Nothing

                                                        


Remember that television show about nothing? It ran for nine years so it must have been about something. My life has run longer than nine years so it must also be about something. Although today I feel like that TV show - searching for a theme, a plot, a reason. Jerry Seinfeld and company were happy that their nothingness garnered laughs. So that was what it was all about for them. And that surely is something.

Nothing's about nothing. It is impossible. Today I wanted to do a new post on my blog. I felt the need. And although there is much going on inside of me, that is not what I wanted to share. Yet, I wanted to post something meaningful.

I have nothing.

                                                   

Today this blog is about nothing - my nothing. Shall I recount my day? I got out of bed at 7am to pee. Returned to bed and slept till 9am. Brewed coffee - Colombian roast - sat down in front of the TV with my coffee and zapped the hundred plus channels gathering bits of information useless and worldly. At 10am I moved from my chair in the living room to the kitchen to "prepare" frozen waffles for me and Glenn. We chatted mundanely over slightly toaster burned waffles. Glenn retired to the music room with his kindle and I to the shower. About an hour later we left for the gym. 90 minutes later we drove to the car wash - poor thing was shamefully mucky from the previous week's mire.

Nothing, right?

Home to a little Internet shopping - potassium pills - free shipping - and, then, checking in on Jodi Arias and the brilliant Mendes ripping the psychiatrist on the stand a big wide new one.

Back to the kitchen for an early dinner - 3pm - tomato soup, lox, cream cheese and onion bagels, cold pork loin, garden salad and cherry Pepsi.

We adjourned to the living room to watch a dvr'd Restaurant Stakeout - is this show real or staged?

Talked for an hour or so with sister Jeanie on the telephone - touching upon the recent events that surely were something - not nothing.

Back to watch Antiques Roadshow and here I am blogging about NOTHING.

Or is it just because its Monday?

                                                       

Gloria

We can have all the beliefs and theories about the afterlife and what is on the other side. But truly, do we really believe any of it. If we did believe then why is it so hard to face grief. In fact, why even grieve. After all, dying is supposed to be a transition to a better place for most of us. We won't even discuss that other place today.

I like to believe that we go on. Human conceit allows it. Yet, when I am alone with myself and very very quiet, I just do not know. If I really listen to my heart, I know that all I can vouch for is death puts an end to breathing. The heart stops. That is all I am certain of.

My sister, Gloria, a very gentle soul, passed away yesterday. I sat next to her still body as she seemed to be sleeping. Except she wasn't breathing anymore. I touched her. She was still warm which amazed me. I felt she might suddenly open her eyes and see me.

I hope she has transitioned into that place of light and warmth everyone talks about. That place where her daughter, Julie, is waiting to greet her with open arms. That place where Ma and Dad and brother Georgie are laughing as they welcome Gloria into her happy destiny. Heaven? Sounds like heaven to me.

I also believe life, living, is so wonderful. What could be better than life on earth - when everything is going your way, that is. What could be better than breaded pork chops, and chocolate eclairs, fresh baked baguettes, bold falvored freshly brewed coffee in the morning. But mostly heaven on earth is being with the ones you love - the one you love - the ones you are learning to love - laughing, crying at a sad movie, intimate romance, a really good book, music music, a benign snowstorm that keeps you in for two days with your spouse, junk TV and junk food, napping, that sudden rush of happiness that fills you with possibilities. How can heaven - the afterlife -  compete with all of this. How? How?

I miss you, Gloria, Ma, Dad, Georgie, Aunt Lee and Uncle Tony, Uncle Vince and Aunt Anna, Uncle Don and all the other friends and relatives heaven takes away from us. I hope with all my heart that the beyond blows life on earth totally away.

I still want you here. But if that land of light and warmth is real, well then, I'll be seeing you. I love you all.

 I love you, Gloria.

All You Need Is Love

The best place for me to really hear music - really hear every aspect of a song - its performance, the arrangement, the lyrics - yes, especially the lyrics - the very best place to experience a song is at the gym.

