Just stop it.
Put down the digital camera, iPod, the iPhone, the Blackberry, the Sony Reader, the Kindle, the Wii. Stop playing with it. Turn it off, put it down and fucking pay attention.
Pay attention to the world, to your friends, to the birds perched on your windowsill. To the sound the wind makes when it blows through the trees. To the feeling of cold air on your face and inside your lungs.
Just. Stop.
Stop spending. What are you buying all that stuff for?
Relax. Why are you working so hard?
Slow down. Pay attention. Look people in the eye. Smile at them. Say “please” and “thank you” and hold doors open for people.
Stop tailgating. Don’t honk your horn. Stop cutting people off. Use your turn signal.
Don’t yell. Stop talking. Just listen.
Turn off your goddamn cell phone ringer when you are in a public place, and don’t answer it unless you are alone or you have a real good fucking reason. Call people back when you have time to give them your full attention. Turn off your phone when you are in the checkout line, at a restaurant, a movie, a concert. Turn. It. Off.
Stop texting when you are at a concert, a movie, in the car, when you’re talking to people.
Treat people with courtesy and respect. Be kind to those who serve you.
Be patient with the sick, the weak, the elderly. Smile at them and offer to help.
Pay attention to your kids. Teach them manners, teach them respect, teach them love.
Set a good example.
If you have to think about it twice, don’t do it.
Don’t buy it if you don’t need it.
Turn it off. Slow down. Watch. Listen.
Pay attention.
Love each other.
Sunday, January 03, 2010
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Darkness Revisited
Lately I have been listening to Bruce Springsteen’s Darkness on the Edge of Town album a lot, partially because I haven’t in a long time, and partially in preparation for its upcoming re-issue. These are songs that have never left his live sets since Bruce first played them over thirty years ago. They have stuck around because they are songs that continue to resonate not only in his own life, but in the lives of his audience. After all, he continues to play them night after night not only because he particularly favors them but because they garner a certain audience response. And rock’n’roll is show business, after all.
Darkness is a unique album in the Springsteen canon, as it is one of only two albums (Nebraska being the other) that have gained some acceptance not only by his own fans, but by the far less mainstream world of punk rock as well. And it’s not just about the anger, the frustration, the aggression that are common to both worlds. It’s that the stark rawness both of the Darkness album and of the punk rock movement are both rooted in the music of Williams and Cash, of Presley and Cochran, artists whose own music was born of the old time country and blues of the rural south. It’s no accident that both Bruce and The Clash have gravitated to Bobby Fuller, that both Springsteen and Social Distortion have covered Johnny Cash.
Why then is Bruce still such a hard sell to the next couple generations of punk rockers? Why do they embrace Mike Ness and Joey Ramone and not see that Springsteen and those punk artists exist on different branches of the same tree?
I have a thirty-something friend who plays in a couple pop-punk bands in his home state of New Jersey. I met him at a New York Dolls show and we talked for hours about that scene, about The Ramones and The Heartbreakers and all that came after. Yet he was surprised to learn that I wrote for a Springsteen fan magazine. Considered Bruce's work kind of hokey, far too broad and mainstream to be considered outsider music in the punk vein. I tried to tell him how outside Springsteen once was, what a difficult sell the Darkness album was in its time. How Bruce used to hang out with Patti Smith and Robert Gordon and Joey Ramone, how they would come to see him play. But in his mind Bruce is just that guy waving the flag, the guy his parents listened to.
I don’t know if Bruce will ever completely come to terms with the wealth and notoriety that accompany mainstream success. As though music weren’t a job, as though being both well-known and commercially successful weren’t much of the reason that musicians do what they do. In addition, I have never been altogether sure that Bruce himself has been completely comfortable with some of the compromises he has had to make in his life as a result of that mainstream success: the loss of privacy and of some of the artistic freedom that comes from not having to appeal to a mass audience. I think he has, in some sense, felt trapped by that lack of freedom, and has only recently begun to understand that it has always been within his power to reclaim it.
As for me, well, I’m going to buy two copies of that Darkness reissue next year: one for me, and one for my punk rock friend. Because I think it’s time to listen to those songs again; to give them the freedom to speak for themselves that Bruce himself finally seems to have rediscovered. And, well, that punk needs to learn a thing or two about the record that Pete Townshend himself once called "fuckin' triumph, man."
