ON DINING ALONE

    How many times have you dined alone in your life?  Thousands probably.  You don't mind at all. Sometimes you prefer it.  Don't have to make small talk.  Or big talk for that matter.  A good book, a newspaper can offer you enough company.  Just enough and not too much.  You dread inane conversations.  Dread them.  After the Picasso lecture you are hungry and don't feel like going home.  Plus you like the egg-lemon soup they serve at Miller's.  A glass of pinot grigio, some ribs and baked potato and you're in heaven.  

    The restaurant is buzzing.  Busy this Thursday evening.  Lots of people to watch and try to decipher: who are they?  why are they here?  You can tell some of them are from out of town.  You wonder: what are they doing in Chicago?  a conference?  a shopping spree?  an illicit liaison?

    Your friend left, preferring to take the train and go back to the suburbs.  You want a good meal. Your husband chose to go home too after work instead of joining you at the lecture.  Something about stressful day and germs.  But you rather have supper first than go home and try to figure out what to eat.  

    How many times have you dined (or lunched or breakfasted) alone in your life?  So many you can't count them.  Miller's Pub offers you enough company and entertainment.  A middle-aged man sits alone at the other end of the long bench.  Eats ribs.  You want'em too.  A young woman in a blue dress takes a seat by the window.  Alone.  And then there are the big groups: loudly talking and laughing, clinking glasses, celebrating.  You sip your soup slowly; then handle the ribs one by one, the meat soft and loose, messy with barbecue sauce not too sweet.  The potato opened in half receives the pat of butter, the spoonfuls of sour cream; they melt into the white flesh.  A sip of wine in between bites to cleanse the palate before the next mouthful.  

    The waitress brings you a warm, moist towel for your hands.  You are done.  And happy.  Check please!  Always you leave a generous tip.  Always a supporter of the working class.  The evening is done.  The elevated train awaits you high up Wabash Avenue.  You'll sit by the window and watch the buildings go by, watch inside closed offices and lighted apartments.  You'll daydream about paintings and white wine and sweet ribs.  A good evening all in all.

A POEM

STORIES I WILL NEVER WRITE

                                                           

I will never write about driving

a car or giving birth. I will never

write about how it feels to swim

in the deep blue sea. I will never

write about riding horses or

bicycles even though I tried both,

once.  I will never write about

hoarding.  I am a purger, a discarder.

I clean up, toss out, put away. I will

never write about being a sister or

an aunt. Being an only child has always

been my burden. I will never write

about not writing because I do, I

write, I am a writer who writes even

when I’m not writing. Because it settles me.

Because I have stories to tell.

Because,

when I read my writing,

I look at the audience and see their eyes.

FRIDAY 12 APRIL: TRACKING AND TRAINING

     After every meal or snack, I track what I ate on my iPad.  The Weight Watcher's eTools count the points.  Fruits and veggies are zero.  You can have as many as you want.  When I play tennis or walk, I track.  That lets me eat a few more points.  Today I walked for a couple of hours, training for my upcoming Avon Walk to end breast cancer.  The walk will be a long one: 26 miles the first day, 13 miles the second.  Tomorrow I'll start wearing the ActiveLink doo-dad that records every move I'll make: walk, get up, run, sit down, climb stairs, everything.   

     Last Saturday I participated in the first training walk but didn't make it all the way to Navy Pier.  The wind was blowing something fierce on the lakefront, waves almost splashing me as I made my way South from Belmont.  At North Avenue beach I turned West and walked to Clark Street.  It had been an hour of painful wind on my face but I kept on.  The others were long gone, walking faster than I can.  I don't mind.  I'll walk at my pace and finish when I finish.  It's not a race.      

     The eTools and the ActiveLink record everything I do, everything I eat, everything I drink.  Will they track my words too?  My thoughts?  Is there a training plan for creating a good essay a week?  a powerful poem?  If I track how many stories I write a month, does anyone care?  How many points do I get for a knock-out piece of writing?  

     There you go: something to invent, a new App to cash in.  Unless it's already out there already but I don't know about it.   If any of you know something, please pass the information along.  

     More tomorrow on tracking and training.  And life in general.

A DATE WITH YOURSELF

     It's taken you the better part of five decades to appreciate fully your own company.  You've been lunching by yourself for years, even dining, going to the movies.  But there was always a bit of a regret, a feeling of being left out of the party.  Now, finally, you have realized the joy of solitude.  The freedom of doing whatever you want, whenever you want it.  

     This Monday you go to the Art Institute of Chicago to see the Picasso exhibit.  But first you must eat lunch.  The cafeteria is not crowded; the museum is not crowded.  The joys of Mondays.  You order couscous salad, coffee, and a parfait before sitting down in the back to read your book and do the NYT crossword puzzle.  After a while you go up to see Picasso's drawings, paintings, ceramics, whatnot.  Too many art works to absorb.  The famous ones you've seen before.  You walk through the galleries and stop in front of the portrait of Leonid Massine.  Why?  Because you know his daughter and son-in-law.  Amazing, ain't it?  Talk about small world.  Massine was a famous dancer and choreographer of the Ballet Russes, worked with Diaghilev, and Picasso was his friend.  His son-in-law is a colleague and friend of David's.  A poster dealer who lives in New York.  After a while the sensory overload forces you to seek refuge in the Member's Lounge.  You sit in a plush orange sofa and read, check email (there is Wi-Fi!), rest - your feet under you (without shoes of course).  The lounge is also mercifully not crowded.  After another while you go out the Modern Wing way and see the "They Seek a City" exhibit.  