I do my routines - resistance training, bike, a little stretching then the part I look forward to - my hour on the treadmill. Six days a week - usually early afternoon - I get to just hear the music. With my mp3 and dynamite headphones - not those puny crowded sounding ear plugs - I HEAR THE MUSIC I HEAR THE WORDS.

                                                  

What I do is fill my mp3 with all kinds of music from all my sources - Cd's, Internet downloads and music files on my computer. About 500 tracks at any given time are put into my device of every genre. I stay pretty much away from classical, however. It brings me to a place not very conducive for exercise. But everything else from jazz, rock, pop, jazz, show tunes, rap and blues - all with an emphasis on vocals.

The thing that happens on the treadmill every day is a revelation. Songs that I like but have taken for granted over the years are reborn. The beauty of the piece comes through with no distractions. And sometimes the lyrics hit me like cupids arrow to my heart. I say, 'Oh, that's what that song is about!"

Yesterday, I had in my players mix some Steve Tyrell. I really enjoy him - raspy voice, a lifetime of living in his every expression. The song that prompted this post came on AND although I have heard this lovely tune many times before by a string of top notch singers, this time was different.

 I was on a cool down speed coming to the end of my sixty minutes on the treadmill. When you are on the treadmill for more than half an hour with really good headphones piping really good music into your ears,  you are transported into a very private world that actually feels private - even with a packed gym. The movement on the machine as you tread and the music full and resonant in your ear is like sailing on a mellow cloud in a gauzy bright orange sky. So, sailing as I was on this cloud, Steve Tyrell rasps out "Don't Know Much". I have always liked this song. But did I ever really pay attention to the words? Maybe maturity has given me a third ear. Here, then, are the lyrics. And take it from me, truer words were never spoken or, that is, sung.

Look at this face
I know the years are showing
Look at this life
I still don't know where it's going

I don't know much
But I know I love you
And that may be
All I need to know

Look at these eyes
They've never seen what matters
Look at these dreams
So beaten and so battered

I don't know much
But I know I love you
And that may be
All I need to know

So many questions
Still left unanswered
So much I've never broken through
And when I feel you near me
Sometimes I see so clearly
The only truth I've ever known
Is me and you

Look at this man
So blessed with inspiration
Look at this soul
Still searching for salvation

I don't know much
But I know I love you
And that may be
All I need to know

Maybe I'm getting sentimental in my advancing years or maybe , just maybe I am getting wiser - recognizing what's true even in a song of such profound simplicity. I can't wait until tomorrow. What truth will race to my heart on the treadmill?

and here's a link to the song - enjoy.......                                               


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tLF8PnpQix0

The New Drug

We are a nation of addicts. Most of us are junkies. Oh yes we are - WE ARE!

What is your drug of choice? Television? Casinos? Buffets? The Internet?  OR the new drug - the most insidious drug - the most annoying, irritating, rude, habit  forming and ironically anti-social drug of all
                                             TEXTING !!

                                             
Everywhere I go everyone has their head down - palm out nesting their device - other hand pecking like a hungry bird collecting tiny seeds. This is happening while they are with other people. I see it on the street. I see it at the gym, library, supermarket, restaurants, the theater - movies and legit -  EVERYWHERE!  I see drivers steering down the highways and byways texting their fool heads off.

                                                                

WHAT IS GOING ON?

Cell phones have revolutionized social intercourse. The pushers - AT&T, Verizon, Sprint and the rest have us hooked for life. Oh yes they do. And I fear for the future. People are never really in the moment anymore. They go to a play and at intermission they immediately turn their phones on as the house lights come up. Why aren't they out in the lobby stretching their legs, mulling around, discussing the first act, chatting with the people THEY CAME WITH. No, they are texting the people they didn't come with. WHY? WHY? WHY?????????????
Do they not like their theater companions? Why didn't they come with their textee OR go to them?  Why are they at the theater? GO HOME!

