlie--proud of his status as a great teacher.
I hope Dad didn't feel like a fraud when he died. The nature of his final decline was such that I was unable to discuss serious matters with him. I told him many times that not only wasn't he a fraud, he was an exceptional teacher whose students will never forget him.
As a teacher myself, I am acutely aware of the responsibility I have to nurture the gifts of my students and to mentor them. I have viewed their successes with satisfaction, knowing the important role I played in their development as artists. I remember my father's pride at being the advisor to such writers as Anne Beattie and Elaine Scarry. He must have felt a pang of envy at times, because the one thing he was unable to accomplish was writing a book. I believe that he was paralyzed by the inability to write a first draft--he was a perfectionist and wanted his work to spring fully formed from his mind like Athena from the head of Zeus.
After writing my first book, I realized that I had accomplished what my father failed to do.
Somehow, I overcame my fear of failure and worked doggedly at draft after draft, occasionally reluctant to include the suggestions of my editor. I spent every spare moment of 2011 writing. Whenever I am tempted by the idea of writing a second book on improvisation, I remind myself that the amount of work required would take me the better part of a year to complete. Though maybe the second book is easier, like giving birth to the second baby. Sometimes I want to quit performing entirely and devote myself to composition and writing about music.
Dad's work required a certain type of performance--some teachers (and I am not one of them) take the stage as they address their classes. They challenge, bait, provoke, pontificate. They are very much like the conductor of an orchestra. These are the born teachers. My father was one. I am not. I had teaching thrust upon me with no formal training in it. I had no advanced degrees. Fortunately, I had a long performing career by the time I applied to Berklee, which trumped my lack of formal academic credentials.
An impatient person by nature, I had to cultivate patience for years. It is my firm belief that no teaching can be effective without patience. And so I am loath to give up on any student, even one who does not practice and skips class. I have seen many students respond to my approach. The courses I teach are generally not inspirational--I have more success with teaching lessons one on one. My manner is not flamboyant, but I convey my love of music to each student.
I wonder if the ability to teach is inborn. Not everyone is a good teacher. I think I inherited some of my father's teaching genius, but I am not in his league. To this day, students from 30 years ago and more remember him and mourn his loss. This is a major achievement. He never boasted about it, and I suspect he did not value it. He once told me he felt fraudulent because he never wrote "the book" and because he got his PhD from Columbia without taking his oral exam (he did write a thesis, which I have been unable to find among his papers.) He was so nervous that he developed severe stomach trouble (ulcers?) and since he was so highly regarded by his professors he was excused from orals. But this hardly constitutes fraud. After all, it was they who made the decision.
He had to live in the shadow of Lionel Trilling and Jacques Barzun, his teachers. Even so, he was universally regarded as brilliant and as a star teacher. But like Leonard Bernstein, who did not value his greatest achievement, West Side Story, because it isn't "serious" music (and he wanted to be another Mahler) my father never realized that being a great teacher is just as great an achievement as writing a book.
My piano teacher, Charlie Banacos, was a brilliant jazz player and prodigy who gave up performing while still young and devoted his life entirely to teaching. He never wrote a book, but his many students became his disciples and used his teaching methods, keeping the tradition alive. He said he didn't have to "prove" anything to anyone, and refused every plea to perform in a concert or at a club. Charlie was a genius and he probably knew it, though he never acted conceited and certainly never boasted about his teaching.
I wish Dad had been more like Charlie--proud of his status as a great teacher.
I hope Dad didn't feel like a fraud when he died. The nature of his final decline was such that I was unable to discuss serious matters with him. I told him many times that not only wasn't he a fraud, he was an exceptional teacher whose students will never forget him.
Friday, October 26, 2012
Ophelia?
In a moment of short-sightedness, I gave away my set of Shakespeare's plays. I don't know what kind of madness or idiocy possessed me to do it. If there is anything a literate person ought to own, it is a complete set of Shakespeare. It's probable that there is more than one edition somewhere in the plethora of books in Dad's study, so I will bring them home with me after my next trip to the house. The plan was to go to the house in Connecticut this Sunday and Monday, but a super-collider perfect storm of historical proportions is said to be bearing down on the entire Eastern seaboard. Sandy, as she is called, is currently a hurricane moving north after destroying parts of Cuba and Florida. She may be downgraded (we can only hope) to tropical storm status by the time she reaches New England. The prospect of yet another tree limb falling on my father's car or roof is not one I care to contemplate. My first and automatic reaction to the weather news was, What about Dad? Do I need to go and get him if the power goes out, as it always does in Mansfield/Storrs during a hurricane? But then I remembered that Dad was no more, and instead of feeling relief, I felt pain at the loss of him.