     You love this exhibit.  Such amazing works about the migrations to Chicago from the early 20th century.  A painting by Emil Armin calls your attention.  That's your friend's Mike Armin's uncle.  Another small world moment.  Works by Motley, Cattlet, Ellison, Rivera, so many more.  You must tell everyone about it.  You must also come back to look again, slowly, and absorb it.  At the gift shop you purchase a long-needed umbrella; then make your way to the Macy's Flower Show.

     

     Pictures speak better (and louder and more colorfully) than words.  You love the smell of the hydrangeas, bougainvilleas, bromeliads, jasmines, aloe, neon pothos, cardamom, oleander, and so many many more flowers and plants.  The Indian music adds a sense of calm; the entire place tells you "come, sit, relax, close your eyes and let go."  You promise to go back again before it's taken away.  After, you sit in the small, yellow cafe next door and read some more, enjoy the solitude.  

     What a day you've had!  The best date in a long time.  And it was just with yourself.  The best company ever.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME

     I should write something today.  Something profound.  Something transcendental.  Deep and esoteric.  Or humorous and down-to-earth.

     I should write something here today.  For my readers and my friends.  For whoever happens to stumble upon this blog.  For posterity perhaps?

    I should write a few lines.  Several sentences?  A paragraph?  Or perhaps a treatise.  Or just a few words.

    I should write about life and its meaning.  About the inexorable passage of time.  The joys and sorrows of all these years on earth.

     All I have are questions:

What does it mean to be this old?
How did I get here?  
Why am I?  

I suppose Descartes would tell me: "you think; therefore, you are."  Ok, but - what next?

I am; I have been; I will be, for a while at least.  I hope.  

I confess: if I could, I would like to start over.  Avoid all the mistakes.  Enjoy all the pleasures.  Learn everything and teach everyone.  So many wrong choices.  So many wasted moments.  Why don't we get a second chance?  I suppose many people believe they do.  I wish I could believe it too.

Nevertheless, all in all I've had a good life so far.  Some disappointments.  Some losses.  A few achievements.  Plenty of joys.  But mostly a smooth journey, sometimes even dull.  But - dull is good.  It's better than chaotic.

So - I did write a few words, neither profound nor humorous.  Just plain.  From the heart.  And that's all I can manage today.


    

NEW CLASS - DON'T MISS IT!

Crafting Stories from Real Life: Creative Nonfiction

LOYOLA UNIVERSITY - DOWNTOWN

Create stories that read like fiction but are based on real life. Write a gripping opening sentence, use dialogue to bring characters to life, and incorporate research to add depth to your writing. We will read examples of this genre and workshop students' works.

INSTRUCTOR:               Beatriz Badikian-Gartler   

                   

START DATE:                          04-11-2013

END DATE:                               05-30-2013

No class May 2.

MEETING TIME:            Thursday, 06:30 PM - 08:30 PM

MEETING PLACE:          Water Tower Campus, Lewis Towers - Room 605

TUITION:                                  $ 275.00

Alumni discount:                             15%

Faculty/Staff discount:                    15%

                        

For more information, write to bgartler@yahoo.com.

SNOW DAY

     Outside my attic loft glass door blowing snow makes virtually impossible to glimpse the bare trees or the rooftops, chimneys, not to mention the skyscrapers farther away.  Even the "L" tracks  are barely visible nor can I hear the rumbling trains as they rush by across the street.  It's like looking at the world through gauze.  Flakes fly around, dance up and down, fall on each other.  The sidewalks must be impassable by now.  It's almost two in the afternoon and it has been snowing for a long time.  I am trapped indoors.

     I suppose if I had something important to do, I would risk the wind and cold and treacherous streets, but, since I don't, I stay home.  Count yourself lucky  I tell myself.  You have a warm house, food, and all kinds of toys to entertain yourself.  What are you complaining about?  I have no answers.  I tend to complain, to whine, to feel sorry, to get bored.  Lately I've added feeling at a loss to my repertoire of useless activities.  And nothing makes me feel more at a loss than being stuck inside, alone.  

     I'm supposed to take a walk every day.  Walking is good for the body and the spirit.  Walk and observe my surroundings, the landscape.  Listen to the sounds of streets and nature.  Smell and touch.  Walk and create.  But - the mountains of snow make it next to impossible.  At best, they make it very, very arduous.  I am not the type of person who does "arduous."  I don't hike.  Much less climb or ski.  I stroll, ramble, then I sit at a cafe and write and read.  

     Every winter I promise myself not to be here the next winter.  Go to Buenos Aires.  Or Mexico. Or Florida.  Anywhere where it is warm and sunny I tell myself.  And my husband.  Yet, here I am again, one more year, one more winter.  The lead grey sky hangs above my head like my very own cloud of melancholy.  Where is the sun?  Where are the flowers?   Then I look outside the window where the bare tree displays some kind of blooms.  What is that?  my husband asks.  It's as if the tree were mocking us, I reply.