Flights Of Fancy: A Posthumous Letter To John Updike

Dear Mr. Updike,

Please allow me to introduce myself: I'm Clover Lalehzar, a native New Yorker, born and raised in the West Village. I am writing you today because I just read your wonderful essay: "Is New York City Inhabitable?"
In full disclosure, Mr. Updike, I too, am having some trouble with the city, a lot of trouble, and I would like to refer to your grievances - delightfully and poignantly described - as you can only describe them - in your essay.

I started out adoring every nook and cranny of this "magnificent disaster," as Le Corbusier aptly coined it, but lately, especially, in the last two years, I have found that this city, which was always prone to its own set of faults, and imperfections, has now managed to morph into a feral outpost of blind busyness, negligent ne'er-do-wells, habitual silent hysteria and unhappiness that fills every subway car, cross-walk and grocery store. Here, you might say, dear Clover, this has always been the case, this IS the New York persona. Lucky you, who have been spared the city rearing its ugly monstrous head in your direction. But alas, Mr. Updike, I've noticed a steady decline in the integrity of the place itself, and of course, in some of the people who inhabit this crammed-up island. "There are so many faces, costumes, packages, errands - preoccupations, hopes, passions, lives in progress" on these city streets, yes, these "lives in progress" make-up the machinery that keep this island afloat. Sometimes though, these lives are not progressing, but stagnating. The woman on the corner you gaze at quickly from the window of your cab is full of hopes and dreams, "h's" and "d's" that precariously hang-on the ever-shifting whims of people in charge.

I do agree with you, that the "country's greatest city is sinking into a chasm of itself," not because we don't have the potential to lift ourselves out of the mire, neatly and hero-like, but because the foundation on which we walk is fast eroding, and us New Yorkers are complacent - to fight would take too much energy. Why not dine out instead, go to the theatre, the opera, the ballet, hear some Jazz, drown out the continual drone of the demons that live below - in the vastness of the city's guts, and intestines. Gotham's underbelly can be bribed, can be fed, can be silenced for a time, until it starts in again, in its continual and unremitting effort to blackmail all its citizens.

"Even a sunny day feels like a tornado of confusion one is hurrying to get out of, into the sanctum of the hotel room, office, friendly apartment." These days, for the past two years, I can only avoid the scuffle outside, by retiring to the warm environs of a friendly apartment - music, smell of stew simmering, but, I long to have a second bunker in the form of an office, an office where I can produce good work, where the work is regarded well, and I am compensated decently and fairly for that work. Does this sound outlandish Mr. Updike? Does this sound unreasonable for a native to be enabled to work in her native land? What would you propose I do? What would you propose I do that I'm not doing? Move out? Move away? Far, far away? After all, you left your floor-through apartment on West 13th Street in 1957; something had to be untenable for you to leave a floor-through on West 13th Street in 1957.

The city's "vitality and glamour is ironically rooted in merciless skirmish and inconvenient teeming; familiarity with crowdedness and menace is the local badge of citizenship and the city's constant moral instruction features the piquant proximity of rich and poor." I am guilty of this collective complacency. I have averted my eyes on the subway, on the street, in the park when someone in need has asked me for money, for eye-contact, for food. It saddened me, made me feel ashamed, and cold-hearted, "but instead of standing up for greater justice I sat back for greater ease." I am a New Yorker, capable of a cold shoulder, an understanding of high-culture, and a brisk walk. It's just that in the last two years, as others' have averted their eyes, I am more sensitive to the hush-hush decline of the city's values. You see Mr. Updike, you're quite correct when you write that "...the friendliness lies in our wishing it to be so than in any confirming reality; returning only later, one finds the shops have changed, the chummy clerks are gone, and one's name has been erased from the computer." My name has been erased from the computer, Mr. Updike. How do I get it reinstated? Do I want it reinstated? After all, I too "fight the rising panic that I won't be able to get out" of this city, "being in New York takes so much energy as to leave none for any other kind of being." Now, exactly where in Massachusetts did you move? I could benefit from some flights of fancy.

Sincerely,

Clover Lalehzar

In Defense Of "Non-Professional" Resume Writers

Can I say phooey?