To return to Shakespeare: After my father's death I found myself trying to remember Ophelia's speech upon discovering that her father had been slain. I could only remember the last few words, so I am about to look it up on Google.
He is dead and gone, lady,
White his shroud as the mountain snow.
They bore him barefaced on the bier;
And will he not come again?
His beard as white as snow,
To return to Shakespeare: After my father's death I found myself trying to remember Ophelia's speech upon discovering that her father had been slain. I could only remember the last few words, so I am about to look it up on Google.
He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone;
At his head a grass-green turf,
At his heels a stone.
(Act IV Sc. V, Lines 29-32)
White his shroud as the mountain snow.
Larded with sweet flowers;
which bewept to the grave did go
which true-love showers.
(Act IV Sc. V, Lines 37-39)
They bore him barefaced on the bier;
Hey non nonny, nonny, hey nonny;
And on his grave rains many a tear,-
Fare you well, my dove!
(Act IV Sc. V, Lines 164-166)
And will he not come again?
And will he not come again?
No, no, he is dead,
Go to thy death-bed,
He never will come again.
His beard as white as snow,
All flaxen with his poll:
He is gone, he is gone,
And we cast away moan:
God ha’ mercy on his soul!
(Act IV Sc. V, Lines 23-26)
As it turns out, it is not a speech, but a series of songs that the grief-maddened Ophelia sings. Some of them are (strangely) bawdy, describing a maid who loses her virginity. (This may be a reference to Hamlet's rejection of her love.)
But most of the songs she sings refer to the death of her father, the foolish old man Polonius, the object of Hamlet's contempt, but whom he never intends to kill. Believing that his uncle was concealed as he was listening behind a curtain, Hamlet runs his sword into the interloper, only to find out that it is Polonius he has killed.
I am not going mad with grief, but I am not in my right mind. At times I wish I didn't have to go on living. Teaching has become an almost impossible task, and practicing is sporadic at best. I have the feeling that I might blow away in the breeze, similar to Holden Caulfield's fear that he would step off the curb to cross the street and disappear. My therapist, whom I saw this morning, assured me that there is no pathology in my behavior. It's simply normal grief. My anxieties are not likely to convert to mania, as I have been fearing.
My father's image (as he used to look, fortunately) repeatedly springs to mind, as does his voice, speaking remembered phrases such as,
I am working on my Magnum Opus, which, sadly, was never completed. He was a thinker, a talker, and a gifted teacher, but he was not a writer. At least, not a writer of books. He wrote extensive notes in the margins of books, on the backs of envelopes and scraps of paper, and in blue examination books--I found a foot-high stack of them under his desk, and more still thrust between books on the shelves. I collected all of these notes in case someone wanted to put them all together in a volume called The Literary and Philosophical Genius of Jack Davis, or something of the sort. Jerry Shaffer would be the obvious choice to put together the observations and ruminations of my father. But he took one look at the rapidly mounting stack of my father's papers and demurred. Still, they must be saved for posterity. The task of editing and publishing them will not fall to me, as I have my own writing to nurture.
"The first sentence of Pride and Prejudice, the first sentence of Anna Karenina, and the first paragraphs of À la recherche du temps perdu are among the greatest in literary history." They are as follows:
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.
All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.
For a long time, I went to bed early.
My father loved to read aloud--he was a frustrated actor and would use different voices and accents, especially when reading Dickens, as he did to my brother and me as children, and to my mother, to whom he also read the complete works of Proust, Trollope, and Colette. When I was about ten years old he began to read Jane Austen, George Eliot, and other classics such as Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, The Way of All Flesh, Tess of the D'Urbervilles, Vanity Fair, and Madame Bovary in translation (I read it in French years later in college as a French major.) He also read aloud the poetry of Wordsworth, Blake, Keats, Shelley, Coleridge, Shakespeare (sonnets and plays) Auden, Yeats, e e cummings, T.S. Eliot, and Emily Dickinson. All of these readings were accompanied by explanations of the text, which more often than not contained concepts foreign and difficult to a child, as well as vocabulary words not found on my fifth-grade spelling tests.
