PROBABILITY AND POSSIBILITY

In my current state of mind, well, really for most of my adult life, I considered Probability and Possibility of things great and small

I speak not of mathematical probability, but what seems probable or possible based on predictivewa factor.  Uultimately, I like to believe that the axiom "All things are possible is true! My consideration of the probable and the possible keeps me from thinking and/or acting out of fear or hope, which seems to be the mode and mood of the day and, I suppose, always has been.

Thinking and acting our of fear or hope ignores both and tends to have us believe or act of those two emotions without having given thought to what may actually be probable or possible. 

     There are always at any given time and for any given event  opposite perspectives, often without consideration of multi-layered context of anything, large or small. However, we must focus in on the subtleties, the nuances and the realities at hand, rather than the fear or hope of what is to be or not to be.
      I believe there has always been little tolerance for looking deeper, and now, even more so with our nano-second communications of news and social media (within which each extreme finds a niche.) I have been told many times, “You are deep,” which always feels more critique than compliment, to which I inwardly affirm for myself: better to be deep than shallow, remaing on the surface, where one can only imagine what lies below it all.

What often lies below in the bigger picture of things, especially politics, but also advertising, is the powers that be, seeking to direct and control the narrative in their favor to remain in power, benefit financially, remain apathetic or confused. It is easy to submit to these powers or forces--we need do nothing, especially not think! Then the world can be defined in simple, black and white terms: them and us, good and evil—a zero sum game in which if someone else benefits, we lose. It’s easy to craft that kind of thinking into sound bites where "Perceptions are real and the truth is not" (Imelda Marcos). This is the kind of thinking that engenders "tribal loyalty and translates readily into catch phrases to fire up the masses, conjure up worst case scenarios, conspiracies born of fears, reinforcing already held beliefs and opinions, which are often far from the real probabilities or possibilities, but may be self-fulling "prophesies." 
     Nevertheless, this approach speaks to an enormous number of people for whom equivocation and polarization are easier to understand than seeing the larger picture and sorting through the subtleties and nuances that a clearer picture of reality demands--critcal thinking is not a dirty word.

What am I trying to say here? I suppose it is that I am weary just now of attempting to be true to my ideal of equipoise——a balancing act to hold true to my values of freedom, harmony, equality and justice, as it seems more of a struggle to maintain patience, civility, kindness and compassion, when we often hear more about the oppostite than the desirable. Currently, the language and agresson of politicians, commentators and ideologues seem to live by, not the values I hold dear, but in an ends-justifies-the means approach. And the means are getting meaner, louder, more vulgar and unhingled. 

        Is it both probable and possible that things have changed irrevicably and will continue to do so. I think so, but I also want to believe that, while the arc of the moral universe is long and bends toward justice, it does not seem possible that it will bend quickly enough prevent further deteriortion of the common good and common sense. I try remind myself to exepect the unexpected at any moment.

     Anne Frank was able to believe in possibility, even at such a young age and in a dire situation.  She wrote in her diary:

It's difficult in times like these: ideals, dreams and cherished hopes rise us, only to be crushed by grim reality…I see the world being slowly transformed into a wilderness. I hear the approaching thunder….It’s a wonder I haven't abandoned all my ideals; they seem so absurd and impractical. Yet, I cling to them because I still believe, in spite of everything, that people are truly good at heart….I must hold on to my ideals. Perhaps the day will come when I'll be able to realize them.

I read Anne's diary when I was about the same age at she was when she wrote it. I was moved--then and now by her insight and wisdom. It has become a touchstone for me when I am feeling discouraged,  falling into the "not probable," instead of the "always possible." Anne  believed in the Possible—even if she herself would never realize it in her given place and time. There is a power in her words that can create the courage to light the way, to move and shape lives and the world toward the good, however slowly that arc bends.

     Yes, just now I am worn down by some details of the world picture: chaos, starvation, brutality, corruption, malice, perversion and vulgarity and war--always war. Then there is the smaller frame of my own life of a series of illnesses and family situations--with no energy to spare, and seemingly diminished inner resources to cope, so the possible does not seem probable now or at any tiime soon.
     Yet, my core belief in the possible still inevitably rises up and compels me to look even more deeply to also remember the work and efforts of individuals and groups, currenlty and throughout history that have come together—again and again—to aspire toward the moral, the good, the just and the true. 

