Mim Conway, Executive Director of The Dream On Foundation, asked me to document the children’s holiday party in December.  

The foundation’s mission is to assist the Dream On Kids (current 2nd graders) to graduate from high school on time (2020) and to financially support the children in post secondary programs that lead to employment.

Conway and her collaborators organize extracurricular activities that lead to academic success, such as summer camp, tutors, a parent support group, arts and athletic activities. Other objectives are to develop a community of support including the children’s families and school as well as arts organizations and recreation centers.

‘What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though.’
J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye, Holden Caulfield

Having just finished The Observations, an absorbing read, tea time with the author isn’t on my wish list. Jane Harris is probably a perfectly endearing friend to her inner circle, but she’s already shared a generous swath of herself in this book. That’s enough for me.

When I was a kid, William F. Buckley Jr. dropped by our living room once a week, slouched himself into a low chair with a pad of notes propped on his boney knee, and proceeded to ply his trade with erudite precision. I distinctly recall thinking, ‘I wish I knew enough about the world to be his sparring partner.’ It looked like fun. It wasn’t his ideology that lured me; it was the way he unfurled the life of the mind with his langourous repartee. Pal around with old Bill off the air? No thanks!

My reclusive genes probably guide my steps away from befriending talented greats. A checklist involving...

Sometimes an image calls out for words. For a sculptor, a painter, a photographer, it could be the other way around.

Following the filigree of Facebook, fingers on keys like soles on a gallery floor, I come to this photo and catch myself longing. The caption offers no clues about sculptor or setting, only this:

WELCOME TO 2010

THE BEST AWAITS YOU

In caps, a declaration, mirroring the letters of the figure huddled, or healing -  or just high above the fray? The little people look up, or down, in open, yearning gestures. No one in a rush to turn away. The light, the inconceivable letters promise a perspective on the future unavailable to readers of the daily news. Good things shall prevail.

Did you notice the figure's hand? There isn't one. It stops just short of tiny, slender people, lightly burdened by the fashion of the day. The sculpture's light endows them with something you nor I could fathom on our own. Call it hope. Name it humility or candor. Disbelieve their power to persuade. Yet, here they are, handling the future with aplomb.

Why does it sound naive to say the little people, we, are the purveyors of light? Because the powerful have grabbed our expectations, cynicism loves company, sophistication struts around in bling?

Time to listen to a woman like Emily Pilloton...

Before I hit delete concerning
yet another email from my dad to us,
his ever loving kids,
I wonder this.

Why did pater send it?

We’ve seen, we’ve heard
the trickle down nostalgia
for the good ol’ days
with Reagan at the wheel.

Dad knows how I feel.

His ruly children nod and smile --
the rest of us have turned our nodding sideways,
our smiles turned upside down
by homeless millions leaving town.

Is he hoping for some latter day conversion?

Wasn’t there ballooning debt
and unrestrained expenditure on war
in days of yore with Reagan king?
But that was war!
And now, they say, is socialist upending to
the status of our quo
by a savior who is secretly
our foe.

Religion clouds the vision, this is true.

The banks and lobby lords
who hold the purses
masquerade as kindly nurses
on the battlefield
attending to our wounds.
Take heed before you swoon
for any mortal with a mortuary tune.

The tired, the poor, the yearning to be free
are on the street,
our recollections incomplete.

Bojangles on my...

Profound ideas arise out of chaos. Madness. Risk. 

Although - the mad madame makes no choice, does she - to be mad, or sane?  If she’s sane enough to choose, she’s not mad enough to fly.  Sanity will lead her to lists, and lists to obscurity.

Vincent Van Gogh had brother Theo in Paris to send him money and promote his art.  We revere the tormented painter and mention his brother in passing. But who’s the more troubled, the obsessed genius or the dutiful keeper of lists? Who sacrifices more for art that bejewels the world? And is it even possible for one artist to hold two allegiances in her belly, the bold invention, the bland accounting?

‘Vincent wasn’t only an inspired, mad artist; he was a great painter desperately trying to remain sane. He saw the world with a rare intensity which gave great power to his work.  And it was while looking and painting that he knew the greatest pleasure of which his tormented nature was capable.'
Martin Gayford, The Yellow House: Nine Turbulent Weeks in Arles

Poor, tormented Vincent. I see his work and weep hot orbs of gratitude.  If it hadn’t been for Theo, not a drop of noble Vincent would remain.

...