Posted tagged ‘ManicDDaily painting’

Moscow Subway Bombings Reverberate In New York

March 29, 2010

The headlines today about the bombings in the Moscow subway system held a double whammy for New Yorkers.  First, there was tremendous sadness and horror at the loss of life in Moscow.   Secondly, there was the guiltily, self-centered fear, not of whether it could happen here, but whether it will.

Even so, there was no new tension on the New York City subway system;  this may be because it is the first day of Passover, which means that the subways were less crowded than usual, and that many observant Jews (who unfortunately may be particular targets in New York) were not on the trains.

On top of this, New Yorkers are a bit fatalistic;  to get on the train day after day, particularly after 9/11, you have to just hope/assume/pray that if something happens on one train, you (and everyone you know) will be on the next one, or the one before it, or the one stopped in the tunnel way way down the line.

Then there’s the New Yorker bravura, the gritty sense of invulnerability that makes us all feel a bit like the Yankees–that we will somehow make it to the play-offs no matter what.  (Of course, many of us also feel like the Mets, that no matter how much we try, we won’t really win, but that’s mainly a feeling about our economic status, not our basic survival.)

Many New Yorkers have little tricks.  Avoiding rush hour trains;  getting on less crowded cars; even occasionally getting off the train if someone who looks suspicious (unfortunately, this may be someone simply in foreign dress) with several large square-cut, plaid, plastic bags.   But most New Yorkers don’t follow these tricks very much–with transportation cuts, almost any hour is rush hour (i.e. crowded); more importantly, if you avoided people who looked suspicious or foreign in New York, you’d probably have to stay in your own apartment (and even then, you’d most likely have to avoid mirrors.)

The Russian bombings seem particularly troubling because of the participation of female suicide bombers.  There is a history of female suicide bombings in Russia and around the world, with some groups such as the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam using women bombers in 30-40% of their attacks.  (From a 2004 study of suicide bombers by Debra D. Zedalis for the Strategic Studies Institute, U.S. Army War College.)  Females have not figured largely among the images of terrorists in the U.S. however.  As someone with an instinctive trust of most of my fellow women, I find this perhaps the most shocking part of these terrible bombings.

My grandmother used to always ask my mother if she thought that her “life was laid out” for her;  meaning pre-destined.   My mother said no; she believed that people had some choice in their fate.  But my grandmother, an old lady by that time, had suffered much more loss than my mother–one young brother to the Spanish Flu, later, her parents, a child, her husband.   I don’t think I believe in pre-destination, and yet I can certainly understand the comfort of it on a day like today, and one like tomorrow, and the next day too;  how do you get to work each morning if you have to worry whether you are making the right choice of train, car, seat, city, life?

So sorry for the suffering in Moscow.

Ephemeral Everything

March 27, 2010

Coming off of good food, abundant wine, a birthday celebration (not mine), wondering why it is that living in the world is so difficult for many of us, so painful.

I should start off by saying that I didn’t experience much of that pain tonight; chopping, cooking, cleaning up; a lot of bending down to wipe up the floor–I tend to be a very fast cook, who both creates and cleans up a fair amount of overflow in a small and somewhat rudimentary kitchen (hey, this is New York City!  Counter space costs!)

Engagement is a great anodyne; busy-ness, work.  The problem one bumps into as one grows older, the wall one bangs one’s head against, is the knowledge that all this really does end sometime.  When young, most of us are insulated from that sense of fragility.  Except for those times that we are being melodramatic (and possibly manipulative), we don’t even truly believe that thwarted lives are possible for us, much less no life at all.   But as we age, we become conscious that people not only take wrong turns, they come to shocking terminal stops.   We actually know people, or at least know of people, whose lives are suddenly cut short, people for whom the question of whether they had the life they wanted is almost insulting, because they are fighting so hard for any life at all.We have a terrifying sense, as we age, that loss is not only possible, but inevitable.

Our culture tries very hard to insulate us from this knowledge.  Some seem to have a belief that the only thing Western medicine cannot save them from is malpractice.

I tell myself that the knowledge of life’s eventual loss should be energizing, activating.  (All that carpe diem business.)  Unfortunately, instead of listening to that kind of archetypical wisdom,  I  tend to be influenced by a guy I heard yelling out to his friend in a New York City parking garage.  “Hey you, come on!  Life’s too short to enjoy it!”

I would post a poem on this subject, but my computer has recently joined the ranks of the ephemeral.  (Perhaps I should say–the ranks of “no longer even ephemeral”.)  Accordingly, all previously written poems are now in a kind of digital purgatory.  Here’s hoping they will be released soon.

Feeling Special, If Not Free

March 14, 2010

Plane

Agh!  (Translation:  Ugh!)   A rainy weekend with lots of work-work (as distinguished from fun-work.)

There is something about working on both days of a week-end which makes one feel automatically deprived, even when also feeling extremely grateful to have the job.

We like to feel special, not, in other words, like drudges.  A week-end of work makes one long for the magical escape, that liberation that waits just around the corner.