      I also see my own life in concentric circles reaching deeper from the world to my inner world where the values I hold dear and strive toward are also all around me at every moment—in my family, my friends and my community—here and now--possible and probable.

FABRIC OF LIFE ~ GOOD AND EVIL

Expressions and analysis of good and evil are as old as humanity itself—evident in history, mythology, literature, philosophy, theology and the arts, yet the relationship and nature of these opposites remain a mystery. My consideration of that relationship is subjective, based on nothing other than imagining "what it is like," and a life-long wish to understand how and why the terror and horror of evil continues to exist in the world with such frequency, severity and magnitude.
    While good and evil are usually thought of as opposites, I have come to feel they are fundamentally and forever woven together into the fabric of life. Thinking about evil and good in that way, it was a natural progression to picture a loom as a foundation for the relationship of good and evil. Warp and weft are the components used in weaving to turn thread or yarn into a fabric. The lengthwise or longitudinal warp threads are held stationary in tension on the loom, while the transverse weft threads are drawn through over and under the warp, creating a pattern by filling in the gaps as they intertwine.
    The warp threads are stable strands held in place by the loom. I imagine them representing the good: understanding, empathy, peace, compassion, kindness, charity, generosity, love—in short, any and all qualities and actions fostering and supporting humanity and life. The weft threads represent evil in this analogy--all that is deceptive, unjust, opportunistic, insidious, violent, destructive, exploitive, perverse, vengeful, hateful, obscene--all that threatens humanity and life. The pattern created, for our purposes, should be thought of as structural, rather than visual. The weave itself represents the fabric of life wherein good and evil are inseparable.
    Of course, life and living often require compromise to mitigate harm and/or bring about the "best of all possible worlds." Still, whether or not we individually experience the severity of evil I have described as terror and horror, we know that it (as well as good) exists at every moment somewhere in the world, both near and far.
    For me, the Holocaust stands as a pure evil, staining and straining the fabric of life, affirming both the effects and the depth and scope of humanity's capacity for evil. The fact that it is denied by many is an evil in itself. That it and other genocides have, still do and will happen can never be comprehended (or forgotten). All evil or harm is woven in and around what perpetrators see as some kind of threat or benefit to themselves, or, inexplicably for the perverse pleasure of it!      From time immemorial and ongoingly, we know of barbarian invasions in the early centuries (currently Russia's attack on soverign Ukraine), the Cusades, the Inquisition, the pograms, slavery, sex trafficking, lynchings, gang and mob violence, school and other mass shootings. Also, currently America is enduring the corruption of a powerful few to deceieve the many, to incite violence, encourage belief in conspiracies, discrimination and demonizaiton of "the other." It is sad to hear some in our own government perpetrate the what such and refuse to stand for truth, justice and human rights for all Americans.

    The motivations for good or evil, and the ways they are expressed are many, sometimes unintentional and/or mysterious, but each has the ability to affect our lives positively or negatively. All instances mentioned have been forever with us-- and there is war--always war. Still, the fabric of life also contains the good, the beautiful and the true--those ideals and values to be cherished and lived. We can strive for such through adherence to a spirutal practice, the rule of law, and by supporting the work of individuals, organizations, agencies, etc. (some well-known, others not so) who have, do and will risk life and limb to protest injustice, heal, advocate for freedom and human rights in large and small deeds of service, sacrifice, kindness for betterment of our country, communities or in our own  families and friendships.
    We, as human beings are the only entities on Earth, possibly in the entire cosmos that are able to develop a higher consciousness and conscience through reflection and to seek self-and world-knowledge which may help us idenetify and determine higher values to live by. Through our intentions, creativity and work we are able to communicate and serve those values for the common good. It is not likely that evil will ever be eliminated, but we can can aspire help diminish it by our own thoughts words and actions. There are those who dream of a Utopia, or at least a more perfect world, as well as those who are determined to create and live in a Dystopian one.
     It is interesting to consider, aside from the loom analgoy, the often what we intend or perceive as good may result, if not in pure evil, than in negative effects on ourselves and others. Conversely, our missteps, bad decisions and judgements may result in positive effects for others and ourselves. For example, remorse for our transgressions may lead to a better understanding of ourselves and others with forgiveness and reconciliation.
    Though there are and have been attempts at reconciliation and compensation from individual to individual, and on a global scale, such as the Nuremberg Trials and the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission, the lessons have not been well-learned, as the cycle of evil continues on the world loom.
    My rather simple, imaginative picture here focuses on the inter-connectedness of good and evil, but does not attempt to address the many reasons for the "why" of evil, but my sense is that it has to do with what we value (or not), and how freedom is thought about for ourselves, but it is often pursued at the expense and rights of others--therein lies the rub! So we live in this fabric of life, and must endure evils, or if we are able, to do whatever is possible to address and/or mitigate its harm to ourselves and others.
    The value of the weaving analogy in imagining the relationship of good and evil, the reader can judge, and not too harshly I would hope.

