The Morning After

There is a wonderful 1986 movie with Jane Fonda and Jeff Bridges called "The Morning After". It is advertised as a suspense-thriller, but it is a masterfully done story about second chances. Jane Fonda plays a down on her luck alcoholic actress who has black outs that land her in a lot of trouble, and eventually get her involved in a murder. With the help of Jeff Bridges, who plays a cop out of a job due to an injury, she figures out she is being set up to take the fall for an ambitious husband. Because the story focuses on the budding relationship between the actress and the cop, it takes on a quality of theatre, especially with the skillful acting of both Jane Fonda and Jeff Bridges, who play well off each other in this and make their down on their luck story both convincing and touching. Raul Julia as the murderous and vindictive husband is smooth as silk. "The Morning After" is one of those mostly forgotten movies that is well worth the time to check out. I thought it interesting too, to watch it at year's end, as we all make New Year's resolutions that often sabotage us before we even start them, because they are so far fetched and unrealistic. What touched me the most about this movie, apart from the pleasure of seeing two great actors together, is that it reminded me of the importance of self acceptance, of coming to terms with the imperfect creatures we are, and the broken parts that we have to learn to live with. This movie is the story of two most imperfect people who find redemption and hope in the love they discover they are still capable of in spite of deep wounds and bitter disappointments. I certainly can relate to that challenge and opportunity. It is a good movie to be exposed to as a New Year rolls around and we try, once more, to dust ourselves off and try all over again to believe in life, our hopes and dreams, each other and ourselves.

Sylvester

Sylvester sleeps
All you see is a
Fluffy, furry black ball.

Try to touch her
And open slits one angry green eye
Not unlike disturbing a snake.

This Burmese beauty has
Huge green eyes, the color of
Chocolate mint.

The razor sharp claws
Drawing blood that drips
Like drops of precious red lacquer.

She stretches her languid body lazily
Her white paws capricious booties
Over her ebony fur.

She is the ice queen who
Breaks my tomcats' hearts,
Time and again.

Trudi Ralston.
December 29th, 2009.

This poem is for the prettiest and meanest cat we ever had. We had her for 10 years. May she rest in peace. She sure was a hand full.

Year's End , 2012

A New Year is near.
All feels light, bright and clean.
No snow this New Year's,
Just lots of wholesome rain,
Washing away the last
Of 2012's aches, joys and pain.

The live Christmas tree is breathing
A sigh of relief, enjoying
a cool bath of December showers.
The glittering ornaments add sparkle to
The presents under the tree.

There are cookies, and brownies,
And sticky candy canes
Red and green candles,
And scents of cloves, turkey and yams.

Christmas is here,
And soon the New Year we will greet. 
The Christmas cards and pictures
All smiles on the living room dresser,
remind us of our common goals and dreams.

A New Year to embrace
All shiny and bright
Like our plans, talents and delights.

Trudi Ralston. 

El Maleficio de La Mariposa

A friend of mine in Texas took some beautiful pictures of a recent theater production of Federico Garcia Lorca's 1919 play El Maleficio de La Mariposa, the Butterflys' Evil Spell. The pictures triggered a desire to read the play again in the original Spanish. So I got out my copy of Obras Completas by Lorca and started reading this enchanting play. At the time he staged this play Federico Garcia Lorca was 22, and the play was laughed off the stage within an hour, leaving an impact on the brilliant young poet that hurt him deeply, but over time his plays only became stronger and more impressive. At the end of act II, scene II, Lorca has one of the characters say these telling words: "No hay desgracia mayor que la de ser poeta. ", and that he would burn them all, as "There is no disgrace bigger than that of being a poet". The response of a fellow character is : "Los quemara el olvido", "Being forgotten will erase them." The young poet achieved international fame and his death at the hands of the fascist Spanish regime in 1936, at the age of 38, was mourned worldwide. He certainly will never be forgotten, he needn't have worried about that. He was prophetic about his tragic end, when referring to the suffering many a great poet endures, and there is a sense of urgency in the young writer's first play, an awareness of things hidden that would reveal themselves and make him vulnerable to the contempt repressive regimes have for outspoken, free spirits. I love the introduction Lorca wrote to El Maleficio de La Mariposa : "Senores : La comedia  que vais a escuchar es humilde e inquietante, comedia rota del que quiere aranar a la luna y se arana su corazon", telling us the play we are about to hear is humble and unnerving, a play that wants to touch the moon, only to hurt its own heart. Again, at such a young age, the poet and playwright had a strong sense of premonition about how his talent would ultimately lead to personal tragedy. It must have been excruciating for this hyper intelligent and skilled artist to be laughed off the stage, as he was burning inside with passion for his craft and the desire to share his vision with the world. It should be encouraging to all artists everywhere that Lorca achieved greatness in his country and abroad in spite of an untimely and brutal death. I am sure that 500 years from now, people everywhere will continue to honor and remember and celebrate and be inspired by this great writer. As a poet and writer trying to break out of anonimity and invisibility, I know Federico Garcia Lorca will be one writer who will continue to make sure I keep following my heart and its dreams.