Yes. Phooey. Phooey on job sites that market themselves as the end-all "helper" and super salvo in solving your job-less woes by making you "job-full." Apparently, becoming one who is "job-full," and hence "joy-ful," comes at a price, a hefty one, that can be paid in installments, or up-front, in one heap, with an incentive - in the form of a ten percent discount. I must tell you here and now, that I have never landed a job worth scrap by using one of these "job" sites. But, as I've been looking for a permanent job for some time, I decided to invest quite a few hours in applying online to various job postings at various sites, that for some reason have been named in honor of quick-witted animals or ghouls. You, as applicant, though, need to possess quick-wit, spunk, and some knowledge of yourself and reality to get through some of the anointed resume-building suggestions. The following are my non-scientific findings.

Yesterday, I applied to a few jobs on one of the designated job sites. Within a few minutes, and then again today, I received e-mails on how I am "sabotaging" my chances in becoming gainfully employed, because my resume, shall we say, or according to the site, "lacks luster." Maybe, some fortifying cream conditioner would help the problem some? The "expert" writes "the ideal resume is airy, clean, and uncluttered, with the effective and strategic use of white space." And here I thought and dare I say, that a resume was supposed to be something of substance, not simply white paper with a clever sheen. I apparently also come across as a "doer," not an "achiever." What does this mean? So, the job search process has been whittled down to a game of semantics, and I the "doer," not the "achiever" have suffered a verdict of guilty with respect to my ideas about and non-allegiance to the site's conclusions on the three "V's": verbatim, vernacular and verbiage. Clearly, me and the fox/monster are at odds.

The "expert" also claimed that I had "at least one spelling/grammatical error" in my resume, and I would be better-served if I had a "new and fresh pair of eyes" to peruse my illiterate rendition at a low-cost of $399. If there's anything you can say in my defense, it is that I am a good, maybe great speller, with hawk eyes that can spy a misspelling from a mile away. If my hawk eyes were feeling lazy, I have a mother who also possesses similar attributes, and a great capacity to catch offending misspellings within a second. So there, site, you're clearly in over your head, and do not know the level of spelling bee you're dealing with.

The other funny business went like this. In order for me to be considered for a job worth my "impressive array of expertise," I must highlight my strong-points. I, must for example, when "selling myself" to potential employers, write in bold, that I am a "high potential reporter and producer." That one really made me cringe, and squeeze my tushy*. If you're in fact a "high potential reporter and producer," would you feel the itching need to write it in bold letters on your C.V.?

So, fox/monster, in defense of "non-professional" resume writers, I must contest all your suggestions and findings, and tell you, with all my heartfelt gratitude, that I am pleased that you find my resume wanting...I would not like it much if you gave me a gold star for the strength of my "clean" margins, and my "airy" summation of years working and schooling. I also am disgusted by your taking advantage of people who clearly find themselves in an unpleasant situation, and perhaps are driven by desperation, to pay you six installments of $399. Shame on you, and phooey. As my mother said earlier, your shamelessness and crappy non-sensical advice made her "want to burp." Next time I'm at the pharmacy, I will be sure to reach high-up and pay for the $3.99 "length and strength" conditioner for fragile and hard-to-grow-permanent job status, it's a tonic that helps repair split means to ends, and a salvo that's far cheaper to spread all over my C.V.

*General Note: I squeeze my tush when I'm embarrassed for someone or something.

The Umbrella Plot

"The pretty Rain from those sweet Eaves
Her unintending Eyes --
Took her own Heart, including ours,
By innocent Surprise --

The wrestle in her simple Throat
To hold the feeling down
That vanquished her -- defeated Feat --
Was Fervor's sudden Crown"


I cannot describe the effect of rain on our vulnerable souls as elegantly as Emily Dickinson did in this poem, but I can tell you about "the umbrella plot" - as I know it to be true. The events in this small narrative involve the anthropomorphic reasoning of a character driven by sentimental leanings, and the lack of a permanent job. The character, let's call her "She," affixes strange importance to the natural phenomenon and power of inanimate objects. For convenience sake, and to drive this mini-plot along, let's say, She focusses her attentions on broken umbrellas; how they dot the streets after a storm, with all their metal glistening points and elbows bent in humble reverence to the great wind that has done their disposable bodies in. She thought to herself, that if she were in the game of "transference," She, would be a broken umbrella for the moment, but a synthetic cubist one though a la Picasso or Braque. As a "S.C." umbrella, She would be capable of being broken up, analyzed, and reassembled in abstracted form, and She, along with people that saw her as "Um-brella," would recognize her special gifts in flexibility and as premiere contortionist - in arranging herself just so, and so, and so that She/Um-brella would be admired from a multitude of viewpoints, and She, and her broken parts would be represented in a greater context, THE CONTEXT. She/Her/Um-brella's surfaces intersect at seemingly random angles, scant of a coherent sense of depth; and devoid of delineation between background/context, and, her/She as object. Um-brella's planes and lines and edges interpenetrate to create shallow and ambiguous space.