THE WAY

The Narrow Path

That moment

that point of no return

when there is no one to save you

at the end of the yellow brick road

only you

your beating heart

the pure white of your true self

The strange thing is

you knew it all along—

but everything said:

if only, all I have to do is,

what will people think if?

The Upanishads speak:

“The ancient narrow path that stretches far away—

it has been touched by me, has been found by me.”

Have compassion

forgive yourself

let go despair and

grief unimaginable

all obstacles imagined

that made you stay so long

kept your world dim

created a void

built a wall

separated your heart from love

Look

above--the silver moon is rising over frozen fields

geese gather at the river

ready to take flight

At the edges of earth

waves are rolling to shore

as they have for thousands of years

Turn with courage

feel it become Light

fill the void

burn the nothing

become everything

The wall is shatter

the distance closed

You are on the ancient, narrow path

SYCAMORE

I want to be a Lady of the Sycamore—a sycamore in winter bare and luminous

white trunk standing straight—

serene among dry brown fields

branches spreading tall against the sky

misshapen into beauteous forms

unshaken against the wind.

I want my ashes to rest 

between two sycamore

at the eastern gate of heaven

the first rays of morning sun

greeting my grey earthly remains

warming the dark dust

beneath opulent, tormented arm

white and luminous 

offering sustenance to the dead.

                                   

MYSTERY MEN

For two days, I had seen the Unabomber look-alike in a baggy orange sweatshirt restlessly wandering around through the halls of the hospice center where we each had a friend who lay dying. 

    When we passed each other each time, I tried to read the words printed on his sweatshirt below an image of planet Earth, but couldn’t quite make them out. He wore his red hat over his wild, shaggy hair—reminding me of those clown hats with a wig attached. Around his neck, was a heavy silver chain with a figure dangling from it.

    On the third day, at the coffee cart, still unable to make out the words on his shirt, I asked him, “So, who’s the little shiny fella there?” pointing to the dangling figure on the silver chain.

   “The patron saint of lost causes” he answered. That says it all, I thought, but still haven’t figured out what the “all” is. Did he believe that America needed to be “great again,” but didn’t have much hope that it would happen, or was the lost cause his friend who, like mine, had no options left, except to wait for the grim reaper to swing his scythe?

  I misunderstood and asked, “But Judas isn’t a saint?” that much I knew, but I had the wrong saint, or in this case, sinner.

“No, no, no. It’s St. Jude,” he said sarcastically, suggesting I should have “not Judas Iscariot, the apostle who betrayed Christ.

    “Oh, sorry, that's who I was thinking of, silly me—for thirty pieces of silver, right?”     

    “Exactly!"

     Exactly thirty pieces? I wondered. 

Just before I bit into my multi-grain muffin, I blurted out, "Well, they say no good deed goes unpunished.”

    “What do you mean, good deed? His was the greatest betrayal in the history of all the world.”

     "You mean the greatest catch 22.” I corrected him this time, explaining, “if Judas hadn't turned Christ over to the Romans, he wouldn’t have been able to have "died for our sins," which was the reason he came to earth. So, they both died, Judas' hanging from a tree and his friend and teacher on a wooden cross, sometimes referred to as tree, right?”

