What An Artist Can Do

April 16, 2013 at 9:07 pm (Personal)
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It has been eighteen years since I have held residency in Boston. And yet I still feel violated. I lived there at a very significant point in my life. It was after the sadness of a divorce five years earlier had morphed into inspiration; when I met good friends who convinced me that I was, indeed, a poet; when childhood dreams of living and working in Boston had come true; and, ultimately, when I met the wonderful woman who would become my wife.

The first explosion occurred barely a block from the music store we both worked at. The concept of a ‘music store’ is an anachronism that can not be overlooked, largely because this kind of life, this world we live in now, makes the mid-90′s seem like a giant anachronism. I and several co-workers probably ambled out to the sidewalk, trying to catch a glimpse of the elite runners making it to the finish line. I was standing there, so many years before the madness.

I accept the fact that I am older now, not nearly as bohemian, responsible, with a consideration toward “selling out” more so now than back then. I understand the importance of the impact of 9/11 and how this time in history has specific protocols and procedures. On the opposite side of 50, I hold life more dear than ever before and recognize its frailty.

And yet I still feel violated.

I can not continue to absorb any of the media, whether it is news, talk, sports, online, Twitter feeds, Facebook posts. I do not care to allow political heads thump chests in front of me nor do I desire to consider the financial repercussions. Jewish, Christian, Buddhist, Dudeist — none of them have anything new or different to say that has not already been said after Columbine or Waco or Oklahoma City or NYC.

I’m waiting for the painters and poets and singers and writers to make sense of things. I’m waiting for the only group that can reach down into the ultimate depths of humanity, into the pits of depravity, behind the clouds of depression, and raise us to the heights of a blessed light. I’m holding my breath for the first song or stanza or canvas to portray strength and hope and love, words that do not need capital letters because they already stand apart from the other words. A tune or lyric or sculpture will carry me forward and renew my faith.

That’s what an artist can do.

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George C. Berlow (1922-2012)

October 30, 2012 at 8:41 pm (Personal)

He was born on December 31, 1922 at 11:55 p.m. Had his mother been able to wait five more minutes, he would have been the first child born in the city of Boston in 1923. His middle name was “Copel”, the Yiddish word for spoon. No one in the family ever knew why his mother chose that name.

Young George contracted polio at the age of 13. He overheard the doctor advising his mother that he would never walk again and that he would probably have a short life due to health issues. Proving this doctor wrong was just the first of many such instances that showed his stubbornness and self-reliance.

Despite a limp, he was still a robust young man who traveled and dated many attractive women. Photos of the time bear witness to his confident exuberance.

A blind date was arranged in the summer of 1947. He met a young naval veteran named Charlotte Entin, who preferred to use her middle name — Gloria. It was an instant attraction. On their way to a visit to his brother in New York City in September of that year, they jumped off the train in Hartford, got married by a justice of the peace, and continued on with their vacation.

Strangely, they returned to their respective parents’ homes to live while her mother could be properly notified. A religious service took place on December 31, 1947.

They brought four children into the world: Julie Ann (February 19, 1949); Jane Carol (March 2, 1950); Valerie (February 13, 1955); and Hugh Bradley (June 25, 1962). Using veterans’ resources, they purchased a house in Randolph, Mass., a suburb of Boston.

The house had books in just about every room as well as antiques. They lived in an area that felt like a neighborhood and in a community with a good school system.

George worked at a wide variety of jobs, doing what it took to provide for his family. He bought and sold stamps, created and sold jewelry, and had a mail-order business in antiques. In the 1970′s, he displayed at various outdoor flea markets. It was a time well before the advent of antique malls.

His last regular job was for Peters and Co. Inc. As an estimator, he worked on bids to manufacture and install commercial kitchen equipment in schools, hospitals, and business. Nowadays, they probably have a computer program for that.