Darkness is a unique album in the Springsteen canon, as it is one of only two albums (Nebraska being the other) that have gained some acceptance not only by his own fans, but by the far less mainstream world of punk rock as well. And it’s not just about the anger, the frustration, the aggression that are common to both worlds. It’s that the stark rawness both of the Darkness album and of the punk rock movement are both rooted in the music of Williams and Cash, of Presley and Cochran, artists whose own music was born of the old time country and blues of the rural south. It’s no accident that both Bruce and The Clash have gravitated to Bobby Fuller, that both Springsteen and Social Distortion have covered Johnny Cash.
Why then is Bruce still such a hard sell to the next couple generations of punk rockers? Why do they embrace Mike Ness and Joey Ramone and not see that Springsteen and those punk artists exist on different branches of the same tree?
I have a thirty-something friend who plays in a couple pop-punk bands in his home state of New Jersey. I met him at a New York Dolls show and we talked for hours about that scene, about The Ramones and The Heartbreakers and all that came after. Yet he was surprised to learn that I wrote for a Springsteen fan magazine. Considered Bruce's work kind of hokey, far too broad and mainstream to be considered outsider music in the punk vein. I tried to tell him how outside Springsteen once was, what a difficult sell the Darkness album was in its time. How Bruce used to hang out with Patti Smith and Robert Gordon and Joey Ramone, how they would come to see him play. But in his mind Bruce is just that guy waving the flag, the guy his parents listened to.
I don’t know if Bruce will ever completely come to terms with the wealth and notoriety that accompany mainstream success. As though music weren’t a job, as though being both well-known and commercially successful weren’t much of the reason that musicians do what they do. In addition, I have never been altogether sure that Bruce himself has been completely comfortable with some of the compromises he has had to make in his life as a result of that mainstream success: the loss of privacy and of some of the artistic freedom that comes from not having to appeal to a mass audience. I think he has, in some sense, felt trapped by that lack of freedom, and has only recently begun to understand that it has always been within his power to reclaim it.
As for me, well, I’m going to buy two copies of that Darkness reissue next year: one for me, and one for my punk rock friend. Because I think it’s time to listen to those songs again; to give them the freedom to speak for themselves that Bruce himself finally seems to have rediscovered. And, well, that punk needs to learn a thing or two about the record that Pete Townshend himself once called "fuckin' triumph, man."
Sunday, December 06, 2009
What Lies Beneath
I know my grandfather’s name was John Edward Peters and my grandmother married him because he was a good dancer. He liked to party, but he had a dark side too, a side that remains a mystery. He, like many, lost a large fortune after the stock market crash of ’29; he married my grandmother not long after. My grandfather never recovered from the loss, and his black moods and drinking increased until finally my grandmother threw him out; she eventually divorced him when my mother was five or six years old.
She married her second husband in 1941, and he went off to the war in Europe. My grandfather served in Europe as well. We don’t know much about his service except that he saw action in Germany and returned with “combat fatigue” for which he received no treatment; it was his second major breakdown. There may have been more, I’m not sure. I'm also not sure why they let him in the service in the first place with his history of mental trouble.
He returned to Baltimore after the war, and though my mother and her older brother rarely saw him, he did send her spending money--$10 a month or so—while she attended the University of Maryland, from which she graduated in 1955. My mother tells me that he would occasionally turn up in her neighborhood around this time, that he followed her and tried to catch glimpses of her. These days you would call it stalking, I guess, but back then it was just considered creepy. My mom says he once made some inappropriate comments to her, and that she doesn’t remember seeing him after that. He died some years later.
Is this where the darkness and despair come from? Do my own mood swings and depression and self-destructive behavior come from the Peters side? And what if they do? Does this change anything, or is it just an excuse? I don’t know. I just know that I need to know more about this mysterious, malevolent figure whom his own children rarely saw. I don’t know if I believe in the concept of closure or not; I just know that there’s a part of me that belongs to him, and I cannot rest without knowing more.
She married her second husband in 1941, and he went off to the war in Europe. My grandfather served in Europe as well. We don’t know much about his service except that he saw action in Germany and returned with “combat fatigue” for which he received no treatment; it was his second major breakdown. There may have been more, I’m not sure. I'm also not sure why they let him in the service in the first place with his history of mental trouble.