    “Well, never thought of it that way", scrathing his head, “but Christ in died in victory and Judas in defeat.”

     Then, I decided to put the mystery of it all and the three mystery men, Christ, Judas and the Unibomber out of my mind for now. It was starting to sound like a sporting event.

    I poured the third mystery man a coffee, and passed him the cup. We stood eating our muffins in silence. Then, nodding to each other, we moved on into our respective friend’s rooms—to watch and wait at the foot of their beds.

My friend died after a long evening, and I wept.

On my way out in early morning, I passed mystery man #3 coming down the hall. Our eyes met for a moment in a kind of farewell. As I looked again at his orange sweatshirt, this time I was able to see the words below the image of our lonely, blue marble planet with the words: 

“YOU ARE HERE.”

                                  (2018)

MAY YOUR HEART BE LIGHT

There was to be a mandatory school Merry Christmas party after Sunday mass. Most mandatory events had never felt like a party or fun, held in the damp basement of the school, an old red brick building with a tall black iron fence around it and a paved over recess yard. I dreaded going, but knew I had to be there or there would be consequences. 

    School events were always mandatory, even Sunday mass which we had to attend with our class. Often we were called to "volunteer" for school events to collect coats, serve food, help set up or clean up. Fun? I didn't think so. Sometimes parents were asked to donate food to be sold at a mandatory event and then families had to pay for the refreshments they themselves had provided.  

     On our way to our lessons in the morning we climbed the creaking wooden stairs and entered the high-ceilinged, spartan classrooms, white concrete block walls, desks anchored to the floor in straight rows, back and side blacboards and a cloakroom in the back of the room. The  only color in the room was provided by the statues of the Blessed Mother or The Sacred Heart of Jesus. These were more sentinels than saints, part of whose purpose was for children to kneel before them to ask forgiveness for not knowing an answer, chewing gum, a sideways glance at another student, a fidget or a whisper. Such “penance” might come only after a swift, sharp whack of a ruler across the hands of the little offenders.

    All these associations, including that certain smell and a mood permeating the building were enough to make a child wonder if any activity at the school could  ever be fun. A child would, ideally, wish to live without fear or worry of accusations and/or humiliation. I could not have articulated all this back then, but the expections of school environment must have created a feeling of uneasiness and hesitation about attending another mandatory school event. 

    My idea of a fun event would have been full of light and color-- carefee, with music and games, and a certain freedom to interact with one another.  At our brief recess after lunch, we could play and for color we might see a bright yellow dandelion growing up through a crack in the concrete and there was the blue sky above, under which we played, skipping, played tag or jumped" rope—until the nun standing watch rang the brass bell to call us into prayer before the afternoon lessons. All . was regiment and requirement—including the mandatory "Merry" Christmas party.

    I cried on Friday afternoon when I got home when my mother told me I was to spend the weekend at my aunt’s house, which I also never thought of as a fun place, despite her fancy furniture and bottles of 7-up in the refrigerator. Not only would I be marked absent for the party, but also for Sunday mass. If I could have articulated it then, I would have said, "There will be blood!"

   "But, Mom, Mother Mary Canice said we have to go! please, please.”

    I don’t remember what my mother said in response to my plea, but it was also mandatory that I be left at my aunt’s musty smelling row house on Gratz Street in North Philadelphia. I cried all the way there, knowing there would be a reckoning on Monday in the third grade classroom. I cried again that night in the small spare room at the top of the stairs that doubled as a storage space of sorts. I was homesick and heartsick, surrounded by stacks of books and piles of clothes here and there. I stared at the tan wallpaper printed with red tennis rackets or at the ceiling, where strange shapes danced, illuminated by the streetlight shining in from the window facing the alley behind the house. 

    I don’t remember what else happened that weekend or the trip back home, but I will never forget what happened on Monday morning. 

    Seated at her desk our stern nun who, at some point, had grown a cold stone in place of a heart, held in one hand a short list of the children who had not attended mass and/or the fun event. It was literally a “hit” list as it turned out, which became apparent when she began to call the names of children, who (for whatever reason) were "no shows."  In her other hand she wielded what she often referred to as her “buddy,” a metal ruler. One by one, my classmates were called to stand beside her. James went first, then Ann Marie, then Rosalie—all disappeared behind the desk as she turned them over her lap, and the whacks began. I knew I was last according to alphabetical order.

