She used to tend to her garden; now she tends to me.

Never apologize for questions; there can be no answers without them.

The Things we Have

To an actor who had just written me and seemed a little low in spirits during this holiday season (a lack of work and representation), I thought the following might pick them up.'

"Once, when I was feeling depressed and low, my father said to me: 'I cried, because I had no shoes, till I met a man who had no feet.'"

Strive for the things we don't have; but enjoy the things we have.

I saw a beautiful sunset today, and a child laughing...what a great day!

Merry, Merry Christmas...and Happy New Year.

Cliff

(MEMO to Cliff: Now that you've talked the talk, you must remember to walk the walk.)

The Promise of Christmas with Sofia

A week ago I was talking on the phone with my daughter Mishi when suddenly my granddaughter Sofia's wail was heard in the background. Mishi told me she's have to get off the phone.

Two minutes later Mishi called me back to report. Sofia was still crying but being comforted in her Mommy's arms. Mishi explained that Sofia had been playing soccer with her Popi in the living room. She had stood on the ball, and had fallen on her bum. It had hurt. But she was OK.

Mishi said she'd call back later. Sofia's wailing was still vibrating.

Four minutes later a call arrived. The voice was not Mommy's, but Sofia's. Her crying was now reduced to a whimper, but a little girl's sad whisper.

"I just wanted you to know, Grandpa, I'm OK. I was playing soccer with Popi and I stood on the ball and fell. But I'm OK now."
"That must have hurt," I said.
"It did." Then, in hurt finality, abject defeat: "I'm just no good at soccer,"

My heart wrenched. "No," I said. "You just made a mistake. 'Accidents ha-appen; they happen aaaall the tiiime'" I sang.
"Even the very best soccer players make mistakes. And besides, the main thing about soccer playing is not just about being good, but having fun."
A long pause occurred at the other end of the phone. "I miss you, Grandpa" she said.

My heart, which had become shattered and fragmented with seventy years of my life's vicissitudes, became whole again; all the stars in the galaxy aligned, the ever-expanding universe paused in its outward efforts, resting to absorb the moment. Matter and anti matter became one. Peace reigned throughout all existence.

"I miss you, too," I said.

"And soon we will be together," I said. "In one week you, and Mommy and Popi will be in California and we will all celebrate Christmas together. And you and I will go places in the car, just you and I. To the pier, and a pie shop, and toy stores."

"I love you, Grandpa."
"I love you, too." Words never seemed more inadequate; or less necessary.
"Here's Mommy." And she handed the phone to Mishi, her Mommy, my other lovely girl child.

Christmas; can the universe wait?

The Computer

It is 7:30 AM and my mind is alert, swimming with today's magic: conundrums unsolved, mysteries unraveled, puzzles growing and not diminishing.

The promise of Ambien CR has been fulfilled: I have had 7 and a half hours of uninterrupted sleep; and awakened without hangover. But now, in the twilight of awakening, mental life bursts from its deep sleep. Thoughts move up from deep forgotten dreams to emerge into a soft velvet world of vivid ideas, new and forming, sentences and concepts battling any possibility of renewed sleep.

Yet I stay in bed another hour, negotiating with these ideas, asking them to remain memorable while I sleep another hour. But the mind, fearing it will forget, overwhelms it. One must arise, and record.

I am in San Francisco, three fourths through my acting workshops: They were Saturday and Sunday, now Monday night and Tuesday night. Tuesday morning; I should be more tired, but instead the swizzle stick of teaching has stirred up my thoughts, like alcohol stirred up from the bottom of the glass, molecules equally distributed up from below, swirling, ready to offer me the buzz if only I will place the glass to my lips and swallow.

I get up.

I look to the left, my wife is still asleep. She is the caregiver of my aging, the pixie who pricks and deflates all over-weening possibility of preening. I laugh, sweetly yet ruefully at the thought.

I carefully throw off the covers, stand, make my way to the light switch, turn on the the soft hotel light over the computer, open it, press the on button, and wait for the machine's circuits to awaken and join mine, in remembering and recording the new thoughts of awakening.

I ear a ping, and my fingers begin.

Love not; live not.

Never to have loved is never to have lived.

Vertical versus Horizontal

Loving many women or men for a night is pleasurable; loving one deeply is incomparable.

Optical Self-Illusion

If the merry-go-round we live on is large enough, we can fool ourselves into thinking we are moving forward.

From Jon:

"Ignorance is curable; stupidity is not."