My New Retreat

One antidote to life's uncertainty is our ability to adapt. Adjusting to new conditions is a strength we can develop and it becomes helpful when crap occurs.

I recently faced an unexpected situation. Pondering it I discovered a solution and improved my life. Yay!

Three years ago, when my future looked different, I asked a friend to build me a garage. (He's a contractor.) I wanted a basic wooden box to shelter as many of my growing fleet of motor vehicles as could be stuffed in it. The garage took over a year to complete but is very nice (and legal). I stored five of my six vehicles there: all four motorcycles and the newer of my two cars.

Today, however, life is not the same. I found new homes for both cars and two of the motorcycles. (I'm keeping the other two bikes for sentimental reasons.) I no longer need a garage -- yet it's sitting there, begging for some use.

I didn't know what to do with the structure. I didn't want to spend more money. I thought about what I lack -- e.g., an outdoor patio -- and suddenly realized the garage could easily adapt to serve that purpose. Like ancient Greek scholar Archimedes I shouted "Eureka!"

Last week I converted the storage space into an outdoor retreat for meditation and music appreciation. And I spent only $70 to do that. 

I bought a cheap -- but very chic -- waterproof rug ($40) and two clamp-lights shining 300 watts of illumination ($30). I already own two patio chaise lounges with matching pads and small metal tables. They create comfortable seating on the 10-foot x 12-foot rug. I also already have a large photoshoot backdrop system which now works as a privacy screen; the garage door can be left open for ventilation without anyone being able to peek inside.

I'm lovin' this. I wake up at 3:00 a.m. (don't ask) and enjoy sipping cups of warm tea while listening to birds singing and insects chirping. I plan my day, organize thoughts and reflect on life while the rest of you sleep. The outdoor air is invigorating.

Later in the day this retreat offers shade from direct sunlight. I go there and can crank up tunes louder than inside our house (where Robin works remotely). My current musical favorites are The Allman Brothers Band ("Live From Filmore East") and classical pianist Yuja Wang. 

The second chaise lounge is empty if you want to drop by. Don't let a sign over the door scare you: 

Hic Sunt Dracones 

(Latin: "Here There Be Dragons").

Fountain Pens

It's fun to look at the past and see how people lived before us. For example, prior to the introduction of ballpoint pens (around 1950) everyone wrote with "fountain pens." Do you know what a fountain pen is? Have you ever used one?

For thousands of years humans used primitive writing tools like a stylus or quill. The first fountain pen was invented 200 years ago in 1827. During the next 60 years its design was improved until Lewis Waterman perfected it in the 1880s (and built a famous company). People used fountain pens exclusively until ballpoints became popular in the 1950s. They were invented during World War II but not commercially sold until after the war.

Pen enthusiasts love fountain pens not only for nostalgia but also because of their craftsmanship. Made skillfully with real materials like metal and wood, these writing instruments aren't disposable pieces of plastic junk. It's a joy to hold and write with these instruments. Many are works of art.

There are big differences between fountain pens and ballpoints. First, the ink. The liquid in fountain pens is water-soluable whereas ink in ballpoints is oil-based. Second, the tip. Fountain pens have a "nib" which channels ink from a reservoir to the tip. Nibs vary in size and shape which affects how the ink is spread on paper. Ballpoints, by contrast, use a spherical metal ball to transfer ink to paper.

Unlike ballpoints which require little skill, fountain pens take some practice to get good at wielding. Developing manual dexterity is a pleasant benefit that comes from using them. I have a simple fountain pen designed for childen (touted as "Your First Fountain Pen!"). If a kid can do it, so can you. The pen is made by LAMY, a successful German company.

When you read old letters, postcards or documents, chances are they were written with fountain pens. An experienced user quickly spots telltale signs from the appearance of the ink on the page. There is delightful charm in holding old documents written with these fine instruments. Come over and I'll show you how to use them.

Life Of An Artist

My hometown has a local museum, The Heckscher Museum of Art. The Museum is small but noteworthy. It contains prominent work by Huntington's most famous artist, a German-born painter named George Grosz (1893-1959). There are many fascinating things about George worth learning.

George was thrown out of traditional school for insubordination. He then happily attended art school where he effloresced. George, an anti-war pacifist, left Germany in 1932 as the Nazis were gaining power. He moved to Huntington and became an American citizen. George taught art both in Huntington and at a prominent school in Manhattan (The Art Students League of New York). 

While George's work was respected, he was financially poor. Just scraping by at one point he lacked funds to pay a car-repair bill. To make money for that expense George sold one of his best paintings ("Eclipse of the Sun") to a local handyman for $104. The buyer kept the painting rolled up in his garage for 20 years. In 1968 the handyman sold the painting to The Heckscher Museum for $15,000. Several years later the Museum proposed selling the painting again and had it appraised: the then-current value was $19 Million dollars. Vigorous public outcry rang out against a sale and the Museum dropped its plan. The painting, and several others by George, remain the core of The Museum's collection. There's currently a big exhibition of George's work at The Museum.

For those playing Art Bingo: (1) George got kicked out of school for insubordination; (2) he succeeded as an artist; (3) he made little money from his work; (4) the work later became worth millions; (5) George died at age 66 from falling down stairs at the end of a night of heavy drinking. If you have all these facts on your Art Bingo card, please come forward and collect your winnings. :)

Youthful Memories

As improbable as it sounds old folks remember stuff from their youth, often in great detail. Lately I've been reminiscing about a place I used to drink at half a century ago. At first I wasn't sure if I was imagining the spot so I checked the Internet; yes, it's real. Other aging Boomers have vivid memories of it, too.