He returned to Baltimore after the war, and though my mother and her older brother rarely saw him, he did send her spending money--$10 a month or so—while she attended the University of Maryland, from which she graduated in 1955. My mother tells me that he would occasionally turn up in her neighborhood around this time, that he followed her and tried to catch glimpses of her. These days you would call it stalking, I guess, but back then it was just considered creepy. My mom says he once made some inappropriate comments to her, and that she doesn’t remember seeing him after that. He died some years later.
Is this where the darkness and despair come from? Do my own mood swings and depression and self-destructive behavior come from the Peters side? And what if they do? Does this change anything, or is it just an excuse? I don’t know. I just know that I need to know more about this mysterious, malevolent figure whom his own children rarely saw. I don’t know if I believe in the concept of closure or not; I just know that there’s a part of me that belongs to him, and I cannot rest without knowing more.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Giving Thanks
Well, it’s another Thanksgiving and today we are all spending time with friends and family, eating and drinking far too much and reflecting on our many blessings. For me, it’s been a strange, disturbing year for many reasons, and yet I still feel fortunate.
Fortunate to still be here, for one thing. Several people from the music world that has obsessed me lo these many years have died this year: John Luraschi and Larry Blasco from the Jersey Shore scene. Ellie Greenwich and Larry Knechtel from Phil Spector’s family of geniuses. Lifelong heroes like Ted Kennedy. Friends of friends whom I only hear about weeks later. But they are gone just the same, and that is always hard.
I visited Arlington National Cemetery earlier this year and witnessed the results of the savagery and relentlessness of man’s wartime folly. As rifle shots from a funeral echoed in the distance, it was brought home to me again how precious an individual life is to those who mourn; how tragic the loss of so many young, vital people. Each death leaves a gaping hole in our lives that only time can fill.
This year I have lost my precious tabby cat Suzie, who was my companion and best friend. She knew all my secrets and listened without judgment. She comforted me when I was sad and alone, and I told her things no one else would understand. She was spoiled and overweight, but she was kind and affectionate and I will miss her terribly.
There have been other changes this year. I have taken some steps in my personal life that have left me with a somewhat uncertain future, but they were changes that needed to happen and I feel certain that despite the difficult circumstances at present, things will eventually work out. My sister has finally begun to receive the medical treatment she so desperately needs, and has begun addressing some of her own personal difficulties.
But there have also been several things that have happened to me that have been nothing short of amazing. I have renewed my friendships with several people whom I haven’t seen in years. I have appeared on the radio with Dave Marsh, an old friend and mentor who always seems to be there at the right time. I have seen Bruce Springsteen perform in a small venue right in my own backyard. I have discovered another band to chase around the country, and have found several new friends along the way, a couple of whom have completely and utterly changed my life. They continue to make me feel wanted and needed when I am at my lowest, and constantly remind me that the best things in life are often so simple: a glance, a smile, a kiss. A touch, a long, warm embrace that lets you know everything’s going to be all right. These are gifts whose value has no measure, and I cannot begin to thank them enough.
There are so many things to be thankful for despite all the heartache and despair of the past year. I have a job and money in the bank. I have a roof over my head and food in my stomach. I have my friends and my family, no matter how fractured and dysfunctional it may be. I have my head and my heart and my body and my brain. I have my health—for the most part. I have a car and clothes to wear and music to listen to. Books to read, films and television to watch, culinary marvels to indulge in. I have the smell that hangs in the air just before it snows, the aura of anticipation just before a band that I love starts to play. I have the memory of the way my cat used to look at me when I’d scratch her chin, the warmth of her body in my lap. The way the sunlight glints off the breaking ocean waves and dapples its surface. The way my friends make me laugh, the taste of warm red wine and the soft buzz it gives me. The charge I still get from seeing a great movie or reading a great book or hearing great music. From discovering a new band, from those three chords and that backbeat. From Paul McCartney’s winsome smile and pure, true voice and unforgettable melodies, from Paul Westerberg’s heart and soul and wit, from Beethoven’s passion and Forster’s intelligence and Coppola’s epic grandeur and Winslet’s perfect skin and intense blue eyes and Newman’s self-deprecating grin.
