Thursday, October 11, 2012

Something Else


Thisssss is not love, it’s something else,
And we’re not friends, either
Thissssss is not love, it’s something else,
Not just for fun, neither

(chorus)
But wheeeen I’m with youuuu__ liiiiiife is as it shooould be
Eeeeev’ry moment’s perfect__ but I won’t wait and see
No, no-no-no, If I know what’s good for me
I won’t wait and seeee

Thisssss won’t work out, can’t be sustained
it won’t survive, either
Thissssss won’t work out, it’ll unravel
I’ll fade away into the ether

(repeat chorus)

(bridge)
Soo-oo-oo-oon after I met you__ I-I-I-I held out some hope
Tho-ught that I held all your answers__ but clearly I was just a dope >>>>>>>
You made it clear__ that it would never work
Figured that your honesty was another perk
Wanted you so badly__ thought that-I-could make it work
But I was in denial__ and youooo__ you’re ju-st a jerrrrrrk

(instrumental is the bridge)

Thisssss, this will end, I will recede
And you will stop, calling
Youuuuuu’ll, watch me go, and I’ll catch myself
__Try to stop my-self from falling

(chorus)
‘Cause wheeeen I’m with youuuu__ liiiiiife is as it shooould be
Eeeeev’ry moment’s perfect__ but I won’t wait and see
No, no-no-no, ‘cause I know what’s good for me
You hold no future for me
No, no-no-no, and I know what’s good for me
So I won’t wait and seeeeeeee

Thursday, September 27, 2012

A Good, Healthy Life


Jason Neff worked in advertising right after college.  He was good at it, but then he became ill. “I developed all these health problems, these idiopathic autoimmune diseases,” he said.  “What do you think was making you sick?”  I asked.  Straight-faced, he said, “Advertising.”
Jason had always studied martial arts-- a passion he’d discovered in high school--which led him to a type of Chinese meditation called, Qi Gong.  (pron. chee-gung)  “I tried it,” he said, “and all my symptoms disappeared.  I learned that our emotional and physical components are interconnected.  I had to quit advertising.”  Jason went back to school to study Chinese Medicine. 
“It was this fascinating confluence of science and art.  Since elementary school I’d devoured everything I could about Leonardo DaVinci-- he was my idol.  So, this was heaven.” After 5 years at the Pacific College of Oriental Medicine—the Harvard of such schools—he mentored with Nan Lu.  “It was amazing,” he said, “real Mr. Miagi stuff.  I learned the entire time.  It was incredible.”  After 4 years, Lu kicked him out.  “He said to me, ‘It’s time to go.’”
Jason hung out a shingle.  His business grew quickly.  “I love seeing how the interaction between lifestyle and emotion affect health.  In the West, people believe the brain is in charge of the body. The Eastern concept is that the spirit, soul or intuition—whatever you choose to call it—is in charge.  When your spirit is aligned with your body, you have fewer symptoms.”  Jason is confident, relaxed, open and kind with a good sense of humor.  He is completely non-judgmental and accepting of his clients and dispenses wisdom with surprising accuracy.  “I came to realize that illness isn’t bad. It’s the body expressing itself, trying to tell you something.  Instead of fighting the illness, Chinese Medicine works with the illness.  I see people transform.  I watch them learn to listen, to work with their body’s signs and their life blooms.  They feel better.  It’s wonderful.” 
I wanted to know everything he treated.  I rattled off a list to which he answered yes to all: allergies, migraines, PMS, sleep apnea, addictions (including smoking), stress management, weight loss, back pain, auto-immune diseases, depression, anxiety and lethargy.  I could go on.  “What about cancer?” I asked.  “Cancer is very complicated,” he said, “but, yes.  Mostly I work in tandem with the Western treatments.  The Chinese say, ‘There is no illness, only unmanifested spiritual purpose.’”  Woa, I thought.
“How do you explain what you do to the kids you treat?” Jason said, “Kids are great patients. They’re very accepting of The Force from Star Wars.  I just tell them that there’s a force that flows through us, and sometimes it gets stuck and I help unstuck it.  Acupuncture is about reconnecting us with nature. It works on strengthening what’s already there.  Adults are very disconnected from nature. Children are closer, that’s why they react positively quickly.”
I asked him to tell me what he’s looking for when he takes my pulse on both sides.  “Pulse is the Chinese version of an MRI.  The simplified answer is that there are 6 on each side of various depths-- 3 positions, 3 levels.  The meridians relate to different systems and how they function.  When you feel a pulse, you’re like a musician, listening to a note that might be out of tune.  Is it sharp or flat? Weak or strong?  There’s a skill to it.  A sensitivity develops.”  “And my tongue?” I asked.  “The tongue corroborates the pulse,” he said.  “And when we look in the eyes, we’re looking for shen.  Shen is spirit or consciousness—it’s your soul.  We’re looking for brightness.”
I asked, “Does the job ever get old?”  “Oh, no,” he said, “It’s amazing.  I love to see how the spirit tries to express itself when a sick person commits themselves to health.”  “And that sensitivity you’ve developed,” I said, “Does it ever overwhelm you?”
Jason said, “It did in the beginning, but then my mentor said to me, ‘Do you want to see disease and illness in everyone you pass on the street or do you want to see beauty and light?  That’s what you’re trying to grow.’  A gardener can see weeds and disease or shoots and blooms.  I look for the good in everyone—what’s blocking goodness.”
            I asked, “And what do you say to the folks who think it’s all a bunch of hooey?  That it’s all placebo effect?”  “Oh, I love those people,” he said, “I usually say, ‘If it works, what does it matter?’”  I paused and considered all that I’d learned and what it must be like to be Jason.  “So, you love your job and you’re always looking for the good in people and life?” I asked.  “Yes,” Jason said, smiling. “You must be a very happy person.”  “I am,” he said simply.  His smile remained.  His eyes were bright.