She is ambiguous space when She goes to a party, or is introduced to a friend as looking for a permanent job. She wants to just morph into her SELF as Um-brella, scheming to overthrow the "Permanent Job God," that has the power to keep her at points with herself. Strike him down! Arrange/conceive and take action as a plotter would do in a plot; and speaking of plots, what about all her sisters and brothers, all deranged and mangled by the effects of the wind and the rain, strewn here and there, in broken mountains arranged atop the trash bins, and lining the streets, like shot-up soldiers in hostile territory. This is one giant umbrella cemetery She thought. And we umbrellas are devices for mass protection, so why are we treated with disdain, or why are we not made to last? Or why are we made to feel unimportant in sunny weather, after all I, Um-brella could be Miss Parasol.

Touch Down

In the 1958 film, "Cat On A Hot Tin Roof," Paul Newman's character Brick Pollitt, a miserable, self-loathing, and alcoholic aging football hero is mourning the death of his best friend Skipper who committed suicide. Brick's indifference to his beautiful young wife Maggie, played by Elizabeth Taylor, and to the whole idea of life and living is summed up rather beautifully in a poetic monologue at the beginning of the film. In this rant, Brick describes to his wife, that he drinks until he feels the "click," which releases him into the welcome oblivion of intoxication. This is his only means of escape. He hides within the "click."

I was thinking about the "click" recently when my lower back seemed to be all tangled up, tense, and perturbed. No amount of stretching, exercise, or baths would send my back into "click" mode. I was waiting for the the literal and figurative crack/click of the bones resetting, reconstituting - directing themselves to a peaceful detente. No dice. For years now, my back and neck have been the "detectors" and tell-tale shamans for how I am doing in life. The neck and back indicators were initially triggered by carrying heavy gear (camera and tripod) for years at my former job as a TV reporter, but now, the "truth-finding" duo becomes inflamed when I am searching for answers that take longer than they should. For the past two years, looking for a permanent job, looking for that "click," looking for that "fit," is touch-and-go. The "click" - to succeed, the "click" to answer when I am asked what I do, the "click" to sleep peacefully when day is done, I, like Brick, need the "click," although not derived from the same source, but I need the feeling that all is okay, will be okay. I need the "click" of peace. And I know it will come, and it's safely grazing there in the distance, but the manifold fog is obscuring its start-date. Patience is a virtue, but the "click" is a virtue too. "Virtue" is among many things, based on merit, aptitude, valor, and in the order of angels, and celestial hierarchy, I feel that I am on the short-list for the "click-dom", after a long, long time on the long-list.

It's been a long, nearly untenable flight of time; and I don't eat or sleep on planes, so now, I summon the "click," and as I sit here writing this, I can feel the bones in my back settle down, they're anticipating touch down.