I have the smell of wet grass, the light in a certain someone’s eyes and that naughty suggestive smile he sometimes gives me that always makes me melt. I have The Ramones and The Beatles, the sound of a cat’s purr, the contended snorts and munches of horses and cows when they’re fed, the gurgling of a hidden stream in the woods on a brisk fall day, the sound of the wind in the trees, the stillness of solitude in the outdoors, the awesome magnitude of a mountain range in the distance. The perfect refreshment of cold orange juice when I have awakened with a hangover; the greasy, salty warmth of Burger King french fries and the perfect tang of garlic and oregano and tomato and cheese that flavors a slice of pizza on the street in New York City. The total comfort of egg drop soup, of having a place to come home to at the end of the day when I’m tired and hungry and just need to sit down and do nothing for awhile. The way the sound of loud guitars hits me right in the chest, the way the drums pound through my head, the way the bass can be something I hear but can also be that frequency that vibrates through my entire body. The way it feels when you’re alone with someone and they take you in their arms and hold you and touch you and make the entire world disappear. The way my nephews talk to each other when they think no one else is listening, how their voices echo throughout the house, the sound of their feet running back and forth as they chase each other around at play. The soft, cool glow of moonlight that hangs above a still night meadow, the twinkling of the Brooklyn Bridge, the green torch of the Statue of Liberty in the distance. The Lincoln Memorial at night, the chirping of birds outside my window.
Yes, I am blessed by these things and many more. I am still here despite everything, and for that I am truly grateful.
Happy Thanksgiving everyone.
Fortunate to still be here, for one thing. Several people from the music world that has obsessed me lo these many years have died this year: John Luraschi and Larry Blasco from the Jersey Shore scene. Ellie Greenwich and Larry Knechtel from Phil Spector’s family of geniuses. Lifelong heroes like Ted Kennedy. Friends of friends whom I only hear about weeks later. But they are gone just the same, and that is always hard.
I visited Arlington National Cemetery earlier this year and witnessed the results of the savagery and relentlessness of man’s wartime folly. As rifle shots from a funeral echoed in the distance, it was brought home to me again how precious an individual life is to those who mourn; how tragic the loss of so many young, vital people. Each death leaves a gaping hole in our lives that only time can fill.
This year I have lost my precious tabby cat Suzie, who was my companion and best friend. She knew all my secrets and listened without judgment. She comforted me when I was sad and alone, and I told her things no one else would understand. She was spoiled and overweight, but she was kind and affectionate and I will miss her terribly.
There have been other changes this year. I have taken some steps in my personal life that have left me with a somewhat uncertain future, but they were changes that needed to happen and I feel certain that despite the difficult circumstances at present, things will eventually work out. My sister has finally begun to receive the medical treatment she so desperately needs, and has begun addressing some of her own personal difficulties.
But there have also been several things that have happened to me that have been nothing short of amazing. I have renewed my friendships with several people whom I haven’t seen in years. I have appeared on the radio with Dave Marsh, an old friend and mentor who always seems to be there at the right time. I have seen Bruce Springsteen perform in a small venue right in my own backyard. I have discovered another band to chase around the country, and have found several new friends along the way, a couple of whom have completely and utterly changed my life. They continue to make me feel wanted and needed when I am at my lowest, and constantly remind me that the best things in life are often so simple: a glance, a smile, a kiss. A touch, a long, warm embrace that lets you know everything’s going to be all right. These are gifts whose value has no measure, and I cannot begin to thank them enough.
There are so many things to be thankful for despite all the heartache and despair of the past year. I have a job and money in the bank. I have a roof over my head and food in my stomach. I have my friends and my family, no matter how fractured and dysfunctional it may be. I have my head and my heart and my body and my brain. I have my health—for the most part. I have a car and clothes to wear and music to listen to. Books to read, films and television to watch, culinary marvels to indulge in. I have the smell that hangs in the air just before it snows, the aura of anticipation just before a band that I love starts to play. I have the memory of the way my cat used to look at me when I’d scratch her chin, the warmth of her body in my lap. The way the sunlight glints off the breaking ocean waves and dapples its surface. The way my friends make me laugh, the taste of warm red wine and the soft buzz it gives me. The charge I still get from seeing a great movie or reading a great book or hearing great music. From discovering a new band, from those three chords and that backbeat. From Paul McCartney’s winsome smile and pure, true voice and unforgettable melodies, from Paul Westerberg’s heart and soul and wit, from Beethoven’s passion and Forster’s intelligence and Coppola’s epic grandeur and Winslet’s perfect skin and intense blue eyes and Newman’s self-deprecating grin.