(Jason Neff is the owner and practitioner of Phoenix Acupuncture in South Orange.)

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Dinner Party Panic



“You know what this needs?  Celery seed!!” my friend, Cynthia, said with epiphany-like panic.  I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I wouldn’t know what celery seed was or tasted like if it bit me on the ankle.  But she was convinced, by golly.  Celery seed was our holy grail and we had none on hand for the meal we were preparing for our joint dinner party.   I hoped she would bounce back after the crushing blow to our hostess-hood.  I was fairly certain the meal survive without it.  Cynthia had her doubts.

Planning a dinner party with Cynthia had been an honest treat and at times hilarious.  She was shocked when I suggested we buy the meat, seafood, vegetables and other ingredients at one supermarket.  I suggested that our guests would be happy with cereal as long as there was enough white wine.  She smiled at me and I smiled back.  We both thought the other was joking. 

Secretly I coveted Cynthia’s relationship with food and cooking.  At the supermarket—I talked her down to two stops from four—she had a close and unique relationship with every ingredient we considered buying.  There was great debate over the cut of steak and much eye rolling over the corn.  I marveled at her suspicions.  Cooking seemed so complex and important to her, so personal.  It’s such a mystery to me.  My people are Nordic, so for me, cheese is the fourth element—fire, water, earth, air, havarti.  My mother’s meals tended towards the safe side of the pantheon of ‘50s staples, which is really saying something.  Every hors d’oeuvre she ever made began with a block of cream cheese.  Open faced sandwiches on pumpernickel I can handle, but the rest leaves me flummoxed.  I’m jealous of my friends who can whip up a meal in the same way I envy bi-linguists or innate musicians.  Food nourishes the soul.  We literally need it to survive.  No one would ever cling to my mediocre tap dancing on a deserted island.

Our dinner party was a success—celery seed notwithstanding.  During our post mortem, I asked Cynthia when her love affair with food took hold.  “My first solid as a baby was escargot,” she said.  “As a toddler, I couldn’t get enough of abalone.”  Where did you grow up?” I asked.  She said, “Atlanta.”  Of course, I thought.  America’s culinary hotbed.  “Our neighbors were Chinese and introduced me to dim-sum,” she continued, “My parents entertained-- at the age of six I could not get enough smoked oysters on Ritz crackers-- and they took me with them when they traveled.  One of my favorite food memories is of the Russian borscht I had at Boris’ Restaurant in the Yak & Yeti Hotel in Kathmandu when I was twelve.  It was like ambrosia to me.  I will never stop craving it.” 

Cynthia was able to parlay her childhood adoration for food into an adult profession when she became the tourism editor for AAA, rating hotels and restaurants in the Northeast.  I asked, “How did you take notes in restaurants if you didn’t want them to know what you were up to?”  “Sometimes I would pretend I was writing a letter and make all my notes on stationary.  Other times I would go directly out to the car and start writing.”  I asked, “And what is it like for you now that you no longer work in that industry?”  “I try not to be a pain in the neck at restaurants,” she said, “but I hold grudges.” 

“Does everyone have a food memory?” I asked.  I have a music memory and a dancing memory, even a fashion memory, but no lobe for food.  “Yes,” she said, “everyone except my in-laws.”  She continued, “I have a flavor memory, too.  I always know what’s missing.  I have a bank of flavors in my brain and I can pick them out.  Like an enormous store.  Everything is there in little boxes.”  I imagined Cynthia’s flavor memory like I would a scene in a Harry Potter movie—hundreds of wooden boxes as far as the eye can see, all with hand-written inked labels like in an apothecary shop.  My own flavor memory would fit in a shoebox filled with capers, Mallowmars and a jar of mayonnaise. 