    As I walked up to the desk, I looked to the stature of Holy Mary Mother of God in the corner whose face shone down in kindness. I lay face down across a lap over the nun's black garments. She lifted my school uniform to meet out my punishment for not attending and having fun at the Merry Christmas party.  

    I kept my eyes on Mary's countenance, and, with each strike, I whispered one of names for her we would hear during a mass for the 

 to which the children responded, "Pray for us."

    Tower of Ivory

    Joy of the Just

    Comforter of the Afflicted

    Mirror of Justice

    Mother of Sorrows

    Cause of Our Joy

AMEN

ME TOO

From across the room Sarah recognized the young woman sitting with him at a table in a dimly-it corner of the restaurant. She knew she would find him here, but didn’t expect to see the girl whom she had often wondered about during her absence—wondered if she or others, known and unknown, were being exploited, controlled, and abused, as she had been. Two years had passed since she had seen either one of them. He was the reason she had left town, and now, the reason she had returned, with a capacity she did not have as a child of seven years old when it all began--courage.

She sat calmly at first, strengthened by the knowledge that something was to be done, something she had set into motion that would expose him. So many thoughts, feelings and fears filled her mind and heart. But anger was the motivator that would transform into courage to take action. The fire of anger building over years of humiliation, shame, confusion and despair was now now the burning courage to confront him, and to save her friend if she could. 

Now she stood fueled with that courage and walked over to the corner table. She wanted to scream, to rage, but being in a public place, part of her strategy, and having prepared for so long for this moment, she knew that she must act and speak out of that center of courage, of certainty to stand her ground. The calm of utter certainty expressed in her whole being was what was needed  to free finally free herself, and her friend and maybe others. She took a deep breath, determined to moderate at least her voice, though her eyes belied the calm when she looked upon the face of the predetor, the thief who stole her childhood.

"I remember you."  He was startled at the interuption and did not recognize her at first.  “Doing the same thing to her that you did to me?” Then to her young friend, whose face was inscrutibly blank, and not quite present--almost in a trance-like state. “Come, let' go for a walk now, and you will be safe, I promise.” 

“Who are you?” You have no business...." he spoke, as if she were a stranger, but his eyes and his nervous gestures also revealed that he knew exactly who she was and that he would, for the first time in his life be accountable.

“Sarah, what are you doing here? Where have you been?” the younger woman seemed to awaken in that moment to her friend who had disappeared without a word of why or a goodbye.

“You’d better leave right now, or I’ll call the police,” he demanded, but already the young woman had gotten up to stand beside her long-lost friend who put an arm around her shoulder. It was the first time in her life she had felt someone saw, knew and would protect and defend her. 

"Oh, they have already been called." and the case is in the works, so go home alone, and wait for all the others to come forward who also remember who and what you are and have done to them."

The two women looked at each other deep and long in silence, with the knowledge of what the other had experienced. They felt an unfamiliar strength in the invisible bond now forged between them—and a bridge formed to somewhere else that they would cross together. 

“You too?” the young woman asked, now in tears.

“Me too.” But no more! We are free now."

“Sit back down,” he commanded the young woman, but already his power had shattered the illusion that her fate was sealed. Never again would he be able to control either of the women he had manipulated and abused, but, nevertheless would endure the life-long effects of what what they had experienced. Still, now there was a way toward healing, recovey--and  most of all no longer captives.

“We are in a public place now, not like when we were kids and you could get away with it.” Sarah, reeling and feeling faint to think of the past and of how many others, and for how many years. 

“You have a great imagination it seems, or maybe your fantasies? I don’t even know who you are.” 

“Well, we know who and what you are.  "No, not my imagination or fantasy, but yours--now exposed. Now it is out in the light of day and there will be a reckoning. It's over."

Sarah gently pulled the young woman closer to her, guiding her away from the table, and wondered how many others would come forward with the investigation that was well underway, but she couldn’t think about that now. It was time to turn away from the past and cross that long bridge--one step at a time.