                                                          

How about the situation where you are in a deep conversation with a friend and they receive a text. Rather than respond at a more appropriate time, why do they feel compelled to answer the text immediately. Never mind that by doing this they break up the chat with you. This rude act tells you that your words, your company is less important to them than some inane text asking, "Whazzup, dog?"

                                                   

Telephone answering machines use to help us avoid calls. They would help us manage our incoming calls. We left our homes knowing the machine would collect any important messages. We went out feeling socially covered. If we were home involved in a good  meal, TV show or God forbid, A BOOK, we never felt compelled to drop everything to answer the phone. "The machine will do it", we said. And it did with great efficiency. No feelings were hurt. Calls were returned and the book got read, the TV show watched to its conclusion, the meal enjoyed from soup to nuts. What happened? We have completely turned around. Is it because our family and friends know we have a cell and therefore we must have it with us ALWAYS because isn't that what cell phones are for TO HAVE THEM WITH US ALWAYS. So, we answer the text whatever and wherever the situation and place.

Now, the convenience has become an addiction. We just have to text.

                                                                                                                 

I text. I love texting. It is efficient. It is economical. It saves time. I know there are others like me who text appropriately, that is to say, SANELY. We do not feel the world will end if we ignore a text signal while involved with another human being or activity. We will not put the pork chop down to respond to the  "whazzups, smiley icons, photos sent from the mall with the new TCBY flavor or of the 300 pound mini skirted lady with spiked heels and green hair" - well, that one I would drop the pork chop for -  LOL - and another thing - I HATE LOL - is anyone seriously laughing out loud or LMAO - I'd love to laugh my ass off - literally........

I'm done.

Phoenix Rising

Joaquin Phoenix is a great actor. It is as simple as that. Every so many years, Mr. Phoenix brings to the movie world astonishing portrayals. His latest performance is an absolute triumph. In "The Master" Joaquin Phoenix documents a character, Freddie Quell, with amazing raw organic energy. You will not see a more original and authentic performance anywhere. Mr. Phoenix inhabits the skin and bones of Freddie with such a ferocity that it is down right scary. I was enormously fascinated with Freddie Quell - a character that you'd run from if you encountered him on first instinct. Yet, you will care for this nut bar and at the same time worry for the people that he encounters. With a physicality - slumped shoulders, an indescribable gait, and a sort of signature stance - arms angled outward as hands rest on his waist - Joaquin Phoenix is riveting.

Mr. Phoenix has an impressive body of work in film that gets forgotten due to his off screen shenanigans. Well, like many of the characters he portrays, Joaquin is a nut bar it seems. But aren't most artists? I think so. There are stars, celebrated actors ( Meryl Streep, Brando, DeNiro, Daniel Day Lewis, Claire Danes etc. ), and great actors - the aforementioned and great uncelebrated actors. I believe Joaquin Phoenix deserves more respect. Yes, he has been nominated several times for Oscars and Golden Globes and critics awards. So he is celebrated that way. But, I never hear his name brought up in conversations about great actors. I don't know why. Could it be that some of his very best performances are not seen by a wide audience. 'The Master", "Inventing The Abbotts", 8MM and "Quills" plus quite a bit more. He is known for 'Walk The Line" , "Signs", 'The Village", "Gladiator" and "Hotel Rwanda" But were these movies that widely seen?

The thing is, I am over the moon about Joaquin Phoenix so, of course, I want everyone else to be over the moon as well. Go to Red Box. Rent "The Master" and see if I'm not right. The movie is not an easy one but stay with it. I think Joaquin Phoenix was the magnet that had me holding on until all became clear. It is a PT Anderson film - "Magnolia", "There Will Be Blood" - so expect a bumpy ride - a ride that is so worth it with Joaquin Phoenix in the driver's seat. 

Why?

Why?

                                               

People have asked me, ‘Why blog?”  The easy answer is – why not – actually a question. My real true answer is more heartfelt.