I asked Cynthia if there was anything one shouldn’t put garlic on.  She answered immediately, “Dessert.”  I concurred.  She said, “Once I said to the waiter, ‘My tuile cookie is garlic-y.’  He went back to the kitchen, returned and said, ‘I’m sorry, M’am, you were right.  We stored them in the wrong bin.’”  I said, “What’s the most common cooking mistake people make that’s easily corrected?”  Right away Cynthia said, “Stop fiddling with your food in the pan.  Don’t touch it so much.  Leave it alone and let it brown.”  I said, “And if you could only take three seasonings with you to a deserted island?”  “Well,” she said, “I suppose I’ll be eating a lot of fish if I’m on an island.”  I hadn’t given that any thought whatsoever, but I supposed she had a point.  “Kaffir lime leaves, Beau Monde—it makes everything better—, and smoked paprika chipotle chili powder.”  “Are you kidding me?  I thought you would say salt, pepper and garlic.”  “Oh, sure, that, too,” she said.  I decided right then that I would get into her rescue boat if the ship were ever sinking.  Then I wondered, where’s Kaffir?

I said, “So, you must be one of those people who start thinking about lunch when you’re eating breakfast.”  “Oh, totally,” she said.  I confessed, “I think about dinner twenty minutes before dinner.”  Cynthia leaned in towards me.  Her passion was palpable.  “The thing is,” she said, “is to get your kids to like food, to pass on that joy and pleasure in eating food.  Let them see you loving it.” I nodded, fearing that I was too late with my son.  Maybe not.  I asked, “And when do you start thinking about dinner?” Cynthia’s eyes flashed.  “When I wake up.”




Friday, August 31, 2012

Tree Swing


I want to climb inside your mind.  Sit-on-the tree swing in your brain
It nearly killed-me-to pull away from your hug in the rain

I want to empty out the foam-peanuts crowding-the-space in your-head
Want you-to clear a path for me that leads right to your bed


(Chorus)
It hurts me not to reach for you.  Kills me not to touch
I have to sit down on my hands.  I want you, oh, so much
Hurts me not to tell you what I really think of us
Have to clench down on my heart.  I want you, oh, so much


It hurts to trace your winsome smile.  Watch your lips not kissing me
It wears me down to hear your voice, so salty like the sea

It hurts to look into your eyes, they’re so painfully pale blue
Want-to-punch-out the in-ev-itable good-byes I’ll say to you


(Bridge)
The thing is___I’m pretty sure you’d melt into to me
The thing is___I’m pretty sure that you’d cave
The thing is___I-think-you’d hug me all day in the rain
The thing is___I think it’s me that you crave


I need to barricade my brain from caring about what you say
Need-to-slowly inch away from you so it hurts less every day

I need to dig a moat ‘round you, restrain my body from yours
Need to pile the fur-ni-ture in front of my desire’s door


(Repeat Chorus)


Want-to nestle in your shoulders, wear you like a sweater that fits
Want to rip up all your suffering, tear it into small bits

I want to calm your cluttered mind.  Sit-on-the tree-swing-with-you in your brain
It nearly killed-me-to pull away from your hug in the rain



Thursday, August 23, 2012

Sand Boxed In


I was single all through my twenties and for the first half of my thirties.  Folks used to ask me if I was gay, as if that would somehow solve my problem of being single, like it was psoriasis.  “I have a lesbian friend,” they would say.  “I bet she’s perfect for me,” I would answer, “but I’m not gay.”  I was just waiting for the right smart, funny, kind man to come along.  I realized too late that I missed the first round of marriage by not marrying my college boyfriend—who became a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle—or any of the Eurojerks I dated while backpacking through Europe.  I had no regrets although that Eurojerk phase lasted much longer than it should have, but marrying Costis, Isaac, JeanPierre or Kort was the right thing not to do. 

During my late twenties-- as my weekends filled up with friends’ weddings, I continued to date all the musician/filmmaker/carpenters who were left.  They were all named Dave and I dated many of them.  That’s not completely true-- I dated all of them.  At least all of the ones named Dave.  It was about then that I began to tell people that I had skipped my first marriage and was waiting patiently for my second.  Because people seemed to notice.  It seemed to bother them that I wasn’t married.

One day I found myself sitting in the middle of a circle of chairs at the beach.  Reading and chatting in those chairs were my friends and their spouses.  Their children played in the center.  I was laying on my stomach on my towel making lazy designs in the sand with a stick.  I always enjoyed my friends’ kids as I inherently like them and was looking forward to having my own one day.  So we took turns, a four year old girl, and I, drawing faces in the sand then erasing the other one’s with the sweep of a hand.  Back and forth we did this, wordlessly for a while until finally she spoke. 

“Where is your husband?”
“I don’t have one,” I said. 