Flesh and Spirit

Writing is an interesting experience and process. Things that float in your head get pulled together in physical letters on a page, become stories, poems, and take on a physical identity of their own. In that way, the letters and words become real, so to speak. I have several friends with whom I correspond who are far away physically, in other countries, in other continents and who I haven't seen in many, many years. Yet, the old friendships we had are taking root again, even deeper on some levels, through the marvels of e-mail and Facebook connections. There is an empathy that is developing in these communications that surprises me. The enormous physical distance  is compensated for by the possibility of instant responses. Whereas a letter across country and continent can take one to two weeks or more, an Internet letter can have an almost instant response, like your friends are right there with you, having a cup of tea, or dinner. I find it wonderful, especially with friendships that are being rekindled. However, I have to admit that I am pleasantly surprised at the serendipity of accidental friendships that are delightful, when pure chance makes you realize you have a lot to share with a particular person, and it really feels like the pleasure of a new found friendship.I love art, grew up surrounded by it, and accidentally found someone who is a talented and very interesting artist, who lives in a town I used to live in, making for an already delightful whimsical anecdote. It is quite wonderful, even though it is all spiritual in a science fiction sort of way, as we have never met physically, in person. But the connection feels real and meaningful, as if spirit and flesh made peace through the physics of electronic engineering and communications, giving a whole new meaning to the idea of new horizons when it comes to friendship and its possibilities.

Greensleeves

When I was about ten, I became very fond of a record my mother had that was a compilation of old folk songs, from different countries. The one that stayed with me and haunts me to this day is "Greensleeves", the traditional English folk song of unrequited love. There was something about the melody that hypnotized me as a child, as the English words were mostly unrecognizable to me then. It is a song very often included in Christmas albums, and I always dread hearing it, because it stirs a deep sadness, the origin of which to this day remains elusive.It is a beautiful song, has an elegance and richness to it, but it always drenches me in a river of hidden tears. I was often alone as a child, and perhaps the song's sad love story spoke to some of my loneliness as a child. I used to listen to it over and over again, and no one even noticed. When I hear it now, it freezes me in time, while creating a longing to go beyond the space where I got lost in it, and then always realizing I do not know how to get from A to B in that key. I never talk about it to any one , why ruin a song most people find so wonderful. But I am always glad when the next song comes on, while deeply missing the possibility of maybe next time understanding why it has that effect on me. The Holidays are bittersweet to me as it is, maybe this year I will walk in the room when "Greensleeves" already played.

The Spaces Between The Mortar

There are places in our mind that do not tell a clear story when recalling details about our life as it unfolds. They are storage spaces, with small suitcases, tucked full of scraps of stories, of which we do not recall the whole content. I remember flash-backs of my childhood, and adult life, that come to me in muted colors, and in slow motion, and I remember being in those places, with the people I see, but I do not remember all the people I see, or remember all the places I shared the same space and time with those people with. I remember being with specific friends of my parents at a certain house, and I remember elaborate details of the kitchen in that house, and the equally elaborate hairdo of the lady of the house, and her big nose, but I do not remember who she was in relation to my parents and our friends. Who were these people and why do I remember them, from time to time? I was about 10 at the time. Once I moved to the USA, I remember places and families I visited in the course of my travels the first year I was here in 1976 at the end of that foreign exchange student year in Dallas, and traveling to Arkansas and Massachusetts, and spending an entire week with two different families, and I do not remember their names, or what I even did there, other than being a visiting student. I remember a very nice father and his teenage daughter in North Carolina, another state we visited, and as kind as they were to me, I do not remember their names, but I do remember them taking me to a very quiet diner, and I do remember the daughter playing basketball after school in her very quiet backyard. At times, their faces come back to me, in quiet flashes, and then they vanish again , for years at a time. I have the same experience with certain dreams. I have a dream I had when I was 11, where my brother and I take a rowboat ride on a very quiet pond , with a nun named Katrien, who was a teacher at my Catholic elementary school in Roeselare, Belgium, and who died young of a brain tumor. Once in a blue moon, with many years of space in between, I have the same exact dream, with all the same, quiet details. I have dreams of my sisters, and brother, and my parents, in these elaborate architectural spaces, and we get lost, and I have to find my way out, alone, with my father watching carefully over me from a distance, and years will go by, and I will have the exact same dream , with the exact same conflicts and conversations. Train stations were important to me at one point ,as I spent 3 years taking the train to school daily between the ages of 16 and 19. To this day, I often dream of trying to take the train home, and try and dial my hometown home phone number, 051 20 25 69, and not getting through, no matter how many times I try. Now that we have cell phones, I have the same dream, but I use my cell phone to try to get through, instead of a phone booth with change. It is like my mind has this extra space , where I keep extra albums, full of pictures, both of my waking hours and certain dreams, and they pop up at their convenience, it seems, more than at mine. They are familiar, if odd, and somehow they are a part of me, even if they make strange bed fellows, as I seem more a stranger in these re-enactments than the other actors and the spaces they share with me, time and again.