I blog because I have lots to say. I blog to afford myself an outlet for sharing joy, for venting, for protesting, for praising and for judging. Also, I like to write.

                                                 

Blogging for me is a creative expression. I am glad that in just a few short months The Kitchen Sink has attracted readers from all over the world. This Internet thing is amazing, right? My readers visit this blog from all over the USA, Canada, France, Italy, Chile, Germany, China, Cyprus, Japan, Korea, Greece, Ukraine, Sweden, Australia, United Kingdom, Russia, Indonesia, Poland, Chile, Latvia and so many more places. It is astounding to me that so many readers of The Kitchen Sink understand not just English but also understand me. I love the comments and emails I have received from near and far. Truthfully, writing this blog is a blast.

People ask me, “Why get so personal?” Well, my vision for The Kitchen Sink is to tell the truth – my truth. I have seen blogs about cooking and sharing recipes- blogs full of family photos and accounts of the family vacation , reunion or birthdays – things like that which is fine if that is the blogger’s vision. I may delve into some of that but probably not. We’ll see.  For me, it is like writing a memoir. Why bother if you cannot be honest – stand in your own truth as they say these days. It is not always easy to stand in your truth but I will say, it is easier to do so with a blog.  

                                                                                            

Standing in your own truth will ruffle some feathers and that is OK with me. I welcome dissent. I have lost only one “friend” because of one of my blog postings.  It is too bad, of course, that this person didn’t fully grasp my message. However, I do understand his feelings – well, I can guess at it anyway. You see, I share this blog not only with Google but also with facebook. I am quite certain this person unfriended me on facebook  over a recent post. As unfortunate as this is because of who it was, this is the risk one takes for telling the truth – my truth. And, reader, please believe, I stand in my truth with no intended malice toward anyone. My occasional vitriol, anger, mockery and criticism will be apparent and the target clear. I do not foresee myself apologizing for any of my posts.

I ask myself, “Why would you think people may be interested in your opinion and point of view?”

 I answer myself with a big “I don’t know.”

Then I say, "I am interested in many things which leads me to explore these interests which, in my exploration, leads me to facts and observations – opinions – other people’s opinions – critics, experts, enthusiasts. Why can’t my opinion count, too? “

Evidently, to some 5,862 worldwide readers of The Kitchen Sink in February, my truth is valid.

Such surprising support gives me strength to continue to

STAND IN MY OWN TRUTH.

Please visit me often and, hey, say hello.

My Ghosts

                                                      
 I'm not sure I believe in life after death BUT I do believe in ghosts. I've known a few. Some are those who I knew before they passed but most are just ghosts - beings, if you will, that I didn't know in life, that is, their life. Maybe I did know them and either they have not made this clear to me as yet OR I knew them in another life. Which brings up another issue - I'm not sure I believe in reincarnation.

I know it is odd. How can I believe in ghosts and, yet, be uncertain of life after death and reincarnation? Well, there it is. It is how I feel. I truly want to believe in the great beyond. Who doesn't? An eternity of nothingness scares me more than taking up residence in hell. However, I do not rule it out. I am hoping there is something more. Maybe my ghosts can convince me that there is more after we depart this good earth.

Let me state emphatically that I am not or have I ever been afraid of my ghosts or anyone else's for that matter. They can boo all they want. Actually, none of my ghosts have ever booed. Where does that come from? Even Casper didn't boo. Plus, I believe a ghost cannot really physically hurt you. They are a little unsettling I will admit and do take some getting use to. But my experience tells me most ghosts either want to connect or just want to hang around a familiar place or person.