Cut And Restored

In the "Glossary of Magic Terms," there's something called "cut and restored," which refers to any "effect" where an object is cut-up and then made whole again. According to the glossary, this is usually performed with rope, string or thread. I was looking up "Magic Terms" today, because of an article I read this morning in the Sunday Times' Metropolitan section, concerning a fascinating man - called the "Millionaires' Magician" aka Steve Cohen, who earns more than $1 Million a year for his tremendous talents in sleight of hand trickery. I am envious of Cohen's gifts in conjuring something out of nothing, and transforming something into nothing. He is in on a world where effects, escape, illusion, and stacked decks reign supreme, and I presume his audience benefits from entry into his magical matrix. I was originally going to write about how the term "cut and restored" sounded like a biographical and poetic description of my last two years of looking for a permanent job, of dreams and expectations being dashed and cut in the long waiting game, and of people in my life who have restored my faith in good things happening, and have restored me from being cut. But, for now, I just want to focus on being restored by a great many people in my life, and particularly a dear friend who I found out only this late afternoon, has passed away rather suddenly. I feel that I can speak of my experience with him, and his passing in "magical terms." He had a unique vantage point or "angle" of the person I was and am; he was onto my "tricks," whether they were "good," or "limited," and he was somehow acutely aware that no matter how far I fell, I would at some unknown point in the future be an "ambitious card," or a selected card that continually rises to the top of the deck after being placed into the middle of that same deck. He too, much like Steve Cohen, allowed me dalliances with escapism, a moment to shut the outside world out, and disappear into myself; with him I could muster up a shiny coin behind my ear, and reinvent myself; I could hit the "reset" button and triumph in the exploratory riffs and rides of the "wild card." When I was "torn up," he made me whole again, when I was "cut-up," he made me whole again. And now while the shock of his "disappearance" is far from wearing off, and the "effect" of the loss is still unknown to me, I see bits and pieces of things he said or did for me. I presume that the bits and pieces will grow as the days without him are etched farther and farther into the future. I've been lucky, up until now, I've never experienced a loved one's death, and so I've been spared a necessary step in life: death. A year or so ago, another dear friend asked me if I ever thought about death or dying. I responded rather quickly and resolutely, that I did not spend a great deal of time thinking about time ending. What was the point? I've experienced all of Woody Allen's brilliant forays into the tragic and comedic transgressions and fixations of death and dying. I've experienced the deaths of two pet guinea pigs when I was much younger, and how I felt a significant dropping point, when one took its last breath. I could feel the weight shift away and upward; almost as if his soul was being reclaimed by the King God Guinea. But that's as close as I've gotten to this scary and saddest of conundrums. My parents were very sensitive in not letting me ever experience a funeral of people close to them. And so death has remained up until now, something strange, out in the distance, something I've had no exposure to. Now, I grope for images of him alive. I see his room, and his tweed jacket hanging off the shoulder of the chair just-so, and I hear his voice, and I wish I hadn't been five minutes late the last time I saw him, less than a week ago. I'm chiding myself for that five minutes lost, all-the-while, I am so grateful for ten years gained knowing him, and how he restored me and my faith in things all these years.

Call-And-Response

I went to see some jazz last night at the Iridium. Trombonist, and brother of trumpeter Wynton Marsalis, Delfeayo Marsalis explored and celebrated Charlie Parker through a variety of musical perspectives. And as he did the Bird proud, I began to think as I always do, just how talented and spur-of-the-moment genius these jazz musicians truly are. This is not a new thought among jazz fans, but I continue to marvel at their maelstrom of melodic riffs; especially their mighty "call-and-response" patterns. Last night, there was anywhere from two to six musicians up on stage, all expressing themselves as a group, and then one by one, trying the music on, wearing it around, and showing it off. They all had a special relationship to time; using and manipulating it to fit the spirit of their music. They were "fitting" and "fixing" time, instead of time "fitting" and "fixing" them. I just love that, and I thought to myself, maybe I can be more "jazzy" in my everyday dealings. For me, it's long past waiting for something to happen - to begin. During this two year period of looking for a permanent job, of going here and there, I've been depending on how the "other side" will react to me, all these calls-and-no-responses have made me question myself. Instead of a long sustained resounding powerful note, I've become a willy-nilly combination of "passing" and "substitute chords." No, I say, no more. I am from here on in, an "altered chord," because I carry around with me my old self, as well as the bits and pieces garnered along this tough riff, I am changed, but I am still Clover. Like the jazz musicians I saw last night, I am tapping my own wherewithal to control time as I wish, with my own instrument that deliberately distorts the pitch and timbre of its time in the spotlight to fit its needs. Spontaneous, independent, and vital.

Ironically enough, the word "jazz" also means empty talk; a bi-polar word that conducts itself in all-or-nothing terms. There must be an etymological angel reigning overhead, for I am now super-hero keen to pick-up an empty-talker's talk and throw it out immediately, rather than dote on their promises of the world served on a platter. Instead, I am supporting my own solo improvisation that takes its cues from its own tempo, and deliberates what an opportune and suitable moment is, and when to take it to new gratifying heights of music-making.