Dad also insisted that I learn Latin, starting me out at twelve with Latin grammar, followed by Latin class in junior high right up to my junior year in high school, by which time I had read Cicero, Ovid, Catullus, and Virgil's Aeneid. He also supervised my study of French and Italian, the latter language prior to our family trip to Italy in 1967. You could say, as my brother observed at the memorial last week, that we were both home schooled. It's true that certain subjects such as math, science, and social studies were neglected in favor of art, music, literature, foreign languages, and some history. At the time (especially during my teen years) I was less than thrilled and grateful for this intensive education, but as an adult I realize how unusual and valuable it was.
Thank you, Dad.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Requiem for my father: Jack M. Davis, 1924-2012
Last Wednesday, Oct. 17, 2012, at the age of 88, my father expired after a brief illness.
I use the word "expired" because I hate the expressions "passed away" or "passed on," and I cannot bring myself to say "died." I don't know what it is about that four-letter word that sounds so rude and abrupt. "Expired," however, cannot be used in everyday conversation without the speaker sounding hopelessly pretentious.
I sat beside my father's sickbed for five days as the life gradually withdrew from his poor wasted body, fragile and small like a baby bird. Stage four lung cancer ravages the body. Only two weeks before, he had been walking around, thin, gray, but communicative and alert. Then, two weeks ago, he couldn't breathe one morning and called 911. He was kept in the hospital for a couple of days after they drained the fluid from his lung. Then he was released to come home to hospice care and a 24/7 nurse's aide whose job it was to turn him, deal with his incontinence, feed him, and administer morphine, sedatives, and oxygen. Thanks to this care, he was comfortable, not in pain or suffering from fear and anxiety.
Dad's doctor, who is also head of the hospice in his area, assured me that he would suffer no pain. She advocated for him to be released to hospice instead of a nursing home, for which we were all grateful. A hospital bed was moved into the front room, a cheerful, sunny room with a picture window framing the bright autumn leaves on the trees outside.
He lay there surrounded by his books and music, in his sanctuary, as his visiting nurse put it, where he felt safe and comforted by the familiar.
Once I became used to Dad's dramatically changed appearance, I was able to read to him and listen to music with him. I also spoke to him with the assumption that he heard and understood. I was determined that there would be no further assaults on his dignity--having to rely on Depends was bad enough--and as long as he was still alive I was going to speak to him as if he was a human being. I read Wordsworth and Blake to him, and The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, one of the first poems he read to me as a child. Not only did he read it (he always said that poetry was meant to be read aloud) but he also explained why the language was so great. I read Jabberwocky and the chapter in Alice in which Humpty Dumpty declares that words mean what he wants them to mean, and goes on to define the silly words in Jabberwocky with even more ridiculous definitions. Dad loved this chapter. He also loved Pride and Prejudice and Emma (the latter, he said, was Jane Austen's greatest work, containing the deepest moral profundity, but I could never choose between P & P and Emma.) He read all of Jane Austen to me and all of Dickens. And lying in a morphine-induced haze, he was still able to move his lips along with poems by Delmore Schwartz as my brother recited them.
I read the first chapter of P &P to him, then closed the book. "The Bingleys move in next door," I heard him mumble. This, in fact, is the next occurrence in the book. When his friend Jerry came to visit one day and asked, Jack, do you know who I am? he answered, "An eminent philosopher." Close enough. At another time, he had a hallucination of "a woman's leg coming out of Jerry's mouth."
I had wanted to read Proust to him in French and English, but there wasn't time.
Company tired him out quickly. I had the sense that he was waiting for his son to arrive, and sure enough, he was much more aware after Joe arrived. He asked for ice cream twice and fed it to himself. I have no doubt that he knew who we both were.
I use the word "expired" because I hate the expressions "passed away" or "passed on," and I cannot bring myself to say "died." I don't know what it is about that four-letter word that sounds so rude and abrupt. "Expired," however, cannot be used in everyday conversation without the speaker sounding hopelessly pretentious.
