HAPPY NEW YEAR: Read "New Year's Eve Resolutions"

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Wendy

MAKING LOVE? NOT IN THE MOVIES

            Bare bones sex—one, two, three. . .partners are there and done—has become the norm. Spin doctoring, sound bites, instant gratification are pushing closer to a need for Woody Allen’s symbolic prediction: the ultimate machine, the “orgasmatron” as seen in Sleeper (1973).  In fact, Internet sites guarantee that women and men could achieve simultaneous or individual orgasms within five minutes. Okay, if you’re under the age of forty, that’s not too outrageous. Many couples aren’t so fortunate. We don’t need Kinsey or Masters & Johnson to show us that foreplay has become unfashionable. The film industry will do. Movies, television, even soap operas have such time constraints that even in romantic films, the act of making love is a race against the clock.

            Think about the last romantic movie that had a sex scene longer than one minute. Now, I’ll confess that I loved The Notebook (2004) with Ryan Gosling and Rachel McAdams; still, though their chemistry was hot, their ultimate lovemaking fell short.  And then months ago, I watched a love scene from an older movie,  Frankie and Johnny (1991), with Michelle Pfeiffer and Al Pacino. Their passion, underscored by Debussy’s “Claire De Lune,” went on for so long I began to become shy, as if I were intruding in a private couple’s lovemaking. Then, I sat back and realized that I had missed that feeling as I viewed movies. Not to say I’m supporting being a voyeur. No, I’m arguing that foreplay and sensuality go hand in hand. And without the former, the latter doesn’t exist on film and in real life.

           Couples will argue, who has the time for extended foreplay when trying to make ends meet? Hurried sex isn’t new. In 1987, during an upswing in our economy, the comedy Baby Boom’s opening scenes included Diane Keaton and Harold Ramis having sex in record speed. Afterwards, neither appears sated, only politely calmed as they admit to one another. And now moviemakers seem happy to keep to a schedule, too. Of course, not all recent movies fall short, particularly independent films such as 2013’s Blue Is the Warmest Color, (per reviews) or Perks of Being a Wallflower (2012) which shows the intimacy and discomfort of young lovers. Foreign films continue to exalt the “climatic” build up while the majority of American mainstream films have sacrificed sexual tension and sensual foreplay.

      In contrast, we are forever inundated with long, extended violence in movie after movie. No argument that teenagers flock to action-packed, in-your-face gore-fests. But romance, mystery and desire are also marketable commodities. The Twilight series proved that. And yet, Hollywood still refuses to see women and more men appreciate long, sensuous, tension-building love scenes as seen in films such Officer and a Gentleman, Unbearable Lightness of Being, Bridges of Madison County, and most recently, Something’s Gotta Give. Those moments last more than a minute, or at least give that illusion.

                              Should the producers, writers and directors remember how popular the journey is versus the goal, moviegoers might actually take away a few pointers and return for more!

FAITH

  

            No, this isn’t a blog about religion. Or a treatise against or for following a particular doctrine. With the rampant cynicism and apathy in our culture, even faith, in all its incarnations has become muddled. Well, I’m writing to testify that after decades, when many taught me how to think or preached what faith should mean, I’ve found the answer—at least for myself. The answer came after examining the questions I had about self-worth and my place in this rapidly evolving world. Lessons learned over a lifetime.

            First lesson, being eclectic isn’t a liability; it’s an asset. Having many interests and studying multiple subjects or ideas doesn’t preclude a person from achieving success. Some of us are best not finding one path until we’re ready to walk it. Also, single-mindedness and limited imagination often stifles vision. In fact, as a writer taking in everything I could has brought a richness unquantifiable.

            Second lesson, everyone has an answer when they rarely understand the question. Critical thinking has taken a back seat to reactive opinions. Very few have the patience for digging deeply into subjects or weighing various positions. And, I can’t blame them. Scholars have argued in every field about the best approach to many of the world’s problems. Economists, I studied Economics as an undergraduate, rarely have agreed upon solutions. The only analyst I listen to is the Federal Reserve Chair. With all the answers provided across our media culture, we have little time or energy to investigate if the so-called experts understood the problem from the beginning.