I have the smell of wet grass, the light in a certain someone’s eyes and that naughty suggestive smile he sometimes gives me that always makes me melt. I have The Ramones and The Beatles, the sound of a cat’s purr, the contended snorts and munches of horses and cows when they’re fed, the gurgling of a hidden stream in the woods on a brisk fall day, the sound of the wind in the trees, the stillness of solitude in the outdoors, the awesome magnitude of a mountain range in the distance. The perfect refreshment of cold orange juice when I have awakened with a hangover; the greasy, salty warmth of Burger King french fries and the perfect tang of garlic and oregano and tomato and cheese that flavors a slice of pizza on the street in New York City. The total comfort of egg drop soup, of having a place to come home to at the end of the day when I’m tired and hungry and just need to sit down and do nothing for awhile. The way the sound of loud guitars hits me right in the chest, the way the drums pound through my head, the way the bass can be something I hear but can also be that frequency that vibrates through my entire body. The way it feels when you’re alone with someone and they take you in their arms and hold you and touch you and make the entire world disappear. The way my nephews talk to each other when they think no one else is listening, how their voices echo throughout the house, the sound of their feet running back and forth as they chase each other around at play. The soft, cool glow of moonlight that hangs above a still night meadow, the twinkling of the Brooklyn Bridge, the green torch of the Statue of Liberty in the distance. The Lincoln Memorial at night, the chirping of birds outside my window.
Yes, I am blessed by these things and many more. I am still here despite everything, and for that I am truly grateful.
Happy Thanksgiving everyone.
Thursday, November 05, 2009
Mental Health Will Drive You Mad
The latest news concerning Lindsay Lohan—that her father is using voice mails she left for him as proof that he needs to forcibly commit her—is evidence of many things, not the least of which is that for the mass audience that consumes this sort of drivel, mental health issues are nothing more than entertainment fodder, something to be vaguely amused by as they peruse their daily doses of Twitter, Facebook and whatever other passing fancies that are nothing more than a momentary distraction in their humdrum lives.
Well in my family and thousands of others like it, mental health is no joke. Depression, bipolar disorder, anxiety attacks, breakdowns, drug abuse—these are daily facts of life for us. It deeply disturbs me that in this age in which we are supposedly enlightened about so many things, mental health is not treated as a serious public health issue but as some sort of joke, a self-indulgent behavior pattern that will “go away” if those who are afflicted by it would just make an effort to “get over it.” While we have made some progress with public perception—we no longer sweep such things under the proverbial rug—I find it deeply troubling that the mass media (and the great unwashed masses who consume it) continue to treat mental health concerns of public figures with such casual cynicism.
Someone near and dear to me is going through a terrible time right now and it has been a horrible strain on everyone in the family, not the least of which are her two young boys who don’t really understand what’s going on except that their mommy who adores them is a shadow of her former self, sad and lethargic and hopeless. She is in serious trouble, in danger of doing great damage not just to herself but to those who care about her. Like poor troubled Lindsay, she struggles each day with a myriad of issues that sometimes get the best of her. She is fortunate that, unlike Lohan, she has a support system in place that continues to look out for her, but like Lindsay, she still feels sometimes as if there is no one who really understands what she’s going through, no one she can completely trust.
Having suffered from crippling depression myself, I understand the frustration of trying to convey what it is I’m experiencing to someone who has never had mental health issues. When I describe the medication and treatment program that I have undergone, for example, the response is often skepticism instead of empathy. They don’t understand why the drugs are necessary, a fundamental aspect of the course of treatment, instead seeing them as a sign of weakness, as some sort of crutch we choose to lean on instead of just dealing with the disease. To those who haven’t experienced it, depression is not a disease at all, is no more than a bad mood that will soon pass. How many times have you heard someone who is perfectly ok say something like “I’m so depressed” and then go on to cheerily describe the latest travails with their current job, boyfriend, etc.? That, my friends, is not depression at all, and it’s about time we started delineating the difference.
It’s time for people to wake up and realize that depression is real, bipolar disorder, anxiety, breakdowns—these things are not some trumped up behavior indulged in by rock stars and actors to get their names in the headlines. Counseling, drug therapy, hospitalization—these are not extreme measures or a sign of laziness, but fundamental aspects of a treatment regiment designed to help the mental health patient get better. Lindsay Lohan is in a lot of trouble right now, and instead of mocking her, we should be hoping and praying that there is someone out there who can help her before it’s too late. Because, you see, I’ve seen that look that she has on her face, and I am all too familiar with what might come next.