As the years progressed, the effects of the polio began to impact various aspects of his life. His hearing started to deteriorate, first in one ear and then the other. The limp became more pronounced and his overall skeletal frame seemed to become more fragile. Dreading the New England winters and fearing a fall on ice, he and Gloria moved to Ocala, Florida in 1986.

It was a strange new environment for them but one they settled into without ever losing the characteristics that made them who they were. For a number of years, they were volunteer docents at the Appleton Museum of Art and were lauded for their efforts. They maintained a small antique store within the Stokes Flea Market.

In 2001, George acquired a computer. Actually, he got a computer desk first and then a computer. Details and preparation were the key to anything. He spent long hours on the computer, conversing with family and friends, researching antiques and collectibles, and forwarding jokes that many of us had seen hundreds of times but were brand new to him.

Even with an environment of relatively peaceful weather, post-polio syndrome began to emerge and his health was becoming more fragile. Ever a devoted husband, he could not bear the thought that he would not be able to take care of his darling wife of 65 years.

A caved-in chest, caused by the post-polio syndrome, resulted in swallowing difficulties and a proclivity toward pneumonia. While in the Life Care Center of Ocala, in the same room as Gloria, he developed respiratory issues, was taken to Munroe Medical Center, and made the decision to be taken to Legacy House Hospice.

Gloria was taken to see him on Tuesday, October 16, 2012. He could not speak but a love so strong and profound as they shared did not need words. George C. Berlow passed away at 12:03 a.m. on Thursday October 18, 2012. He was two and a half months short of his 90th birthday.

He leaves a wife of 65 years, four children, five grandchildren, six great-grandchildren, one great-great-grandchild, nieces, nephews, and many people who knew and loved him.

For many years, people would refer to me as “Mr. Berlow” to which I would reply “As long as my Dad is still living, I’m just H.B.” Now, I am Mr. Berlow. I am his son.

33 Comments

I Write Transgressive Fiction; Does That Make Me a Bad Guy?

August 14, 2012 at 9:48 pm (Personal, transgressive fiction, Writing)
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I got a Tweet from David Henry Sterry, one half of The Book Doctors. I had met him and his wife, Arielle Eckstut, at the KWA Scene Conference in March of this year while competing in Pitchapalooza. I pitched my dark comic Transgressive novel Weekend Getaways, or Adventures in Contract Killing and was well received.

The Tweet from David was “what exactly is transgressive fiction?” I responded “Main characters who feel confined by the norms of society. Think Fight Club & American Psycho. (was this a test?)” He came back with “not a test. just curious. is curious george transgressive character? cat in the hat? certainly max from wild things, right? ” Interesting. I hadn’t thought about it from that perspective. I clarified: “Got to add drugs, sex, violence and other taboo subjects into the mix. For the characters, THAT’S normal.” Sometimes the Socratic method does work best.

For my own interests, I looked researched on Wikipedia and found this definition by LA Times literary critic, Michael Silverblatt:

“A literary genre that graphically explores such topics as incest and other aberrant sexual practices, mutilation, the sprouting of sexual organs in various places on the human body, urban violence and violence against women, drug use, and highly dysfunctional family relationships, and that is based on the premise that knowledge is to be found at the edge of experience and that the body is the site for gaining knowledge.”

I looked back at my novel and the other collection I put together, Unemployed and Dangerous: A Trilogy of Transgressive Novellas. Was my work really like this? It was true that I explored very dark themes. The approach was offbeat, sometimes tongue-in-cheek, somewhat lyrical. There was an off-handedness to the extreme behavior, as though it were all just normal.

I have worked in customer service or retail for the better part of thirty years. I am certain that my life experience has informed my writing. I have always enjoyed film noir from the 40′s and 50′s, especially with the deep and dark psychological undertones. There is more than just crime in good crime fiction.

I had to go very deep within myself for that collection of novellas, scaring me at times and my wife just enough, before we both realized that I was lowering myself into a well but also pulling myself back up. And yet I know it’s there.