Perhaps as a result of that longing, I actually opened and read the Nigerian email that I received this morning.  As a practicing attorney, I get one of these almost every day.  (They seem to be mainly generated from Nigeria, but come from other places as well.)   They involve millions of dollars or British pounds which are awaiting my pick-up if I will only co-operate in some scheme to help a widow, orphan, business partner, collect some mysteriously elusive inheritance, or lottery winnings.  Sometimes, as in today’s mail, it’s an inheritance or lottery winnings actually intended for me.  Today’s subject line  read “dead or alive!!!”  Its sender “Mr.Ron Mills” from “Standard International Bank PLC” warned me that someone named John K. Wheeler was claiming I was dead and trying to collect $2.5 million dollars held in my name.  Mr. Mills, though about to accede to Mr. John Wheeler’s claims, asked: “Did you sign any Deed of Assignment in favor of (MR JOHN WHEELER). Thereby making him the current beneficiary with this following account details….”

Who writes these emails?  What do they hope to gain by them?

On top of the fantastic  elements of the stories (Cinderella diving into Ocean’s Eleven), there are always telltale signs of the scam—awkward word usage, punctuation and grammar mistakes, generic addresses,  as in the email from “Timothy Geithner”, asking me to reply at a  “yahoo” address.  (You know how the Treasury Department always uses those for their high-level employees.)

The urge to feel lucky, singled out, is a deep one.  (An example that comes to a brain suffering from the renewed imprint of Robert Pattinson is the whole Twilight craze—certainly a huge part of that mania arises from the very ordinary-seeming heroine turning out to have special blood, a not-visible-on-the-surface quality which elevates her from the humdrum to the extraordinary.)

My mother calls me excitedly this morning, telling me of an offer received in the mail from her favorite credit card company–free airplane tickets.

I assure her that the tickets are probably not truly “free”.  She checks out the offer’s “details,” reading aloud some fine print about the continental United States.

My mom is a child of the Great Depression;  if something is free, it feels almost a sin to pass it up.  Accordingly, even though she and my father have not felt up to plane travel for the last several years, she immediately begins making plans (at least theoretical plans).

I tell her that there really is a probable catch here, something you need to buy, subscribe to.   She explains that they “have had that card for a long time.”  (I think this means that they are due a thank you from the company.)

“Yes, but—”

“Maybe they just want to get more people on the airplanes?” she answers.

“No.”

“It says ‘free'” she tries again, “even on the envelope.”

Why should I cast a shadow over her sense of good luck?  Just because John K. Wheeler is trying to steal my 2.5 million?

“So then, maybe they are,” I sigh.

Mid-March Resolutions (Easier For Me Than Obama)

March 9, 2010

Snow Drops and Red Wine

This morning I saw snowdrops (honest-to-goodness clumps of little white flowers) blooming behind the iron fence that runs along the esplanade in Battery Park City.  (Flowers in public spaces seem to be kept behind bars in New York City, I guess, to keep them from becoming flowers in private spaces.)   The snowdrops, combined with what was really a glorious morning, made me worry that I was too harsh about the month of March in yesterday’s post.  I called it the cruelest month.

March really isn’t cruel; it’s just, you know, brusque, brutal (think Ides).

It’s all a matter of timing.  Even to the jaded, January feels like a new start; the year is fresh;  change seems genuinely possible.  (Sort of like Obama’s inauguration.)  But, hey, it’s just January.  You’re a little tired from Christmas (the election); you want to be kind to yourself (bipartisan),   and besides, you’re still working on getting the digits on your checks right (i.e. the collapsing banking system).  You feel like you can take a little time for the life changes.

Then February hits.  But, hey, it’s February.   Cold, grey, stormy (the continuing worrisome instability of the economy), and above all, short.  Nobody really expects you to make life changes in February.

And then, suddenly… it’s March.  Not just March, mid-March.  And suddenly, the year doesn’t feel so new any more.  The stores don’t even have half-priced calendars.   (The banks are doing okay, but now everyone worries about budget deficits, or uses them as political cover.)

In March, change feels very hard.   Obligation looms (i.e. taxes) (i.e.  budget deficits) and the scent of Spring in the air seem to bring up the repeating cycle of the season as much as “newness”.   That sense of cycle (another winter over, another year already mid-swing) feels more relentless than reviving.  (Can one have schadenfreude towards a season?  Can politicians let go of their schadenfreude for other politicians?)

For all of you feeling left behind by Spring, and by time itself, I have good news: first, a new and fairly extensive study conducted by researchers at Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston shows that women who drink alcohol regularly, particularly red wine, are significantly less likely to gain weight and become obese than non-drinkers. Secondly, spending on cosmetic plastic surgery, such as breast augmentation, tummy tucks, and liposuction, dropped significantly last year.

One would like to think that the drop in spending on such cosmetic procedures was a result of people coming to their senses—hard economic times making them realize what was important in life—but the drop may simply mean that hard economic times gave people less money to spend.  This later view is unfortunately born out by the fact that spending on less expensive treatments, such as Botox injections, actually rose in 2009.

Nonetheless, nonetheless, both studies offer hope, at least to me.  At last, there are some health resolutions and fashions I should be able to adopt in the coming year (even beginning as late as mid-March)—(i) drinking more red wine, and (ii) not getting expensive cosmetic surgery.     Definitely doable.

I wish it were as easy for the President.