all about all of us
Yes! My Yankees seem to be on a roll. Keep it up fellas and remind us why George pays you so well. Your fans are expecting something more this year… Don’t you all think it is time for a championship?! Bronx Bombers, 2005 World Series Champs… Ah, that has a nice ring to it!
-Michael
So I am sitting here surrounded by the quiet late night tranquility and comforts of my home and I just wanted to post and send out my thoughts and prayers to the people down in Florida who are currently experiencing what is turning out to be a brutal hurricane. Stay inside and hunker down till the sunlight hits again! Hopefully the overall effects of Katrina won’t be as bad as it seems at the moment…
This all reminds me of the greeting I receive during my first full month in North Carolina almost ten years ago. It was the year that Hurricane Frances hit… Yes, Mom we named it after you! (Just kidding…). Growing up in New York City I had never experienced a true hurricane. Hurricane Gloria which we had prepped for turned out to be a dud (as far as the city was concerned). It was quite a site to see apartment windows taped up with “X’s’ all throughout New York City. But in the end it was just that, an interesting site… Getting back to Hurricane Frances, that is something I will never forget. Waiting in line for ice. Trees and waist high waters blocking roads and thousands of people with cabin fever and no way to express their frustration and energy for two weeks straight. One of my humorous memories from that experience was seeing people jet skiing in the waters which had amassed in front of Crabtree Mall, “thee” mall in Raleigh, NC at the time.
Anyways, stay strong Floridians!
-Michael
Well, I’m still in a big city and that being the case there’s lots to do. However, I’m not spending time in the typical way i.e. going to museums, touring all the sites and everything else one does. No. This is a more or less contemplative summer. The time is perfect to do this. And although, as we all know, there are many things to do in a big city, it’s possible to not do anything at all. Going to Central park alone and sitting with others who want a quiet day, enjoying the beautiful, majestic old trees, rocks, fountains, lake, pond. And walking a bit longer looking for the perfect place to spread a colorful cotton blanket where the lawn is expansive and there’s more than enough space for everyone, taking out a favorite book from a bag, or a notebook and pen, along with a sandwich and drink is the beginning of a lovely day.
The world is a complex place right now, and to take time to find where one belongs in this world is relevant to the art of living. And that, of course, means different things to different people.
Keep you eyes open, experience more and “see” less. The “sights” have a tendency to merge together. How many Gothic cathedrals can you really appreciate? – Dan Neely
Today was a beautiful day. The humidity was down, the sun was out, the sky was light this evening and it just seemed very peaceful. The upper west side had plenty of people strolling as it often does and the cafes were pleasantly busy. Cooking is fun because of the numerous markets conveniently located in this area. But on such a day it’s lovely to eat out and be part of the atmosphere. Any time during the day there are people sitting leisurely most often with a book, not a newspaper. How interesting. I thought. Some people sipped wine, other people drank coffee and many salads were eaten throughout the day. The salads looked delicious and I wanted to lean in and take a little bite. I felt no stress in the air; some days are like that even in Manhattan. Cars were quieter. Honking seemed not to be in the noisy way it so often is.
In my corner of the world today it was a day to appreciate.
If you’ve never played Scrabble by Parker Brothers you are missing out! There is something about the challenge… Yes you are playing against other people but there is more to it than that. For me the real play is against myself. How witty, creative and (maybe even) tricky I can be. I love the rush that runs up my spine when I see something that will “work”. A seven letter drop, two ‘double word scores’ with one word etc. It is amusing to see what kind of mental twists and turns you can lay down on the board. And hopefully each game you are pushing yourself and learning at the same time and also laughing a little with the other players. I know I always do.
There is something nice about having the tv off for a few hours and getting inside your mind and just focusing on ‘the game’. We are too ‘plugged in’ these days. I know, I work on the net. I couldn’t live without it but I also realize lately the importance of getting back to some things which don’t involve electricity and keyboards.
So if you are looking for something to do this weekend, call up some friends, dust off the Scrabble board and pick your letters!
-Michael
I try to not remember Guatemala because although I was looking forward to being there, staying with a family and studying Spanish, seeing all the great sites, enjoying the food, meeting the people, going to the markets, things don’t always happen the way you plan. It could have been on my first night in Guatemala when I stayed at a lovely Inn in Antigua, and placed my toothbrush under the faucet, forgetting about the warning of “Don’t use the water to . . . ”
When I was in Panama, I met someone who entertained me with his traveling stories (all kinds of stories), and he described, all too vividly, his experiences with montezuma’s revenge. And those experiences he described became mine a few months later.
So, let me say this one more time, because this I know from experience, some people just don’t listen to those warnings of, “Don’t use the water to . . . ”
I woke this morning thinking about the little red potatoes I had put in a bag under the kitchen table waiting to be cooked. Then I imagined a bowl of creamy white potatoes flavored with garlic, as many cloves as I want. The unpeeled garlic had been gently cooked in water, peeled, then mashed into those little boiled red potatoes with pepper and Celtic salt added to taste. I should have kept the water the potatoes were boiled in, since I’m one of those lactose intolerant people, but I didn’t, so I added some bottled hot water, a little at a time, mashing those little red potatoes into the creamiest of the creamiest.