The Photograph

Recently I had the opportunity to reconnect with two of my nieces, through the rediscovery of a friendship with my brother's ex-wife. She gave me the chance to finally get to know her, and her and my brother's two children, who are now 25 and 20. The last time I saw my brother's son he was 11, and it was at my sister's Ludwina's funeral in Georgia. I have never met my brother's daughter, and when I saw her picture, I was stunned to see this strong, beautiful young woman. It was incredibly moving. Barbara, my brother's ex-wife, also let me know my sister Goedele's daughter, who is 15 now, was interested in getting to know me. To see this girl's picture, was like seeing my sister again the way she looked at that age. It was uncanny, the same bright smile, the same clear, intelligent eyes, the easy charm. Genetics are really bizarre. Her daughter even wears her hair the same way my sister did at that age. It was equally touching to see a picture of my brother's son , and to see the face of my sister's 13 year old son. And just yesterday, by chance, I saw a picture of my father's oldest sister's youngest daughter, whom I last saw when she was about 5 years old. She communicates with my sister's daughter, and as it turns out they both are connected to the same town in Belgium, where my cousin works, and my niece goes to school. To see my cousin Cristl smile in the beautiful picture of her and her husband left me dazed.I had not seen that face in more than 40 years. She has her sisters' smile, as I remember them as teenagers, the few times we were able to hang out together. She looks happy, fashionably dressed, tall, slender, beautiful. I wasn't looking for her picture, but there it was, just smiling back at me, and I saw my own smile, my own family resemblance. I sent her a message,and I do not know if she will answer as my mother made sure there was always a lot of bad blood between her and our father's family, ensuring in the process that my cousin's mother,  now basically hates me and my brother. There is no else left to hate, as both my younger sisters are dead, and so are my mother and father. Both I guess hatred is one of those things you can conveniently pass on to the next generation. It doesn't help that I look a lot like my mother who always treated our father's family with disdain. It certainly did not help that our mother convinced her children that our father did not deserve anything but our indifference, so when he was exiled back to Belgium, it became impossible for me to reach out between manipulative maneuvers on my mother's part, and limited financial input and power. To see Cristl' smiling face was gut wrenching, a smarting realization at a lifetime of possible friendship and kinship lost to the whims of a spoiled woman, my mother, and a man hypnotized by her every wish, my father. My brother , and two sisters and I were the uninformed sacrificial lambs. My father's people are intelligent and resourceful, and strong, and it will always hurt to know we lost the opportunity to get to truly know his two sisters' children. Through my friendship with my father's youngest sister, Lieve, I have been able to re-establish a good connection with his sister Denise and her husband, and one of their sons, my cousin Mark. It feels like fixing the broken threads on a precious fabric, slow, painstaking, but well worth it. I keep hoping some day soon my husband and son and I will be able to afford a trip back to Belgium, so I can see again my aunts and uncle, and my long lost cousins, and their children  and even grandchildren, and begin to make up for lost chances and in the process,  soften the bitter harvest of a lifetime of twisted lies and their resultant misunderstandings. 