So, I conclude that I am NOT a bad guy but one who recognizes the possibility of badness, madness, degradation, and despair. Just as it is within all of us. And it is daring and scary to dive into those waters for the sake of a piece of writing and it is a dangerous journey to come back to stable ground. It creates an understanding of duality. It forces self-examination, which is necessary on both a personal and artistic level. It broadens the scope of character and literary skill.

I choose to go there knowing that I have the strength of will and the love of my wife to get back. I would not be satisfied any other way.

6 Comments

Writing Through the Silence

August 7, 2012 at 8:07 pm (Personal, Writing)

Writer’s Block doesn’t exist for me. I have always had the ability to come up with story ideas and in this day of Internet access, the world, as it happens is at your disposal. I read and am inspired by what I read. I discuss with other writers and with non-writers and ideas formulate.

What I run into is The Silence.

It is a time where the world is yelling at me and blocking out the voices of my characters or deafening my ears to a poetic song that may be developing. It is a time when anxiety and fear and trauma rattles the concrete pillars of my resolve. When, despite my proclamation that Writing solves everything, Life speeds up and passes me, then rudely slams on the brakes.

As a Writer, I recognize my role as husband, brother, son, employee, etc. I do make every attempt to keep things balanced and not allow anything to take precedence to the ill-effect of another. However, this is not such a time.

My mind races to a situation geographically removed and beyond my control. It is Life taking control of the driver’s wheel and I am merely a passenger. So, I hold on for the ride through The Silence.

But I sill make every attempt to keep things balanced. This is what we do as Writers. This is what we need to do. We need to keep listening, even through The Silence for that voice, that song, that lyrical wave that will bring us back to our journey.

9 Comments

A Worthwhile Responsibility

July 22, 2012 at 4:01 pm (Personal, Writing)
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Yesterday, I was voted in as the president of theKwa, the Kansas Writer’s Association. I had already been feted to become president in 2013. But the sudden resignation of founder and recent president Gordon Kessler created an instant vacuum.

Enter The Tikiman, aka “Rabbi” Dude.

Well, it seemed like I was jumping aboard a moving train, loaded with freight and heading for a pre-determined destination. No worries. All you need are a passion for writers and writing and a desire to foster a community of individuals with an artistic temperament. All things being equal, it feels like the Boston Poetry Scene from the mid-90′s.

This is a responsibility that I relish, not for any sense of glamour or prestige or to add a bullet point to my obituary. This is exciting because lighting the fuse of conversation, setting off an explosive interaction, creating an environment of discussion and networking is worthwhile.

I know people will see beyond the manic personality and the Hawaiian shirts and be glad that they are on that same freight train. The adventure is just beginning.

10 Comments

When Your Life is Like a Good Book

June 23, 2012 at 10:38 am (Personal)

Subtitled: The Mystery of My Wife’s Plans for my 50th Birthday

My dear wife, Shelia, cooks for me twice a year: Valentine’s Day and my birthday. This is no slight against her. She knows that cooking is a great pleasure for me much as gardening and landscaping are for her.

So as my 50th birthday approaches (this Monday, the 25th) I figured she would be doing something special last night, Friday. She relishes the opportunity to dazzle me but does not enjoy shopping. I had the day off to renew my driver’s license and run a few important errands so I offered to do the shopping for her. She didn’t have to tell me the menu, just the ingredients.

But as last week progressed, she was not forthcoming with the info which led me to believe that perhaps she was going to take me out to dinner. Finally, after cleaning up after dinner on Thursday night she handed me a list of food stuffs. Okay, she IS making dinner.

I renewed my license (a story for another blog post), ran my errands, and was home before her as she comes home for lunch every day. A little chat, etc. and then I had to run out for more errands. As I do so, she sticks her head out the back door and says: “Change of plans. Put on the clothes I lay out for you on the back of the bedroom door.” She then goes back in the house.