I sat beside my father's sickbed for five days as the life gradually withdrew from his poor wasted body, fragile and small like a baby bird. Stage four lung cancer ravages the body. Only two weeks before, he had been walking around, thin, gray, but communicative and alert. Then, two weeks ago, he couldn't breathe one morning and called 911. He was kept in the hospital for a couple of days after they drained the fluid from his lung. Then he was released to come home to hospice care and a 24/7 nurse's aide whose job it was to turn him, deal with his incontinence, feed him, and administer morphine, sedatives, and oxygen. Thanks to this care, he was comfortable, not in pain or suffering from fear and anxiety.
Dad's doctor, who is also head of the hospice in his area, assured me that he would suffer no pain. She advocated for him to be released to hospice instead of a nursing home, for which we were all grateful. A hospital bed was moved into the front room, a cheerful, sunny room with a picture window framing the bright autumn leaves on the trees outside.
He lay there surrounded by his books and music, in his sanctuary, as his visiting nurse put it, where he felt safe and comforted by the familiar.
Once I became used to Dad's dramatically changed appearance, I was able to read to him and listen to music with him. I also spoke to him with the assumption that he heard and understood. I was determined that there would be no further assaults on his dignity--having to rely on Depends was bad enough--and as long as he was still alive I was going to speak to him as if he was a human being. I read Wordsworth and Blake to him, and The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, one of the first poems he read to me as a child. Not only did he read it (he always said that poetry was meant to be read aloud) but he also explained why the language was so great. I read Jabberwocky and the chapter in Alice in which Humpty Dumpty declares that words mean what he wants them to mean, and goes on to define the silly words in Jabberwocky with even more ridiculous definitions. Dad loved this chapter. He also loved Pride and Prejudice and Emma (the latter, he said, was Jane Austen's greatest work, containing the deepest moral profundity, but I could never choose between P & P and Emma.) He read all of Jane Austen to me and all of Dickens. And lying in a morphine-induced haze, he was still able to move his lips along with poems by Delmore Schwartz as my brother recited them.
I read the first chapter of P &P to him, then closed the book. "The Bingleys move in next door," I heard him mumble. This, in fact, is the next occurrence in the book. When his friend Jerry came to visit one day and asked, Jack, do you know who I am? he answered, "An eminent philosopher." Close enough. At another time, he had a hallucination of "a woman's leg coming out of Jerry's mouth."
I had wanted to read Proust to him in French and English, but there wasn't time.
Company tired him out quickly. I had the sense that he was waiting for his son to arrive, and sure enough, he was much more aware after Joe arrived. He asked for ice cream twice and fed it to himself. I have no doubt that he knew who we both were.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Yesterday (Sat.) and today (Sun.) my father appeared energized. I believe that it was the anticipation of seeing my brother Joe that caused my father to gather his faltering life energy and begin to talk and eat again. He even fed himself. He talked to his visiting friends.
Today he was not as talkative and was confused at times, asking me if he was in his own bed, saying he wanted to go home, hallucinating ("There is a woman's limb coming out of Jerry's mouth") and attempting to get out of bed. He said he was "going upstairs" to find a poetry book. We searched in vain for a book of poems by Thomas Moore because he wanted to hear me read a certain poem. I ended up reading him some other poems, asking if he remembered reading them to me when I was very young. He seemed pleased by my reading of "I wandered lonely as a cloud" and "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner." We also listened to Tristan und Isolde. I'm not sure how much of his mind is still operating. I suspect that it comes and goes like the sun appearing and then disappearing behind the clouds, as it was doing all day today.
Amazingly, he is still sharp as a tack at identifying poets. Joe was testing him by reading poems at random from the Norton Anthology. He got it right every time. His love and vast knowledge of poetry still shines through the increasing fogginess of his other mental capacities.
I am going to stay another day and will revisit him tomorrow. I am afraid to leave lest he die after I go. Joe will stay with him indefinitely, which may keep him going for a while.
Meanwhile, my aunt Joan has a fever of 102 and won't go to the hospital. Uncle Buddy is also unwell and I worry that no one is caring for them. They are in Florida and I can't intervene.
Getting old, ill, and dying are inevitable and part of life, but I can't get used to it.