I Am The Walrus

It was a rainy cold day, and the sky had a liquid grey quality that seemed to wash out the rest of the world as was it made out of thin watercolor paper. The radio was on in the car, and the 1967 Beatles 'song by John Lennon, " I Am The Walrus " started playing. I turned it up, and pretty soon my son and I were surrounded by one of my most favorite songs of the iconic Band. I let the fantastical lyrics and sounds wash over me. What an amazing song, refreshingly weird still 55 years later. To me, the fascination with this most unique poem has always been more with the space it creates in my head, rather than the elusive and psychedelic relics. As I was listening to the song's building crescendo and hypnotic melody, it felt like the greyness of the day faded and bright colors were added as the song grew, both in rhythm and meaning. As opaque as the song is in parts, it feels so personal and concrete the way John Lennon sings it with such conviction and certainty. I think it is one of the best songs he ever wrote, together with " Imagine". If I ever needed to convince an alien visitor of our at least marginally interesting species, I would invite them to listen to John Lennon's " I Am The Walrus ", followed by " Imagine ". The calisthenics required for " I Am The Walrus ", are a nice way to open up your mind to the serene beauty of  " Imagine ". Both allude to a world of possibility, one conceptually and creatively, the other ideologically. Both songs testify to a highly perceptive, bold and intelligent mind. The day seemed more hopeful after the daring whimsy of " I Am The Walrus", and each time I hear " Imagine ", I am both inspired and amazed at how much the world needs to hear that song, everywhere, to perhaps shame us into getting along better as a species.

Conditione sine qua non

Over the years as an adult, in times of stress, I tend to gain some weight. Nothing dramatic, never beyond  the 20 pounds, with the exception of when both my parents and my second sister died within just 3 years of each other. There were a whole set of circumstances, of betrayal, hubris and tragic illnesses, and in the chaos and shock, I gained 58 pounds. I joined Weight Watchers and lost the weight within less than a year. But the experience brought to the foreground how being judged on what your weight is, without seeing who you are,and why it is you are struggling with it, can be very painful. My mother always treated me as if I had stopped being a member of the family when ever I gained any weight. I have often thought of my youngest sister who took her own life by hanging herself at age 35, and who was among other things, struggling with her weight at the time. She was not heavy by any means, just about 20 pounds overweight, a taboo in our mother's eyes. I can just imagine how that humiliation and rejection must have hurt. I even remember my skinny mother talking about this at my sister's funeral, and she talked about this as a source of social embarrassment, that her daughter was overweight, such a social faux pas, don't you know. I was too stunned to react, now I would really set her straight on her shallow, irrelevant notions. I remember at my other sister's wedding, where I was overweight by about 25 pounds , at the most, and how my mother was avoiding even being near me in the presence of her well-heeled new in-laws. She was heartless. Her whole deal was that as one of her daughters you were treated with contempt if you were not like her, that is, skinny, narcissistic, and a nymphomaniac. She was also a skilled and silk tongued manipulator and an alcoholic. She hated me for for seeing through her, and for refusing to be seduced by her schemes. It took me a long time to see and understand who she really was, and how she really only loved herself. Her thing was conditional love, and woe to you if you refused to go along. You simply ceased to exist, you became invisible. If only I had never struggled with my weight, if only I had married for money, if only I had embraced her devious ways. I so regret how she turned her children against our father, and how I did not realize what she was doing until it was too late for my father, and she had already turned him out of his own home, and exiled him, already ill , to a nursing home in Belgium. Conditional love, it is not what comes to mind, together with lies and contempt, when you think of a loving mother.

The Purchase

My mother was a clothes horse. She bought expensive clothes,and matching handbags and shoes, coats, scarves, hats all the time. All designer , too. Christian Dior, Louis Feraud, Emilio Pucci. The girl had expensive taste. She did not feel the same way, however, when it came to dressing her daughters. Our adolescence she did her best to ignore, as her daughters were viewed as competition for attention, especially from the many men she valued. My father's mother noticed when I was 12, that I was in serious need of a bra. My mother reluctantly agreed to take me shopping for one. I still remember her resentment and faked enthusiasm. She bought me one bra. It was to me, the most exciting thing I had ever worn. It was white, with tiny light blue and light brown flower petals. I was so proud. But I remember , seared into my memory, my mother's resentment, and barely disguised contempt. The same thing happened to both my sisters. When all is said and done, our mother with her fake love and care, was a monster in designer clothes. She had boxes and boxes of expensive Italian designer shoes, for every season and every occasion, but we always wore very ordinary shoes and had very few pairs. She had expensive coats of every color and again, for every season and occasion, but we had two coats each, one for winter and fall, and one for rain. My father was blind to all this, as he had a dozen expensive Pierre Cardin suits with matching silk ties and expensive shoes and coats. He was so busy as a CEO, who traveled extensively, and my mother had the run of the house, and plenty of daily help from our housekeeper and nanny, Julienne. He never questioned her when she asked for more money. I remember him handing her 15,000 Belgian francs just for groceries back in 1970. He never asked for her accountability, a trait of generosity that he would dearly pay for. So, mother walked around like a princess, forever feeling contempt especially for me, at my lack of style and fashion, which she was all too glad to have caused and encourage. But, boy, how she loved us! She told us so every day. And we believed it, for a very long time. I treasure the memory of my grandmother standing up for me, I was so proud of her courage, to make sure I got the bra I so needed. And I also remember my mother's reluctance and barely disguised jealousy and disgust, smiling her Cheshire cat grin as she allowed me to pick out a bra.