The younger woman began to cry, at first softly, then as if gasping for breath. When they emerged into the clear night air, her whole body convulsed in waves of cold pain and dark shame. Walking along the tree-lined street. Sarah, also in tears looked to the stars peeking through the black branches silhouetted against the sky, clouds at the horizon luminous as the full moon bared its face behind them--silver linings against the dark heavens.

The sobs subsided into quiet breathing. Together the woman felt the promise of calm after a storm--and a feeling of light and warmth that might slowly, if never fully, eclipse the dark and cold and now--something completely new—something never before known or even imagined: HOPE.

JORGE LUIS BORGES WITH THE FINISH LINE WRITERS, GLOUCESTER , MA

ME: Welcome Señor Borges? May we imagine that you are here with us at the Gloucester Writers Center and that we are having a conversation?

JLB: You may imagine anything. You are a writers, are you not?  But, please, Señora, call me Jorge. It is good for me to be remembered. So you have been wishing to meet me?

ME. Well, I must admit Señor, I mean Jorge, I barely knew you existed until very recently, but now that I have read a little about you….

JLB: Ah! Then we have something in common, as ”I myself never knew if I actually existed.”

S. That is exactly why I am drawn to you. I feel that way sometimes as a writer between the thin veil of reason and imagination, reality and fiction.

JLB: Si si, si, my point—well one of my points. My work has been described by one critic as “irrealty.” You are experiencing what has become known as the “Bogesean conundrum”: "whether the writer writes the story, or it writes him.”

ME: Or “her?” So, yes, It was when I found what you said about writing that I knew I had to meet you.

JLB: You mean instead of Stephen King? Are you referring to my statement that, “I am all the writers that I have read, all the people that I have met, all the women that I have loved; all the cities that I have visited, all my ancestors.”

ME:. Yes, that’s it! I see your point. Who are we, fundamentally, if we are everything we have experienced, known or have ever been? 

JLB: “I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together.”

ME: “I Am the Walrus,” I loved that song—a man of your stature and erudition quoting the Beatles?

JLB: As you say, Señora, you barely knew I existed, so your reaction is understandable. The essence of life and the universe to me is “an inexplicable maze, a labyrinth: I have only my perplexities to offer you.” I said that when I was almost 70 years old.

ME: I just turned 70 myself, and I too am filled with perplexities, which keep me in wonder and doubt. I am agnostic—sometimes! 

JLB: Which simply means that, “all things are possible, even God. This world is so strange that anything may happen, or may not happen. I have given the major part of my life to literature, and I can only offer you—doubts.”

ME: I can say the same—living for literature, or at least with literature all my life, which is more real to me than most things—the body of truth in it clothed in fiction. So, you mean to say you did not live by any one religion or system of thought?

JLB: I have lived in many countries, experienced many cultures, read and understood many philosophers. The most significant influence in my life was father’s library with its thousands of books. I have not thought to find answers to my questions or solutions to the enigma of being human, so I enjoy everything and employed everything as esthetically enjoyable constructs.

ME: Your thinking, and your writing remind me that, at times, I feel it is not I who is writing, as if  what comes to me is latent in my DNA, waiting thppo be expressed, but randomly…or maybe from somewhere else—again perplexities and doubt. Not that I am in your league, don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t presume to…

JLB: Gracias, but, Señora, there is no league—only labyrinths, mirrors and dreams.

ME. Oh, I don’t know what to say about that, do you mean in writing?

JLB: I mean in life, even for Shakespeare. Have you read, my “Everything and Nothing”?

ME: No, but I heard about it when I was listening to a New Yorker Fiction podcast in the introduction to one of your stories.

JLB: Really, I am mainstream now? I invented hypertext, did you know?

ME: What? I have to look that one up. Hmm and I am not sure you are mainstream exactly, but I wouldn’t be the one to ask. I do remember reading one of your stories when I was in college,  “Funes the Memorious,” about a young man who is haunted by his memory of absolutely everything he has ever seen and experienced.

JLB: Si si, So you have read something of mine and now heard of others. So, tell me about that New Yorker Fiction podcast.