The one exception to the law of the excluded middle in logic is that we are all simultaneously living and dying. My father is still living, although he is also dying. Even people on the brink of sixty like myself and my brother are heading slowly toward death, though no one would describe us as dying. It's not meant to be understood. It just is.
Today he was not as talkative and was confused at times, asking me if he was in his own bed, saying he wanted to go home, hallucinating ("There is a woman's limb coming out of Jerry's mouth") and attempting to get out of bed. He said he was "going upstairs" to find a poetry book. We searched in vain for a book of poems by Thomas Moore because he wanted to hear me read a certain poem. I ended up reading him some other poems, asking if he remembered reading them to me when I was very young. He seemed pleased by my reading of "I wandered lonely as a cloud" and "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner." We also listened to Tristan und Isolde. I'm not sure how much of his mind is still operating. I suspect that it comes and goes like the sun appearing and then disappearing behind the clouds, as it was doing all day today.
Amazingly, he is still sharp as a tack at identifying poets. Joe was testing him by reading poems at random from the Norton Anthology. He got it right every time. His love and vast knowledge of poetry still shines through the increasing fogginess of his other mental capacities.
I am going to stay another day and will revisit him tomorrow. I am afraid to leave lest he die after I go. Joe will stay with him indefinitely, which may keep him going for a while.
Meanwhile, my aunt Joan has a fever of 102 and won't go to the hospital. Uncle Buddy is also unwell and I worry that no one is caring for them. They are in Florida and I can't intervene.
Getting old, ill, and dying are inevitable and part of life, but I can't get used to it.
The one exception to the law of the excluded middle in logic is that we are all simultaneously living and dying. My father is still living, although he is also dying. Even people on the brink of sixty like myself and my brother are heading slowly toward death, though no one would describe us as dying. It's not meant to be understood. It just is.
Friday, October 12, 2012
It's October and the year is slowly dying. So is my father, the victim of lung cancer at 88 after a lifetime of smoking. He is at home, visited by hospice nurses, with a 24/7 home health care aide named Ted who is from Poland and has a nearly unintelligible accent. He seems to be a nice enough fellow.
The day began with a sun shower, with light raindrops like tears falling from a blue sky with absurdly puffy white clouds. Orange and yellow leaves were falling everywhere.
The rain stopped, and the weather became extremely cold. Curtiss and I arrived at Dad's house a little before 4 pm.
The sofa had been moved to the opposite side of the room and in its place was a hospital bed in which my father lay like a fragile broken doll. He had shrunk to half the size he'd been only two weeks ago. Lying on his back, he had a tube running from his nose to an oxygen tank which quietly whooshed, the only sound in a dark and silent room. His eyes were barely open, closing to narrow slits. His breath was labored when we arrived, but became quieter and more even. His upper dentures had been removed, and in combination with the morphine and tranquilizers he was getting made it impossible for him to speak. He was able to nod or shake his head in response to yes or no questions. He tried to embrace me once and seemed glad that I was there (though unsmiling) At times he seemed to be making an attempt to smile, as when Jerry told a "philosopher's joke."
Curtiss put some Bach on the stereo, Gould playing the WTC, and later some Haydn. I wanted Dad to hear some of the music he loved. Music also alleviated the unbearable silence of the room. I tried to speak normally to Dad but found myself referring to him in the third person and apologizing--when someone is semi-conscious, you naturally fall into talking about him rather than to him. I was sad for Jerry, his faithful friend who discussed philosophy with Dad every evening, and who now sat in quiet grief in a chair across the room, as if he couldn't bear to sit close to his dying friend. I was sad for Joe Cary and later for Bill Moynihan, who were both trying unsuccessfully to hide their grief.
There was an odd smell, not pleasant, probably an antiseptic. The smell of dying. I still have it in my nostrils and clinging to my clothes. It's hard to bear this odor--it's not overpowering, and I can't identify it, but I know that it will linger in that room after my father is gone, and it will pierce my heart with relentless persistence.
Tasha is devastated. We embraced when I went to the store. This young woman has a close friendship with my father and is finding his illness unbearable. She's not sure she will be able to sleep in the house after he is gone, but mournfully observes that she has nowhere else to go. We have appointed Tasha the steward of Dad's house--we are grateful for the loving care she provided until hospice took over. She is an exceptional young woman and I am glad to be able to provide her with a rent-free place to live.