            Third lesson, not belonging to an established church doesn’t make one a heretic if the person is catholic, universal. Revering nature and its life energy is inclusive, not exclusive. Furthermore, returning to practical fundamentals while being progressive, believing in the power of one to move many and practicing tolerance are estimable qualities that happen to be endorsed by Pope Francis, the late Nelson Mandela, the Dalai Lama to name three advocates.

            Fourth lesson learned: a cliché, coined by Polonius in Shakespeare’s Hamlet, “To thine own self be true.”  Admittedly, I’m taking Shakespeare’s meaning out of context. However, in a modern context, I’ll say being true to yourself includes loving who you are. Only then as pundits have reiterated can you give and take love without reservations.

            Funny how no one embossed that idea, “self-love” in my brain with all the exposure I’ve had to higher education, religion and constant reassurance from others that I had potential to be a success. Those assurers, including family, stressed confidence, being yourself, . . . still, no one said, “Love yourself.” My mother, for instance, believed exaggerated compliments would lead to egotism. Humility to the point of self-defacement, while always expressing loving thoughts and encouragement, was my mother’s parenting approach: “You have a sweet voice but I’m glad you chose not to become a singer,” as if she were afraid my head would grow into a pumpkin if I believed I had talent. Still, as a former professional vocalist she may have had a point.

            Yet, I believe my mother and others had the capacity to answer that complex question, how do you achieve self-love? That is loving yourself can only be learned not taught. Whitney Houston tragically exemplified this credo as she sang “The Greatest Love of All” but didn’t practice the message.

            The above lessons have led to the culmination, putting it all together, the lessons and experiences which comprise who I am today: remaining curious and always learning; not assuming offered solutions indeed answer the questions; believing in a greater power which comes from within but is nurtured outwardly by those who love not hate, and  finally discovering self-love.

            Throughout my life, I’ve kept the idea of “faith” as an intangible. Nothing I could easily identify though I always knew it existed.  I knew a higher power had and continued to guide me; still I couldn’t see the truth. And then during the last two years my inner strength and new-found convictions brought happiness which I didn’t believe possible: true love for the first time, a beloved avocation which has morphed into a vocation, other passions renewed, and at last, faith in myself.

HOW WRITING SAVED MY SANITY

           

            In ancient Greece, I would speculate, playwriting may have been therapeutic, as well as a form of political protest. Aristophanes’ comic plays served as thinly disguised caricatures of politicians, giving the dramatist an outlet for his dissatisfaction. Centuries later Jonathan Swift’s novel, Gulliver’s Travels, satirically attacked European governments’ status quo and corruption. The play and novel also provided mediums for Aristophanes’ and Swift’s inner voices via less controversial, less potentially dangerous vehicles—drama and fiction—than public commentary. History has proven their choices to be wise as the playwright and the satirist continue to inspire readers and their creations haven’t become lost in the back shelves of libraries.

            It’s not a secret that addressing societal issues through dramatic means, especially in modern times with multimedia, has often moved viewers to stop and think; ruminate about the characters or actions they watch or how the stories reflect their own lives. On television or in film, nevertheless, the screenwriter’s motivation (including adaptations) is secondary or even unnecessary to the audience. Once fictional stories become visual, writers’ personal connection to the work often is lost. Moreover, in modern novels via hardcovers, paperbacks or e-books, the author’s biographical background is left to intellectual pundits to deconstruct and analyze.

            That said, readers please bear with me as I discuss my inspiration for becoming a novelist. Politics and swaying an audience were not my outward or inward motivations, those would come later. No, I had a deeply personal reason—to save my sanity. I naturally had no idea at the time that was my impetus. My first unconscious step toward lucidity had been coming to and living on Cape Cod. But I didn’t see this until a few years later.

            The second stage meant finding a creative outlet for my mangled emotions. I had written stories in the past but never made a serious push toward publishing. Journal writing had become forced, and I had waded in the vastness of on-line writing with a published short story along with some copy writing. Still, I couldn’t foresee my life as a writer.