I spent three years in Boston attending law school (1979-82). My days were fully consumed by study but nights were available for stress-relief. I indulged in a little drinking. A poor student in debt I had practically no money for anything. So I was adventurous. I explored dark sides of the city and discovered a wildly bizarre joint where you could tie one on for pennies. I went there frequently with my artist-girlfriend Maura and several soused sidekicks.

The watering hole was Aku Aku. A fitting name for primal activity. Aku Aku was an old-school Polynesian tiki bar in Kenmore Square. The place also served Chinese food; it was awful and best avoided. Most patrons walked past the empty dining room and into a crowded bar for the real attraction: cheap booze.

At that time Kenmore Square was low-rent and gritty; however, it also possessed vitality since the location attracted students willing to mingle with drug-addicts and bums. ("Bums" wasn't an insult back then, more an accurate description of tatterdemalions.) The area contained halfway houses, dive bars and music nightclubs like the infamous Rathskeller ("the Rat"). Just as seedy were clubs like Where It’s At and Psychedelic Supermarket. Fenway Park (where the Red Sox play) is around the corner and accounted for occasional crowds of drunk, racist baseball fans. I lived two miles down the road and ventured to and from this urban jungle on the Green Line of the "T" (an above-ground electric trolley). Unless, of course, I missed the last train and had to walk home in the cold night.

The tiki bar at Aku Aku was positively surreal: a long room decorated with tiki culture ephemera and a painted mural romantically depicting the South Seas. The mural, created with florid Day-Glo paint, would sway after you consumed a sufficient amount of liquor. Exotic South Seas scenery appealed to World War II vets who swapped war stories at the bar. Their exaggerated tales, amid strange scenes of erupting volcanos, offered an ineffable view of the world. To me, Aku Aku was as foreign as a distant planet. Nothing on television rivaled its dreamlike Dadaism.

The bar's chief attraction was fabulously large alcoholic drinks. Decorated with gaudy flourishes like paper umbrellas, fruit chunks and straws suitable only for children or Midwestern tourists the drinks were mammoth in size and small in price. You got drunk easily without hurting your wallet. My favorite drink, the infamous Scorpion Bowl, was literally a large punch bowl filled with treacly sweet fruit juice boosted with high-octane rum. We joked that the rum had been furtively made in the basement during Prohibition which explained the dusty unlabeled bottles. A Scorpion Bowl was served with one straw, or two if you were sharing it with someone you hoped had no diseases. The bowl contained enough alcohol to fuel a large man for an entire night of woozy inebriation. Bring out the swaying mural.

After I left Boston in 1982 my nearby school (BU) bought up Kenmore Square's real estate. Aiming to calm anxious parents, the University gentrified the area into a flavorless plate of insipid condos. 

The old days of cheap liquor and slum adventure are gone... but they survive in my memory. Long live Aku Aku!

Happy Canada Day!

Today commemorates the birth of Canada as a nation on July 1, 1867. 

Canadians take the day off work, have BBQs and watch fireworks. Sound familiar? :)

"Pollyanna"

We all have personalities. A combination of genetic traits, parental influences and personal quirks. Some of us are Carries, some Mirandas, and some Mr. Big. 

I'm a Pollyanna.

When people called me that in the past I didn't know what the name meant. So I looked it up. Yup, I'm a Pollyanna. The name has a history and cultural resonance.

"Pollyanna" is a 1913 American novel considered a classic of children's literature. Its immense success led to a dozen sequels and several film adaptations. My favorite is Disney's 1960 version starring Hayley Mills. She won a special Oscar for the role.

"Pollyanna" has become a symbol for people who are unfailingly optimistic and can find positive things in every situation. Although the term is sometimes used disparagingly (as excessively cheerful), Pollyanna the character found ways to cope with serious difficulties and sorrows. Her outlook was not frivolous; it was courageous. In the original story, Pollyanna is an orphan who gets hit by a car and loses the use of her legs. Searching for anything positive in that circumstance is a real challenge, yet she accomplishes it with tenacity and robust charm. Pollyanna often plays a game her father taught her before he died, "the Glad game." It consists of searching for something to be glad about in every state of affairs, no matter how bleak.

Like Pollyanna I possess gratitude, a "glass half-full" attitude. I celebrate water in my glass even when it's only 10%. That's still better than bemoaning the missing 90%. Despair begets despair and we can't live in sadness. Not long, anyway. Depression worsens physical and emotional health and repels friends we vitally need.

Littleton, New Hampshire, home of Pollyanna's author (Eleanor Porter) erected a bronze sculpture in her honor. The statue depicts smiling Pollyanna with arms flung wide in greeting. Littleton also hosts an annual festival known as "The Official Pollyanna Glad Day."

So, fire up the label-maker -- I'm Pollyanna and proud of the name.

Art

Many mistake my fervent interest in art as a new thing, something I stumbled upon recently. That isn't the case. I was enthralled by art in my youth. In fact one of my pivotal life decisions was, when graduating college, to attend law school instead of film school. I don't regret that choice but am now returning to my earlier passion. After a half-century of toil during which "I gave at the office" I foresee a future laboring for love.

What is it about art that appeals to us? A worthy question, tied to the meaning of life itself. I found my answer first from tasting aesthetic beauty, pondering power of creation, listening to artists describe their work, and ultimately personal introspection.

By "art" I mean the arts generally: painting, sculpture, music, performance, literature and poetry. I have depth in some of these fields and seek experience with the others. Much of what I've learned has application to different media.

Art is not separate from our lives. A better writer than I explains: "Art is not an accessory to pleasure but the means of our connection to the cosmos." 

I also can't claim to have written that art "conveys...ineffable intimations of immortality." I fully agree with this trenchant notion. We feel a glow of transcendence in the grasp of great art. And should value it accordingly.