Well in my family and thousands of others like it, mental health is no joke. Depression, bipolar disorder, anxiety attacks, breakdowns, drug abuse—these are daily facts of life for us. It deeply disturbs me that in this age in which we are supposedly enlightened about so many things, mental health is not treated as a serious public health issue but as some sort of joke, a self-indulgent behavior pattern that will “go away” if those who are afflicted by it would just make an effort to “get over it.” While we have made some progress with public perception—we no longer sweep such things under the proverbial rug—I find it deeply troubling that the mass media (and the great unwashed masses who consume it) continue to treat mental health concerns of public figures with such casual cynicism.
Someone near and dear to me is going through a terrible time right now and it has been a horrible strain on everyone in the family, not the least of which are her two young boys who don’t really understand what’s going on except that their mommy who adores them is a shadow of her former self, sad and lethargic and hopeless. She is in serious trouble, in danger of doing great damage not just to herself but to those who care about her. Like poor troubled Lindsay, she struggles each day with a myriad of issues that sometimes get the best of her. She is fortunate that, unlike Lohan, she has a support system in place that continues to look out for her, but like Lindsay, she still feels sometimes as if there is no one who really understands what she’s going through, no one she can completely trust.
Having suffered from crippling depression myself, I understand the frustration of trying to convey what it is I’m experiencing to someone who has never had mental health issues. When I describe the medication and treatment program that I have undergone, for example, the response is often skepticism instead of empathy. They don’t understand why the drugs are necessary, a fundamental aspect of the course of treatment, instead seeing them as a sign of weakness, as some sort of crutch we choose to lean on instead of just dealing with the disease. To those who haven’t experienced it, depression is not a disease at all, is no more than a bad mood that will soon pass. How many times have you heard someone who is perfectly ok say something like “I’m so depressed” and then go on to cheerily describe the latest travails with their current job, boyfriend, etc.? That, my friends, is not depression at all, and it’s about time we started delineating the difference.
It’s time for people to wake up and realize that depression is real, bipolar disorder, anxiety, breakdowns—these things are not some trumped up behavior indulged in by rock stars and actors to get their names in the headlines. Counseling, drug therapy, hospitalization—these are not extreme measures or a sign of laziness, but fundamental aspects of a treatment regiment designed to help the mental health patient get better. Lindsay Lohan is in a lot of trouble right now, and instead of mocking her, we should be hoping and praying that there is someone out there who can help her before it’s too late. Because, you see, I’ve seen that look that she has on her face, and I am all too familiar with what might come next.
Sunday, November 01, 2009
Just Another Saturday Night
I have never really had much imagination when it comes to Halloween costumes. Mostly just bought a cheapie mask at Sears or some such. Nor have I ever really had much enthusiasm for the holiday beyond the obvious candy windfall. These days, like many things in our Modern World, Halloween has become competitive to the point of ridiculousness. As in, how obscure/trendy/ironic can you be and still have people know who you are? Just having a well made costume and a well thought out idea isn’t enough anymore. And if you’re in a major city and are of the female persuasion, there is, of course, the mandatory (and completely unimaginative) sexy fill-in-the-blank costume outfitted by your favorite lingerie store. If you’re in the ‘burbs, however, it’s all about documenting said event by taking endless photos of your adorable kids that no one else really wants to see and then following behind them while they’re out collecting treats with a cooler of cheap beer (my guess—Coors Light). If you’re somewhere in the middle, having a Halloween party is the way to go, which is cool except for usually I have to work on Halloween night and am too old and tired to want to do anything afterward. So this year, like most, I busied myself with a classic movie on TCM, a strong drink and some wonderful scented candles while my more creative and talented friends lit the night with their imaginations.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Sense and Colonel Brandon
I somehow got away with not reading any Jane Austen until I was out of college. Don’t really know why; I guess she didn’t appeal to me until I was old enough to have had some of the life experiences she dealt with in her amazing novels. In the last ten years or so, however, I have grown fond of Ms. Austen and her cavalcade of characters: the righteous Mr. Darcy, well-meaning Emma Woodhouse, mischievous ne’er do wells like Wickham and Willoughby. But lately I am especially enamored of the saintly Col. Brandon of Sense and Sensibility fame.