Aunt Joan is supporting me over the phone and saying that I am the "greatest" for handling everything. I have power of attorney, and I often wish that my father had not bestowed it upon me because of the sheer amount of onerous responsibility it entails.
I have been hearing Joan's voice in my head all day telling me what to do next--it's almost like telepathy. On the phone, she advises me to go outside and take a walk, get some fresh air. She apologizes for not being there with me--it's only because her doctor has said that she is not allowed to fly. She is not one to show her pain to others--I know she needs to talk to me, which is how she grieves. We have always understood one another without having to say a word: two Aquarian women, very alike in many ways, as an aunt is like her niece, even physically, but very unlike in others--still, we know each others' minds and always have.
Curtiss has been crying from time to time and is ashamed; I told him that crying is appropriate and he should cry all he needs to without worrying about incurring my displeasure (I am a no-crying-in-baseball person, unfortunately, and I tend to regard tears as a sign of weakness even though they are not.) I cannot normally cry in the presence of others, but today a tear slipped down my nose as I held my father's pinched hand, blue from broken veins where many IVs had been inserted.
When I went outdoors for a walk around the grounds, I sought out a tree that I used to climb as a child. It still stands with its huge branches like arms extended, alongside the moss-covered ancient stone wall. I climbed onto the wall, put my arms around the branches, and allowed some tears to fall where there was no one to see but the birds and the neighbor's barking dog.
It seems very cruel of Nature to produce such a beautiful fall day with its slanting late afternoon sunlight, just as though my father were not on his deathbed. It seems strange that life around me continues as usual, unaware that another old man is about to leave this world. There are, after all, thousands of old men the world over dying at this very moment. There are thousands of daughters going through the agony I am now experiencing. The experience of dying and of being a survivor is universal, and of course this thought provides no comfort. No thoughts are providing comfort. Deathbed scenes from literature keep flashing into my mind: little Nell from Old Curiosity Shop, Barkis ("Barkis is willin'") from David Copperfield, little Paul from Dombey and Son (Dickens was a master of the deathbed scene) and of course Beth from Little Women. Deathbed scenes in books are, as it turns out, quite unreal. There are no heroics, no inspiring last words. Only the gasps of a soul struggling to keep a failing body alive.
I believe that my father is trying to stay alive until after my brother Joe arrives tomorrow.
I have heard it said many times that a dying person will wait until all the grieving survivors leave his bedside, and then let go with relief, as though dying can only be safely accomplished when one is alone. Crying alone, dying alone: connected, perhaps.
It would be lovely to be cared for right now. To be getting a massage, somewhere far away from my father's sickbed, to be annointed with fragrant oil, to be wrapped in sweet-smelling warm blankets, to be served tea and scones on a silver tray. Lovely to be in bed with my cat lying next to me, silently faithful like a dog. I must allow people to care for me, but I am not good at allowing this. I am not good at allowing anything. I want to control, take charge of everything, even death. I want to command the angel of death to leave my father's house until my brother has said farewell. But there is nothing like death to remind us how powerless we really are.
The day began with a sun shower, with light raindrops like tears falling from a blue sky with absurdly puffy white clouds. Orange and yellow leaves were falling everywhere.
The rain stopped, and the weather became extremely cold. Curtiss and I arrived at Dad's house a little before 4 pm.
The sofa had been moved to the opposite side of the room and in its place was a hospital bed in which my father lay like a fragile broken doll. He had shrunk to half the size he'd been only two weeks ago. Lying on his back, he had a tube running from his nose to an oxygen tank which quietly whooshed, the only sound in a dark and silent room. His eyes were barely open, closing to narrow slits. His breath was labored when we arrived, but became quieter and more even. His upper dentures had been removed, and in combination with the morphine and tranquilizers he was getting made it impossible for him to speak. He was able to nod or shake his head in response to yes or no questions. He tried to embrace me once and seemed glad that I was there (though unsmiling) At times he seemed to be making an attempt to smile, as when Jerry told a "philosopher's joke."