Me:    Well, the story on the podcast was your “Shakespeare’s Memory,” and  made me think about…hmm, I guess it made me think about and understand more about irreality.

JLB: Ah, my story about a man who is given the gift (and curse) of having all of Shakespeare’s memories which displace his own. Wonderful, and you will read my “Everything and Nothing”?

ME: Yes, I will as soon as I get back to reality—whatever that is, right?

JLB: Right. I will briefly summarize it, if I may to you and  your fellow writers: Jane, Dan, Barbara, John, Stacey, Cindy 1 and Cindy 2, as it contains the essence of how I think about the relationship between writers and writing—creators, and creations.

ME: Yes, please do; we’d love to hear it

4 JLB: It involves Shakespeare, who he was and perhaps his own search for  a fundamental identity. We know him by his works, but little of his so-called real life. First, he was as an actor, and content to play someone else, but was that enough? No, he then imagined, moved, thought, spoke and felt through his characters in the plays—hundreds of them, many of whom also disguised themselves as others. He created “all possible shapes of being.” After twenty years of “controlled hallucination” he returned to the “village of his birth, where he dictated his final will, which excluded every trace of emotion and his life-long literary gifts.

In  “Everything and Nothing.” I wrote, “the story goes that before or after he died, he found himself before God and said: ‘I who have been so many men in vain, want to be one man: myself.’ The voice of God replied from a whirlwind: ‘Neither am I one self; I dreamed the world as you dreamed your work, my Shakespeare, and among the shapes of my dream are you, who, like me, are many persons—and none.”

ME: I will have to take that into my "ponder heart," as Grace Paley would have said. Thank you, Jorge Luis Borges, for being with the writers in Gloucester tonight, and for your life and work of imagination and inspiration. It was an honor--even in its unreality.

JLB: De nada, es un placer—to exist once again in the present among the living, rescued from death's oblivion to speak to fellow writers—seekers wandering in and recording life's labyrinth of everything and nothing.

CATCHING THE STARS

Fran thinks about the multitude of days she has taken the same elevator to the 10th floor. She walks down the hall to the blue door to put the key into the lock for the last time. Today is the final day for her Play it Again sheet music store in New York City, maybe the last one in the country. It has been a cherished space for here and for conductors, composers, musicians, opera singers and others for almost 40 years. They came, not only to buy music, but also to visit her to exchange ideas and experiences, and to share the inspiration of music which, for Fran, was the foundation of the world.

    Some thought Fran’s stewardship of the thousands of sheets of classical music, many rare, made her comparable to a maestro herself, orchestrating the vast collection: organizing, moving, expertly arranging, according to composer, composition, or by other more subtle aspects only she knew about and could convey to those who frequented her shop. Uncanny were her insights and intuitions.

    She had met and served world-class figures, and so many other extraordinary and ordinary “guests,” as she called all her customers. They talked and laughed with her, always charmed by her dark eyes and flash of a smile that could seemingly fill the space with light. Mostly, they wondered at the esoteric nature of Fran’s knowledge of music and of her collection. But with the souces through the internet, more one can research, browse and download anything and everything related to music. Concerts are now performed with music loaded onto laptops instead of from touchable paper on stands, so no need for a brick and mortar shop. 

    And so Fran had been preparing for some time for the inevitable oblivion of hers, and all that its wares represented. Nevermore, or rarely, will musicians have that sensuous experience of seeing music on paper, holding sheets in hand, turning pages, or even tucking them away somewhere until remembered, or found again in a file or on a shelf, like treasured old books.

    Some few customers who had heard about the shop's fate came by as often as they could in the last few months, if only to visit Fran in her quiet universe of unheard music and to take in the ambiance of that space: a certain slant of light in the afternoon; a mood of anticipation, like a concert hall before the conductor walks on and the overture begins. There was also light in Fran’s whole being for the love of music yet to be discovered, played and heard by others. She had become affectionately known as, “the beating heart and soul of classical music.”

    Last week, when interviewed by a nice young man from the New York Times about the impending closure, she told him that her shop was, “a place where there was one of everything. I just love that moment when you put something on the counter and the person says: ‘Ah! I can’t believe you have this.'” But, she always did, even if the "guests" did not know exactly what they wanted or needed. Her hands deftly lifted each sheet tenderly to lay before them, pointing out the uniqueness of a score and all the subtleties of a particular version—like a mother who knows so well--the virtues and foibles of each of her children.