For those not familiar, Col. Brandon is pretty much the perfect man. He’s wealthy, steadfast, reliable, good-natured and though he is not conventionally handsome, he is not unpleasant to look at. He’s a good friend: kind, generous, brave. He’s modest, soft-spoken and self-assured. But what’s best about the Saintly Colonel is his uncanny ability to be at the right place at the right time, to offer hope and salvation to the hopeless. He’s a Knight in Shining Armor come to life for Marianne Dashwood, that’s for sure. Heartbroken and defeated after a traumatic and doomed love affair, she goes for an ill-advised walk in a rainstorm and passes out. Things look grim for the luckless Miss Dashwood. Grim, that is, until the ubiquitous Col. Brandon—who has, true to form, kindly volunteered to brave the storm in search of the beleaguered young lady—comes upon her limp form lying in the sodden grass and proceeds to carry her a not insignificant distance back to shelter, whereupon the unfortunate Marianne comes down with an infectious fever of some sort (aka “heroine disease”) and becomes gravely ill. Her sister Elinor, who has been nursing her, encounters the good Colonel roaming the halls outside her sickroom (what else would he be doing?) and when he asks what he can do to help, she instructs him to go fetch their mother as the younger Miss Dashwood may not last the night. This being Jane Austen, you just know what’s going to happen next, don’t you? Why of course—the saintly Colonel returns with Mother Dashwood post-haste, Marianne recovers, Willoughby (the cad who dumped Marianne in the first place) gets his comeuppance, Brandon marries Marianne, and all’s well that ends well. Sigh. If only…
I was thinking about Col. Brandon last night driving home from a visit with my sister. It seems life has never been easy for Nicole—poor decisions, depression, a host of physical ailments, career setbacks. She has had a couple close calls along the way, but she has never given up. I don’t know how she does it sometimes, because for my sister, the good luck that usually follows bad for the rest of us never seems to come to her. She’s not a weak person, but she is a lot more fragile than she’d care to admit, and I often become frustrated and angry at the world for all the things it keeps doing to her. She’s made mistakes—we all have—but does she have keep paying for them her whole life?
Nicole has always managed to get through it all somehow, but those of you who know her know that this year has been especially trying for her. I hadn’t seen her in a while, and when I visited with her yesterday, I was taken aback at how sad and defeated she looked. I hadn’t seen her look this bad in a long time. I know it’s bad, because she’s usually pretty stoic, and last night she confided to my mother and me that she was really struggling. We left her place very concerned for her safety and well-being, and I lay awake worrying about her much of last night. Well this morning I received the news that indeed, things had gotten worse after we left her, and the sinking feeling I had carried with me most of the year was drowned in waves of sadness and despair. We all have our ups and downs, but dammit, why can’t Nicole catch a break? What has she done to deserve this?
Today, needing the movie equivalent of comfort food to distract me a bit, I indulged in the umpteenth viewing of Ang Lee’s Sense and Sensibility, which, being a huge Kate Winslet fan, is my favorite film version of the masterpiece. But instead of taking my mind off my worries, today the movie only reminded me of them. Why, I thought, does my sister keep encountering the Willoughbys of the world when she so richly deserves a Col. Brandon?
Well truthfully, we all--male and female--deserve a Col. Brandon figure in our lives, don’t we? Even if we like to think of ourselves as strong, independent, capable, don’t we all secretly hope that if, heaven forbid, something terrible happened, there’s a Brandon waiting in the wings out there somewhere ready to Make it All Better? Don’t we all want to believe that the good guys win and the bad guys get punished, want to trust in the ultimate fairness of the universe?
I don’t know what’s going to happen to Nicole, I really don’t. She’s gotten through this type of thing before and gone on with her life, but for some reason she has never really been able to completely move past the trauma and get a solid foothold. I am not sure why; perhaps it’s because she really does need a Col. Brandon-like figure in her life. Not so much for the financial security he’d offer, or even for the romance. No, what Nicole really needs her Col. Brandon for is the simplest, most basic thing of all—something that sadly, she’s lacked most of her life. My sister needs someone who’ll be there when she needs him, who'll listen with compassion and without judgment, make her feel safe and secure, needed and most important, loved. In short, my sister needs Col. Brandon the friend. But really, don’t we all?
