Walking with a child in hand on Flatbush Avenue, a main thoroughfare, was a woman wearing a hijab.
What caught my eye was not her conservative attire, but a balloon aloft between them. The peace sign was prominently displayed on each side.
Was it a gesture to demonstrate their sentiments or to garner protection from those who confuse evil intent with a religion?
In my bag is a small square mirror with an orange cloth border. I use it from time to time. It is a convenient size and readily portable.
My mother possessed it for many years, yet when I look upon it’s surface no remnants of her image remains.
There is only my own reflection to gaze upon.
Pipas, small paper kites with narrow wooden frames, were skillfully guided by boys and men along the beaches of Rio de Janeiro. The colorful pentagons dotted the sky.
Were the kites used to compete? Which one was highest or traveled the farthest? Or was partaking in the kites’ flight enough to please their guardians?
I hear that there are those who attach razor blades to their kites, as they fight in the sky. No blood is shed. An alternative to war.
Later that day, having ridden in a trolley car up the steep hills to Santa Teresa, I purchased a pipa in a small hardware store to bring home and hang on my wall. I felt some regret that my kite was not destined to fly.
In second or third grade I was noted to be a fast reader. I recall being placed in a darkened room with a projector that would display only a single word of each sentence, at increasing speeds, on a screen. How often I went there I do not recall. But the experience was not unpleasant as I displayed my prowess at decoding a rapid string of words. I was in fact a very fast reader.
Around that time my mother asked me about a story that I had read for school. I probably said it was okay. It did not make any particular impression upon me. The story somehow interested her and she began to read it aloud by my side. The characters came to life. I was spellbound. The details of the story are faded, but at the end with tears welling up in my eyes I said, “Oh, that’s so sad.”
My mother was surprised. “Hadn’t you already read this?” she asked.
Apparently my reading fast and comprehending the words I was reading were two very different things.
Each morning a squirrel, usually two, are in the small yard behind my apartment, offering a glimmer of life in the wild. I think of them as a conjugal pair. They come to my window with little interest as to what lies on the other side, but rather to gain access to a fence and more importantly the trees nearby. I hear them chatter and scurry. Sometimes when I sit outside, they are so absorbed in their daily actions that they do not notice me, until they do, then startled they dart away.
Sometimes in the night I hear feral cries and ferocious combats between creatures unseen.
The other morning I stepped outside. There were a few white feathers on the ground and part of a wing that had blood at it’s edges. No further evidence of the bird remained.
The next day the wing was gone. Even the few feathers left no trace, having been dispersed by the wind.
The squirrels returned to where the violence that had been.
My parents spent their honeymoon in Miami, but they had considered going to Havana instead. Such easy access has changed considerably for U.S. citizens over the years.
My desire to get there in 2000 began with a call to American Airlines. The employee hung up on me. Perhaps we were disconnected, but I don’t think so. After several other inquiries I began to feel as if I was trying to visit a black hole.
Further investigation eventually yielded a tourist company in Canada. Arrangements and payments were made for my flight to Havana via Toronto and a beautiful room with a balcony and view in one of Havana’s stunning hotels in the old center.
The flights went well and entering Cuba with an U.S. passport was no problem. I arrived at the hotel and presented my voucher. The gentleman at the desk said it wasn’t valid.
There was no recourse and no way of knowing where the blame lie. The only room he could offer me, at an additional expense, was one in the basement without windows.
My call to the Canadian agency concluded with the notification that my agent no longer worked there.
Nothing more.
Fortunately Havana cast a potent spell.
On my trip to India and Nepal years ago, I opted for a book that would likely last me the six weeks. Thus I opted for an ample book and one I was sure to enjoy. I brought Anna Karenina with me.
The characters quickly came to life and the notions I had of a gray, drab Soviet Era were replaced with Tolstoy’s descriptions of delicacies, festive balls, and French lace. I was transported through his words.
I was transported in tuk-tuks and trains, admiring the graceful swaying of women in Saris as they carried heavy packages upon their heads. I was discovering remote lush countrysides and cacophanous cities. I was encountering an onslaught of sounds, odors, tastes, sights, and humanity in Southern Asia.
The disparity of my experiences and that of Anna’s became too great. I put the book away and bought another on the life of a Maharajah.
Like a concerned parent, K. provided me with a handwritten note to show the bus driver. She had arranged for me to attend the party of her friend, a Japanese artist, during my stay in her Kyoto home, decades ago.
Upon my arrival, I met S., also a friend of the artist. Her English was perfect. Her wide smile, curiosity, intelligence, warmth, infectious laugh, and her bold exclamations enthralled me. We instantly became friends. She showed me Kyoto, took me to her home and that of her parents. She taught me how to apply the bright red lipstick that I had admired on her never still lips.
Years later, S. and her husband stayed with me in NYC. We talked incessantly, toured the town, and tried to stifle our amusement when her husband moved awkwardly from his first sunburn.
But somehow time, distractions, responsibilities, and distance took their toll. I lost touch, if not the memories of our friendship and her smile.
Last night, I dined with a mutual friend T. We too had shared wonderful times. We too, until now, had let that connecting cloth unravel. A wave of nostalgia had prompted me to seek S. and T. out a week before.
T. assumed I already knew. I didn’t.
The past two years S. had been tormented with debilitating depression.
Her extraordinary, beautiful, vivacious spirit could not, did not, save her.
This season reminds me of a stroll I took, years ago, along 11th Ave in Manhattan.
The street was fairly empty, but there was a couple heading toward me about a block away. Just before our paths crossed, a man stepped out from an apartment building. He was conservatively attired in a suit, and his face was painted green.
The couple looked at the man and I overheard the woman say, in an accented English, “Oh, it must be Halloween.”
“No, I thought, just a typically, atypical summer’s day in New York City.”
When I look at an abstract work of art I am not searching for something representational. I am content to appreciate the composition, colors and lines. Yet, I enjoy creating spontaneous squiggles, then doing my best to describe what I see – creating a little narrative. It is a chance to think freely, creatively!
I invite you to look at the squiggle and let your minds be free. This is not a Rorschach Test. There is no right nor wrong answer. It is likely that you will see several different things. I only ask that we keep our responses to those that would not make our grandmothers’ blush.
I would love it if you would share your ideas.
Please play freely.
Let’s see!
I see the profile of a man with a very long sideburn growing a goatee.
I see a bird’s eye view of a cornered diner counter with curved-back chair.
I see from above two people trudging toward each other in the snow, while a squirrel scampers back and forth looking for acorns a short distance away.
And you? What do you see?