    Over the years, new visitors were not only amazed to learn of the scope and depth of the colossal collection, but were also curious about the inexplicable basket of eggs and bunches of rosemary, sage and basil on the front desk. Frequent visitors knew that, while Fran lived in the city, she also had a little farm in western Massachusetts where she raised chickens and tended vegetable gardens. Her guests often carried out freshly-gathered eggs or herbs wrapped in newspaper, along with their sheet music and receipts—always handwritten in pencil by Fran herself, all part of what she called her “little stage,” happy that every day she got to “do her act.”

    When visitors began to dwindle to just a few, then often not even one all day, she felt herself at the edge of a cliff about to fall over.

    Today, Fran turns the key for the last time to the familiar sounds of the creaking door and tinkle of a bronze bell, which in the last few days had not stopped ringing. Dozens of friends and well-wishers braved the wintry weather to visit the shop for the farewell--some for the first time, but all for the last. She stands disoriented at the door in temporary parlysis. Although she had anticipated this day for months, even years, she seems unable to step across the threshold. For a moment, she thinks she hears the strains of all of the music she loves—symphonies, fugues, concertos and sonatas emanating from the hidden notations within the stacked leaflets inside. At last, she takes a deep breath and the last step into the familiar silence, except for the muffled sound of traffic far below. She scans the space in her own farewell. There is nothing to be done, except to finish up some paperwork and wait for the movers who will come later today to take the boxes of treasures away to be archived at the University of Music and Performing Arts in Vienna.

    If she herself could create a composition to accompany this day, it would be a lamentation for the passing of an era. Yet, one has been creating itself in her heart and will resonate there ever after. Instead, she listens to Mendelsshohn's Hebrides and, as always, the strains transport her to another time and place.

    She is a young woman in a summer long ago on the isle of Uist in the Outer Hebrides. Living in a small crofter’s cottage with the MacKays, who had welcomed her as part of their family. Living and working with them she learned many new things: how to collect seaweed, tend gardens, shear sheep—and about living a simpler life. Most of all, she learned to observe, to pay attention. While at first she experienced the stark landscape as remote and austere, in contrast to the vast city along the Hudson, day by day she began to notice the subtlties of color on land and sea, to feel the purity of air, to bask in brilliant sunlight and to hear the distant rhythm of the sea. There was comfort, too, in the daily rhythms of the day and the seasons.

    Upon her return, she wanted to live part of her life in that simpler way. She eventually was able to acquire the farm in the Berkshires. Although she had never thought of her work there as her true purpose in life--that was in the city, in this shop on West 54th Street. Still, the farm sustains her, brings a kind equilibriam and peace she had learned that summer and has never forgotten, and believes it lives in her as clearly and vividly as does music.

    Throughout this day she listens to Mendelssohn's The Hebrides and welcomes her last guest in the form of the bright memory of the isle of Uist--which always brings joy and solace. The evening before she left Scotland, she spent with the MacKays. As the sun went down, they took a simple meal together, drank whisky, recited and sang Robby Burns’ poetry and songs. Filled with sadness, she spoke to the MacKays of her gratitude for all the wild and beautiful things around them: Eagles flying high above the wide drifts of flowers beyond the white sand beaches; the thatched-roofed cottages with their driftwood or whalebone timbers, the lovely low stone walls; and the kindness and generosity of the Hebridean people.

    “I will never forget any of it, or you,” she promised.

    “You haven’t seen everything yet, Lass," said Mr. Mackay. "Come with us now, but keep your eyes closed."

    She was led out by the two older children on a narrow path approaching the sea to the sound of slow waves washing ashore. When she opened her eyes, she saw infinite bright stars perfectly reflected from the heavens all across the calm water.

    

    Fran has never returned to the Hebrides, but on this day in her beloved shop, as on many days since, her thoughts return to "catching the stars," that night--a memory of magic--wading into the sea, cupping the stars in her hands, even as they slipped through her fingers back into the dark water.