For those not familiar, Col. Brandon is pretty much the perfect man. He’s wealthy, steadfast, reliable, good-natured and though he is not conventionally handsome, he is not unpleasant to look at. He’s a good friend: kind, generous, brave. He’s modest, soft-spoken and self-assured. But what’s best about the Saintly Colonel is his uncanny ability to be at the right place at the right time, to offer hope and salvation to the hopeless. He’s a Knight in Shining Armor come to life for Marianne Dashwood, that’s for sure. Heartbroken and defeated after a traumatic and doomed love affair, she goes for an ill-advised walk in a rainstorm and passes out. Things look grim for the luckless Miss Dashwood. Grim, that is, until the ubiquitous Col. Brandon—who has, true to form, kindly volunteered to brave the storm in search of the beleaguered young lady—comes upon her limp form lying in the sodden grass and proceeds to carry her a not insignificant distance back to shelter, whereupon the unfortunate Marianne comes down with an infectious fever of some sort (aka “heroine disease”) and becomes gravely ill. Her sister Elinor, who has been nursing her, encounters the good Colonel roaming the halls outside her sickroom (what else would he be doing?) and when he asks what he can do to help, she instructs him to go fetch their mother as the younger Miss Dashwood may not last the night. This being Jane Austen, you just know what’s going to happen next, don’t you? Why of course—the saintly Colonel returns with Mother Dashwood post-haste, Marianne recovers, Willoughby (the cad who dumped Marianne in the first place) gets his comeuppance, Brandon marries Marianne, and all’s well that ends well. Sigh. If only…
I was thinking about Col. Brandon last night driving home from a visit with my sister. It seems life has never been easy for Nicole—poor decisions, depression, a host of physical ailments, career setbacks. She has had a couple close calls along the way, but she has never given up. I don’t know how she does it sometimes, because for my sister, the good luck that usually follows bad for the rest of us never seems to come to her. She’s not a weak person, but she is a lot more fragile than she’d care to admit, and I often become frustrated and angry at the world for all the things it keeps doing to her. She’s made mistakes—we all have—but does she have keep paying for them her whole life?
Nicole has always managed to get through it all somehow, but those of you who know her know that this year has been especially trying for her. I hadn’t seen her in a while, and when I visited with her yesterday, I was taken aback at how sad and defeated she looked. I hadn’t seen her look this bad in a long time. I know it’s bad, because she’s usually pretty stoic, and last night she confided to my mother and me that she was really struggling. We left her place very concerned for her safety and well-being, and I lay awake worrying about her much of last night. Well this morning I received the news that indeed, things had gotten worse after we left her, and the sinking feeling I had carried with me most of the year was drowned in waves of sadness and despair. We all have our ups and downs, but dammit, why can’t Nicole catch a break? What has she done to deserve this?
Today, needing the movie equivalent of comfort food to distract me a bit, I indulged in the umpteenth viewing of Ang Lee’s Sense and Sensibility, which, being a huge Kate Winslet fan, is my favorite film version of the masterpiece. But instead of taking my mind off my worries, today the movie only reminded me of them. Why, I thought, does my sister keep encountering the Willoughbys of the world when she so richly deserves a Col. Brandon?
Well truthfully, we all--male and female--deserve a Col. Brandon figure in our lives, don’t we? Even if we like to think of ourselves as strong, independent, capable, don’t we all secretly hope that if, heaven forbid, something terrible happened, there’s a Brandon waiting in the wings out there somewhere ready to Make it All Better? Don’t we all want to believe that the good guys win and the bad guys get punished, want to trust in the ultimate fairness of the universe?
I don’t know what’s going to happen to Nicole, I really don’t. She’s gotten through this type of thing before and gone on with her life, but for some reason she has never really been able to completely move past the trauma and get a solid foothold. I am not sure why; perhaps it’s because she really does need a Col. Brandon-like figure in her life. Not so much for the financial security he’d offer, or even for the romance. No, what Nicole really needs her Col. Brandon for is the simplest, most basic thing of all—something that sadly, she’s lacked most of her life. My sister needs someone who’ll be there when she needs him, who'll listen with compassion and without judgment, make her feel safe and secure, needed and most important, loved. In short, my sister needs Col. Brandon the friend. But really, don’t we all?
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