The Baby Blanket

Recently I have renewed my connection with my brother's ex-wife. It is turning out to be a wonderful experience, and I am truly impressed with Barbara's strong spirit and warm heart. Yesterday I found back a sweet baby blanket that had slipped between the narrow side of our water bed that is very close to the wall, and  every so often, in spite of every effort for this not to happen, a sock, or mp3 player, or tissue will disappear between the narrow space. I was amazed to find the first baby blanket I used to nurse my son. It was just the right size to keep him warm and cozy on those cold winter days. When I was pregnant, my mother mostly ignored me. I got one small care package in those nine months. At the time, both my sisters were still alive, and they too, completely ignored my pregnancy. Mind you, I was 34, and pregnant for the first time, after thinking it was a lost cause after trying for 6 years. Anyway, my brother and Barbara were still married, and had two small children. Barbara sent me a big box with beautiful baby clothes, too small for her son who was 5 years older than my brand new baby boy. In the box was also the sweet baby blanket. It was white, with a fringe, super soft, and had two white bear cubs jumping rope, singing. I loved that blanket, and I think that is was timely to find it now that I am establishing a friendship with Barbara. I do not know if she realizes how much that gift touched my heart in view especially of how the women in my own family had ignored me. One of the outfits in the box that was filled to the brim, was a baby blue pair of soft corduroy  overalls, decorated with a baby raccoon holding a red balloon. To this day, that outfit is hanging on Nicholas's wall, and it brings a smile to my face every time I look at it. I know Barbara suffered in her marriage, and it is a good feeling to become friends with her, as my brother has not wanted any contact with me for many years now. The baby blanket  is a symbol not just of a sweet moment in the past, and of the bitter sweet experience of realizing time irrevocably goes by, but it is now also a symbol of renewal, of hope at the unexpected joy and comfort of a new found friend from long ago.

Black and Blue

It is a rainy weekend,one that makes for a challenge to find the enthusiasm to take our dog Yara for a walk, and hang up the new Christmas lights my husband and son brought home so proudly yesterday. We watched "Legend of the Fist", a 2010 Donny Yen movie. He is quickly becoming our favorite martial artist in movies. He is amazing. His endurance, his stamina, stunning speed and technique are exhilarating to watch. He also seems to possess a warm heart, a welcome quality in a martial art world dominated by huge egos that often come across as vain and cold. I like the fact that Donny Yen's mother was a Grandmaster and that he was trained at the same martial arts school in Beijing as Jet Li. Donny Yen has a 6th degree black belt, among other accolades and disciplines, in Tae Kwon Do. My husband and I are both 1st degree black belts in Tae Kwon Do, and were trained by a 9th degree black belt Grandmaster. I miss the black belt classes the most. As a rule, there was about 75% men, versus 25% women. I often preferred sparring and learning with the men in the classes, as they fought fairly. Some of the women were desperate to impress our Grandmaster, as narcissism and jealous egos unfortunately are a part of the martial arts world. The intense training required to become a black belt can be hard on your knee joints,shoulders and back after 50, and I decided to walk away before my right knee required surgery. I was just shy of 45 when our Grandmaster handed me my black belt in the beautiful award ceremony and my husband was 53. For Michael, it became painful for his shoulders. I do miss the adrenalin and camaraderie.We would come home sweating, bruised, exhausted, reaching for the Aleve and tigertbalm, and couldn't wait to do it all again the next day. There is a time and space for all things, and those 7 years we were very active in the world of martial arts were unique, culturally, physically and also politically, as there never was any shortage of melodrama surrounding the Grandmaster and his female entourage, some of whom were desperate for his attention and favor, something he was quite crafty at appreciating. Those were the days of risk and adventure! Watching Donny Yen 's skills is very satisfying because I have a good appreciation for the enormous effort and relentless drive that made him a superstar in the world of martial arts. It is no surprise that he is the highest paid martial artist in all of Asia. I think he is probably the most skilled as well. It is nice when things make sense. Black and blue, skill and endurance. Unique in beauty and history, the world of martial arts holds a continuing mystique that is well deserved. I am glad that I became a part of it. It changed my vision, my determination, as it pushed me beyond what I thought I could endure both mentally and physically.