And tomorrow, if there’s enough left over, enough so that the creamiest of the creamiest is still the main ingredient, I’ll slice a cucumber and fold it into them for a tasty cold dish. Maybe I’ll add sliced scallions and place it all on a bed of greens.
It’s so easy to like Malta and Gozo. They have so much history. Learning and exploring involves you in stories of numerous invaders, the influence of the Italians, British, Turks and Arabs. The prominence of the Catholic Church, the Hospitallers Knights of the Order of St. John of Jerusalem, St. John’s Co-Cathedral & Museum, St. Paul’s and St. Agatha’s Catacombs, Tarxien Temples, and the calm, lovely community and magnificent blue waters of Gozo.
I went to Malta on the enthusiasm of an acquaintance. The only information I got from him was the guesthouse he stayed at in Bugibba. That was enough because to know one Maltese is to have Malta at your fingertips – the Maltese are that friendly. I stayed at the guesthouse in Bugibba, and found little effort was needed to get around Malta. I joined the early morning strollers along the Mediterranean, looked out at the colorful fishing boats (luzzu), and I noticed the coffee shops across the street with signs in their windows promising an “English breakfast.”
From the guesthouse, it’s an interesting walk along the Mediterranean to the Bugibba bus station. There I learn that the old rickety buses are from England, and are over fifty years old. And I’m told that Valletta, the capital, is a good starting point as most of Malta’s towns and villages are connected to it by bus. I go to Valletta, and quickly notice its rich history, and beautiful architecture. A good guidebook leads the way for exploration. I walk up and down the cobblestone streets, and eventually stop at Fort St. Elmo. A Maltese who’s fascinated with Malta’s history, esp. Malta’s part in WWII, approaches me. Soon he’s my tour guide. He has encyclopedic knowledge, and I try to listen and learn.
After two weeks at the guesthouse, I decide to rent an apartment for a month. I walk along the beautiful Mediterranean, and come to an area called St. Paul’s Bay. I pass a curious elderly woman, arms planted on the window sill; she looks like she’s waiting for something to happen. I back up and ask her whether she knows of an apartment I could rent. She does, leaves to get her keys, and away we go. She says that the apartment belongs to her and her four siblings, and she tells me that all of them are single. As we walk to the apartment, she informs me that they own and operate a restaurant/bar on the premises where I first saw her.
The very old Maltese apartment is located on a quiet nondescript street. The buildings are all attached. It’s large, and the old furnishings give it a lived-in feeling. I’ve never seen an apartment with this type of design. The bedrooms are large, the hallways scattered throughout the apartment are large and long, and I see a courtyard somewhere in the middle of all the rooms. The kitchen is small, the hallway leading to it is very large, and there is an unusually long rectangular table at the end of the apartment just outside the kitchen. I rent it for $400 a month. It doesn’t take long to find that wherever I am in the apartment, I feel isolated. After two weeks of trying to be comfortable without success, I approach the elderly woman to tell her I’m leaving. As I said, the Maltese are friendly and accepting. I don’t expect to get any money back, but without asking, she returns the rest of the rent, and invites me to lunch at her restaurant.
I’m always awed by the differences that exist when visiting a country. There’s always the people, the land, the buildings, the history, the culture – all the sites – and the learning. I try to keep in mind though that underneath all the differences, the basics are the same all over the world.
I went to a magazine shop to purchase a few magazines for a friend who was not feeling well. And there they were, many monthly magazines with pictures of movie celebrities on their covers — the too many stories about celebrities, including the gossip. And I ask myself, Why oh why do we need to know this stuff?
How does it enrich one’s life to know: what celebrities wear, the shampoo they use, their weight, their fashion designer, the color of their lipstick, the food they eat, the cars they drive, the design of their homes, the cologne they wear, the names of their family members (and ages), when they had plastic surgery, why they had plastic surgery, who their new heartthrob is, where they vacation, etc. etc. etc. The media want us to live our lives through so-called celebrities, and what I’d like to know is why do we? – Why do some of us need to spend so much time collecting all this meaningless information? Why can’t we simply stick to the subject of what makes them great actors (or not), and continue on with making our own lives as wonderful as can be.
A bit of mystery makes life interesting; that might be especially true in the acting world.
I never think about death in a morbid sense because I believe I came to terms with it in my childhood. As you will see when you read on, I didn’t think too deeply in those days.
At the age of eleven I was very near the tallest girl in my Catholic school class. This was not good in those days. I was already the skinniest, and was called toothpick legs by some of the boys in the class. The girls were close, but the boys, they knew how to hurt, and calling someone toothpick legs was about as cruel, I thought, as anyone could get. Something needed to change, so when I returned home from school I’d go into the bathroom and have a heart- to-heart talk with God. I explained ( pleaded) the importance of being four inches shorter, and if this were not possible, then he could just come and get me cause I wasn’t staying.
Well, the year went by and I didn’t get any shorter. But what happened was I became comfortable with the idea of death, and I believe it all began in the bathroom, bargaining (pleading) for leaving rather than staying.