            The final phase came from conquering the depths, like free diving fathoms and fathoms down until you reach a quiet, surreal solitude. I had to push myself to go places I believed I couldn’t reach. Debris blocked my exploration. Small-minded people who wanted to see me drown; suffocating financial and personal setbacks which choked my ability to breathe—which included a bombardment of medical challenges that felt like diving through schools of fish that would never disperse—all challenged my reasoning and faith. I survived because the sea and all the natural wonders of Cape Cod reached into my soul and compelled me to write what I saw, what I felt. All that I had suppressed resurfaced. I had other help, friends and professionals, but beginning my story gave me a reason to move forward. Writing Shadowwater two years ago, and its upcoming sequel Shadowwater: Dark Sea last summer, compelled me to exorcise past demons, mourn lost parents, and re-focus. I found the embers that would re-ignite and flame my love for life.

            Many fiction writers will confess they base their characters on other people and/or on themselves. “Catharsis,” however, is a word less discussed by novelists—unless clearly autobiographical—or for the minority who will admit that they have teetered on the abyss. Poets, more often than not spill their souls like Sylvia Plath who lost her battle or Maya Angelou who won hers. Dramatists, Eugene O’Neill or Tennessee Williams, who didn’t hesitate to live their lives through their characters, exemplify emotional therapy that unfortunately did not relieve their burdens. But many storytellers—more often paranormal, science fiction and romance novelists—retreat into themselves. Who needs to know their personal challenges or inner struggles when an author’s characters can do that for them? Whether through action, thoughts or relationships the novelist need not reveal his or her own skeletons.

            Returning to my journey, as I worked two jobs and tried to find that elusive brass ring on the Cape, a.k.a, affordable housing, I discovered I had to express myself to save myself, to escape the transient, haphazard jobs that didn’t provide the daily structure I believed I craved and find a semblance of control. What I could depend on were my characters. I could control every aspect of their lives. Only then could I reach outwards, go beyond myself and find surprising rewards.

            My voice has expanded to Tweeting, blogging, writing op-ed pieces, and composing poetry. I want to share with the world, through whatever medium I have available, viewpoints or thoughts, which I hope would encourage readers to stop and think. Aristophanes, Jonathan Swift or Maya Angelou, I wouldn’t presume to be, but I do share their need to be heard through words. For creating awakens the spirit. Writing heals the soul.

GRAY STICKS: Winter on Cape Cod Can Be Endured

Growing up in the Lower Hudson Valley, New York, the four seasons were a right of passage.
If you could bear the cold, snowy winters, you were a survivor of sorts. Keeping a happy tune inside your warm heart when the polar-like wind would whip through the valley or temperatures would dip below zero, meant you had the mental and physical stamina to adapt.

Spring brought renewal, energizing beauty, but summer--I lived in houses without air conditioning--brought new challenges. The high humidity and temperatures, especially during late July and August would have me and my family running for a nearby pool or driving up to Cape Cod for relief.

And then fall lifted the oppressive heat and cooled my perspiration, sluggishness. By then, I was more than ready to return to school.

Years later, I lived in Singapore, located 1 degree above the equator with an average of 90% humidity. After two years, I had adapted and returned to the States feeling less critical. The Hudson Valley heat became bearable.

Not long after my return, my father and I met a couple who had bought a beautiful home overlooking the Hudson River on Storm King Mountain. They had relocated from South Carolina. At a party, the husband looked content and satisfied; his wife did not. Though summer was at hand, she volunteered to me and my father that she loathed the winters on the mountain: "Like living among grey sticks." They had only been in the Hudson Valley for a year, yet I wasn't surprised when I read they put their house on the market two years later.

Then there's the case for "snow birds," fortunate enough to have the money to flock to Florida once a chill sets in on Cape Cod, returning during the late spring, hoping for immediate warmth, to make the transition easier. Sometimes these transients encounter fickle weather, a mercurial phenomenon of the Cape. And native Cape Codders, whom you would expect to be inured to the weather, run away when possible, to warmer climes. Summer may not "officially" begin until temperatures warm up to 75 degrees and the cool rain tapers, as late as July. Many will say that winter, and often spring, on the Cape is challenging.