Curtiss put some Bach on the stereo, Gould playing the WTC, and later some Haydn. I wanted Dad to hear some of the music he loved. Music also alleviated the unbearable silence of the room. I tried to speak normally to Dad but found myself referring to him in the third person and apologizing--when someone is semi-conscious, you naturally fall into talking about him rather than to him. I was sad for Jerry, his faithful friend who discussed philosophy with Dad every evening, and who now sat in quiet grief in a chair across the room, as if he couldn't bear to sit close to his dying friend. I was sad for Joe Cary and later for Bill Moynihan, who were both trying unsuccessfully to hide their grief.
There was an odd smell, not pleasant, probably an antiseptic. The smell of dying. I still have it in my nostrils and clinging to my clothes. It's hard to bear this odor--it's not overpowering, and I can't identify it, but I know that it will linger in that room after my father is gone, and it will pierce my heart with relentless persistence.
Tasha is devastated. We embraced when I went to the store. This young woman has a close friendship with my father and is finding his illness unbearable. She's not sure she will be able to sleep in the house after he is gone, but mournfully observes that she has nowhere else to go. We have appointed Tasha the steward of Dad's house--we are grateful for the loving care she provided until hospice took over. She is an exceptional young woman and I am glad to be able to provide her with a rent-free place to live.
Aunt Joan is supporting me over the phone and saying that I am the "greatest" for handling everything. I have power of attorney, and I often wish that my father had not bestowed it upon me because of the sheer amount of onerous responsibility it entails.
I have been hearing Joan's voice in my head all day telling me what to do next--it's almost like telepathy. On the phone, she advises me to go outside and take a walk, get some fresh air. She apologizes for not being there with me--it's only because her doctor has said that she is not allowed to fly. She is not one to show her pain to others--I know she needs to talk to me, which is how she grieves. We have always understood one another without having to say a word: two Aquarian women, very alike in many ways, as an aunt is like her niece, even physically, but very unlike in others--still, we know each others' minds and always have.
Curtiss has been crying from time to time and is ashamed; I told him that crying is appropriate and he should cry all he needs to without worrying about incurring my displeasure (I am a no-crying-in-baseball person, unfortunately, and I tend to regard tears as a sign of weakness even though they are not.) I cannot normally cry in the presence of others, but today a tear slipped down my nose as I held my father's pinched hand, blue from broken veins where many IVs had been inserted.
When I went outdoors for a walk around the grounds, I sought out a tree that I used to climb as a child. It still stands with its huge branches like arms extended, alongside the moss-covered ancient stone wall. I climbed onto the wall, put my arms around the branches, and allowed some tears to fall where there was no one to see but the birds and the neighbor's barking dog.
It seems very cruel of Nature to produce such a beautiful fall day with its slanting late afternoon sunlight, just as though my father were not on his deathbed. It seems strange that life around me continues as usual, unaware that another old man is about to leave this world. There are, after all, thousands of old men the world over dying at this very moment. There are thousands of daughters going through the agony I am now experiencing. The experience of dying and of being a survivor is universal, and of course this thought provides no comfort. No thoughts are providing comfort. Deathbed scenes from literature keep flashing into my mind: little Nell from Old Curiosity Shop, Barkis ("Barkis is willin'") from David Copperfield, little Paul from Dombey and Son (Dickens was a master of the deathbed scene) and of course Beth from Little Women. Deathbed scenes in books are, as it turns out, quite unreal. There are no heroics, no inspiring last words. Only the gasps of a soul struggling to keep a failing body alive.
I believe that my father is trying to stay alive until after my brother Joe arrives tomorrow.
I have heard it said many times that a dying person will wait until all the grieving survivors leave his bedside, and then let go with relief, as though dying can only be safely accomplished when one is alone. Crying alone, dying alone: connected, perhaps.
It would be lovely to be cared for right now. To be getting a massage, somewhere far away from my father's sickbed, to be annointed with fragrant oil, to be wrapped in sweet-smelling warm blankets, to be served tea and scones on a silver tray. Lovely to be in bed with my cat lying next to me, silently faithful like a dog. I must allow people to care for me, but I am not good at allowing this. I am not good at allowing anything. I want to control, take charge of everything, even death. I want to command the angel of death to leave my father's house until my brother has said farewell. But there is nothing like death to remind us how powerless we really are.
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