And then it hit me.  I understood that it was my job in this moment to lay the foundation for this little girl’s future as a confident single woman and productive member of society, so I made sure to keep my voice chipper so as to convey to her that she wouldn’t be any less of a woman one day if she weren’t tethered, by law, to a man.  One day she might take me to tea at Bergdorf’s to thank me for giving her the chutzpah in that seminal moment on the beach, when she was four, the moxie to go it alone and seek her fortune and happiness, knowing that if she were internally contented, that her inner radiance would dazzle all who came into contact with her and that one day she would meet a smart, funny, kind man in due time.  I continued to make designs in the sand and radiate wholeness.

“Why don’t you have a husband?” she said, and then she added, “What’s wrong with you?”
Huh, I thought.  So we’re going to play it that way, are we?  Well then you can kiss tea at Bergdorf’s goodbye.

            I leaned in close so that none of the adults could hear me, then looked into her eyes and speaking in a steady, hushed tone said, “There’s nothing wrong with me, sweetpea.  I’m just patiently waiting for your parents to get divorced so that I can marry your daddy.”  That shut her up.

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

Ocean Classroom


Growing up in Toms River, N.J., John Petrillo never liked school.  “History was the only subject that I did homework for,” he said.  But he loved to sail.  “In high school I thought, ‘There must be something wrong with me.’  I went to college anyway.”  For his final semester at Carnegie Mellon, John applied to study at the Sea Education Association. (SEA.org)  He studied marine sciences, history and literature; physical oceanography; and maritime ways of life.  It was the first time he could remember connecting with his subject matter.   Along with 23 other students, John lived for 6 weeks in Woodshole, Mass., then 6 weeks aboard a 200 ton, 135 foot sailing vessel.  Also living aboard were 4 faculty, a professional crew of 13 and one cook.  “It’s then that I finally liked school,” John said, “I became enamored with studying.
While living aboard, John learned celestial navigation, how to clean and operate the vessel, what it meant to ‘stand watch’ and how to get along with strangers in very small living quarters.  “It felt nice to actually be interested in what I was learning.”
After college John worked at the Maritime Museum in San Diego, The New Bedford Whaling Museum, Mystic Seaport, and as crew on a tall ship—13 sails in all.  He earned his Masters in American Civilization at Brown where he studied Caribbean and Polynesian history and literature, whaling lore, whaling ship logs and scrimshaw art.  He can even discern fakes.  Then his dream came to fruition.  He landed a position as head educator and humanities professor for high school and college students with Ocean Classroom Foundation. (oceanclassroom.org)
For 8 years, John taught history and literature at sea to high school and college students.  For 4 months each semester, the ship sailed 6,500 nautical miles and spent about 40% of her time in port.  Once there, students would visit Botanical gardens or learn marine biology via snorkeling, etc.  “They had no TV, phones, computers or running water.  Showers were buckets thrown over the side, hauled up and dumped over us.  There was a GPS on board, but only for emergencies; all navigation was made by students using a sextant.”  The ship might be at sea for up to 17 days, in which case students would read, do homework, write papers by hand—or stand watch, which included 4 hours shifts at the helm, on bow lookout, boat checks and kitchen duty.  “Smoking and drinking was forbidden, zero tolerance; exclusive relationships were curtailed.” I said, “That must have been challenging.”  John said, “I learned a lot at reunions,” and smiled.
Now John is getting his PhD in Learning Sciences at Rutgers’ Graduate School of Education.  “I'm studying how kids learn in informal out-of school contexts--experiential and outdoor learning.  I want to open a school that creates deeper learning and understanding through hands-on approaches using Barnegat Bay as the curriculum’s focus.” 
So much for the kid who never liked school.  

John Petrillo has a Masters License to captain a vessel up to 100 tons.  For photos and to read student and faculty diaries, visit oceanclassroom.blogspot.com.

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

Marbles


Found a marble__ in my pocket
Lost the marbles in my brain
Found the nerve to__ tell you bye
Now it’s drivin’ me insane

Lost the will to__ let you hurt me
Found the reasons in my heart
Now I’m free to__ love another
Lost the know how where to start

(Chorus)
I used to worry that I’d lost you, expecting you to leave
Now I feel much better—I can finally breathe
I used to worry that I’d lost you, panic that you’d gone
Now I feel much better--  I’ve kept calm carried on

(Instrumental)

Lost the need and desperation
Found my wayward self-respect
Now I’m sleeping much more soundly
Have more ti-ime to reflect

(Bridge)
Youuuuuu didn’t treat me very well
Made my life a living hell
But my desires I couldn’t quell
IIIIIIIIIII couldn’t seem to pull away
At least not until today
When I found the voice to sayyyyyyyyy
I have to leave you, I have to leave you

Found a marble__ in my pocket
Lost the marbles in my brain
Found the nerve to__ tell you bye
I must have been insane