                                                       
My first ghost appeared to me when I was about 6 or 7. I had a sprained arm inflicted upon me by Mrs. Topinko. She dragged me by my - was it my left arm? - to my house from her's across the street to confront my mother. Mrs. T had caught me picking tulips from her precious garden. I don't remember much else about that incident except that by day's end I had a small cast on my arm. However, what I do remember WELL was that night in my bedroom. I woke to see a beautiful lady glowing in the far corner of my bedroom who I perceived to be the Blessed Virgin Mary. Well, she was garbed all in veils and flowing fabrics of white and blue - looking just like the holy pictures we got at school from the nuns. I was so excited. I screamed for my parents and they came running. The odd thing although it didn't seem odd to a young Catholic boy at the time - the odd thing was that my arm was healed. I'm telling the truth so stop rolling your eyes. All I know is, at this young young age, I was a happy convinced Catholic eager to believe all I was taught at church and school. Catholicism is great fun for the young with all the saints and miracles and fantastic stories. My head was freshly filled with these stories and I, like many Catholics, loved the Virgin Mary so much - more than any other saint or deity. She was the only one I loved more than Saint Anthony. Anyway, I was sure my apparition was Mary.

                                                 
My next ghost appeared decades later in apartment 16G in Manhattan. I was home alone with a darkened room, a lit candle and a Ouija board I found earlier that day discarded in a city trash can on 9th avenue. A friend had died recently. He was the first person I was ever close to around my age at the time which was YOUNG - my first death of a friend.  So, I got stupid and tried to conjure him up with the help of the board from the garbage -  AND I DID. It wasn't pretty and I learned absolutely nothing from the experience except that an untimely death does not look good. It didn't scare me -  this unpleasant experience BUT it did prompt me to return that Ouija board to its 9th avenue bin.

                                                         
Then there are the visits from loved ones - mothers, fathers -  in dreams that are so lucid. I don't know if these qualify as hauntings but whatever they are - were - they are welcome and have mostly been warm and fuzzy experiences.

What about the things that happen the very day a person dies. Lights flickering, voices heard, music playing, radios turning on, light beams bouncing off or hovering near mourners. Are these ghosts, too?

Are ghosts just our minds willing their appearance. Do we long so much to conquer life's greatest mystery by producing ghosts, apparitions and even the occasional miracle through the power of  sheer human charge?

                                                     
I do have a ghost with no friend or familial connection. He is currently "living" in my house - basically the front of the house - the piano room. He is around 12 years old and sings - a sweet soprano voice. We - yes WE, because, Glenn has admitted to hearing him - we can hear him sing only when he feels he is alone. This mean, when we come home - as we enter the back door, we hear him sing - sounds like a vocalise - in the front room - the music room as it were.

I even know what he looks like.  He is around 12 years old with yellow hair falling on a cherubic face clothed in a light brown Victorian suit with a white shirt of small ruffles. He looks very much like a singer to be sure. He is not of this house, I do believe. You see, I brought him into this house soon after I bought it. People say he looks like me when I was a child. I can see that.

Having fun at an antique mall on Saturday afternoon buying things for my new old house, I was drawn to a small painting of a little boy softly looking - at me? Like a puppy in a kennel eager to be adopted, this boy in the painting seemed to urge me to buy him. So I did. I brought him home -  hung him near the staircase in the piano room and went on with my day. Glenn and I went out again. I don't remember where - perhaps to eat. Anyway, on our return that early evening, it was the first time we heard the singing. When it was apparent we were home - what with doors closing and conversation and exclamations like "Did you hear that? Some one's singing. Did you leave the radio on? TV? No. No." With all this 'commotion" the singing stopped. I immediately attributed it to the painting.

                                                    
We have heard the boy in the painting sing his song for many years now - not frequently - but we hear. Now, every once in a while, he will sing even when we are obvioiusly home - although only if we are not in the piano room.  It is not scary. It is, I don't know - OK - yes - OK - quite OK. Funny, but we have never named the boy. It wouldn't be right. He probably had - has a name. I wouldn't want to confuse him. After all, I don't think he knows he is dead.

                                                             
I feel ghosts are people who have not completed their act of death. Once they completely die, they will cease to be ghosts. They will simply cease to be. And maybe that is why they hang on - haunt - to avoid that final curtain.