As for me, I sympathize but don't understand. I may not have been raised here; however, I have endured worse extremes. I wish natives and "wash ashores" alike would see and feel what they are missing during the off-season.

Pine trees don't lose their color. Then, there is the quiet: fewer crowds, cars, sirens and so on. Nature shows its muted tapestry: the endless reshaping of cloud banks off Nauset beach, their silver, grey-blue colors and varied formations that sweep in and out with weather fronts. Or the ocean, sometimes still as a lake with a white crystal surface shining under the sun. In contrast, massive waves after a large storm, reminding us that we are mere humans compared to the regenerating power of the sea.

 Many restaurants, nowadays, remain open and offer bargain menus. Fish markets offer fresh fish not seen during the tourist season. Shopkeepers aren't overly stressed except for the holidays, and are more gracious. Candlelit concerts with a touch of incense warm the heart around Christmas. Services for all faiths and cultural performances remind us how diverse the Cape has become. December and January are filled with events to brighten the mood or enlighten the mind.

Then, there is the weather. I confess I have fallen into hermit behavior in the past. For some time, getting home from work and staying by the fire, watching TV and eating dinner were a ritual. Also, I'll admit I'll forgo a trip to Hyannis on a particularly blustery day with the damp, rawness of cold rain and possible icy conditions.  In time, however, I have begun to see what I have been missing: birds which come to the Cape only during winter, especially snowy owls. Gulls sitting on bone-chilling surf watching for the waves to recede and reveal the occasional crab. I'm now forever awed about our connection to our avian friends, such as, seabirds ability to endure the frigid water. They have inspired me.

Given time, we all can adapt to our new environs, including those places we don't want to be either through adversity, new jobs, family relocation or other challenges. Only those who are forced on the streets or are living in abject poverty, such as the homeless, should not have to adapt to harsh climates.

For with the holidays approaching, I ask that those who have more and/or those who are healthy remember what they are blessed with and frankly to STOP whining. Appreciate the many activities the Cape has to offer. See what is right in front of you. Take a moment to enjoy nature in all its variations. STOP and look, feel, touch, smell, and hear. Even during the cold, bitter days when you wish for the sun, it is there, not as warm but just as enriching.

And if you do embrace the off-season on the Cape, those "gray sticks" will become refuges for owls, woodpeckers, winter robins, and raptors. Only when we accept what we cannot change do we thrive and prosper.

WISHES FOR THE NEW YEAR: IN A PERFECT WORLD. . ,

. . . agencies, whether government-run or private, would learn to write instructions & directions clearly.

. . . doctors would learn to ask the right questions.

. . . patients wouldn’t have to get sicker advocating for themselves again and again.

. . . initial government cuts wouldn’t be made to programs that improve the lives of the impoverished or medically challenged.

. . . Congress would see the value of proactive vs. reactive actions.

. . . environmental protection would be a priority not an after-thought.

. . . cheating in any arena, education, sports, business, and politics, would be minimized.

. . . people in places of power who affect the daily lives of many would learn empathy.

. . . Americans would be given the chance to live one day as a minority in another country.

. . . change would come from within to precipitate change without.

. . . Congress would have to work on holidays and do minimum wage, entry-level work four times a year.

. . . the 10% who hold the power in this country would be forced to watch A CHRISTMAS CAROL over and over again.

. . . the Holiday season media—Macy’s Parade, radio, television specials, movies, etc.— wouldn’t be dominated by commercialism.

. . . everyone would give as much as they receive, and,

. . . all would have a peaceful, loving and spiritually rich holiday.

SEASON’S GREETINGS!

Nelson Mandela - A brief thought posted on Twitter

Nelson Mandela had more heart,spirit & courage than we could ever imagine.His voice won't die as long as people continue to fight injustice.

PLASTICITY - Newest poem

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Poetry Lovers - Go to the link below to read my latest poem, MAGIC GONE

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HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

 

 

 In the darkness that looms before us,

We find hope in nature's chorus;

And laugh with songs that seem absurd,

Coming from such buffoonish birds.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

WENDY