That was just like a cliffhanger line at the end of a chapter. One of those comments that draws you into the story even further and makes you want to go on to the next chapter. I can’t be sure if my wife has always been this devious or if being married to a crime and mystery writer has changed her.

Okay, so she gets home from work. I’m changed. She says she’ll be ready in fifteen minutes and for me to make some martinis. So far so good. But then, after a couple of cocktails, listening to some lounge music, and chatting for a bit, she seems to be looking out the front window until she finally says: “Our ride is here.”

Did you guess a stretch limo? I didn’t.

But, wait. It gets better. Inside (with a fresh pitcher of martinis), she hands me a card. It’s from my sister, Jane, and brother-in-law, Mike. They wanted to do something special and coordinated all this with Shelia. Wow! Dinner was at the Scotch and Sirloin here in Wichita, a cozy table in a corner, what I used to call “The Director’s Table” because it seemed the kind where Hollywood deals were made.

It’s not often that your life plays out like a good book. But last night was a bestseller. AND there is still the rest of the weekend AND my actual birthday on Monday AND an evening with the family on Saturday. THAT’S how you celebrate your 50th birthday.

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Perks

June 14, 2012 at 8:24 pm (Personal)
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{This was a little something I wrote while waiting to board an airplane. It was April 29, 2012 and my wife and I were in Atlanta for our flight home to Wichita. We had already upgraded to First Class and were looking forward to unwinding at the end of our trip. Any writer will appreciate this because it involves word choices as used by businesses.}

I don’t mind the expression “Business Class” as opposed to “First Class.” In this day, business travelers have a more exalted aura

What I find fascinating are the perks that are offered for this upgrade. They describe the wide leather seats with more leg room. It is a factual assessment. They mention the priority boarding and departure. Again, a statement of fact. The significant perk is free booze. Naturally, they don’t say that.

The airline refers to it as Complimentary Adult Beverage Service. I’m sure the expression “Open Bar” is out of style as well. So, instead of free booze, I’m asking my flight attendant for a complimentary adult beverage.

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Castorini Chicken and Garlic Pasta

June 5, 2012 at 8:04 pm (Food and Wine, Personal)
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I had an idea for a meal when I made this week’s menu. A concept, really. Grilled chicken over pasta with a butter and garlic sauce. But I didn’t know what I would do until I actually made dinner tonight.

Four very small chicken breasts, already thin. Perfect for a grilled topper. Generously coated with Emeril’s Chicken Rub. Penne rigati, amounting to three-quarters of a decent size of two cereal bowls, in boiling water with garlic salt added. The chicken breasts grilled until done. I cut each breast into about five long thin strips. (The edges did get a little more crispy than I intended but I made sure to cut those pieces smaller.) After the pasta was cooked al dente, I drained it. In the same sauce pan, I melted one tablespoon of butter and then minced three decent sized gloves of garlic, then added two more tablespoons of butter. When it was almost melted, I added the pasta and vigorously stirred, adding a couple of dashes of salt. The pasta went into the bowl, the slices of grilled chicken on top, a mad dash or two of grated Parmesan, and a grind of black pepper. Last minute inspirations.

My wife adored it. And she recognized that my sister-in-law (who loves good pasta dishes and follows my blog) would also love it and that it would have to be a dinner we made for them the next time they came over. Don’t forget to write everything done, my wife reminds me. And, you have to give it a name.

I don’t speak Italian. I could have gone on to babelfish.com and figured out a name and translated it into Italian. Too complicated. My bright idea was to start naming my new creations after actors, actresses, or authors or poets.

Then I laughed to myself. “Castorini Chicken and Pasta”. (My wife reminded me to add “garlic” to the pasta.) Why that, you ask? It was Cher’s last name in Moonstruck. I know you still don’t get it. You see, my sister-in-law, who loves pasta dishes, reads my blog, and takes note of my recipes, does not like the movie Moonstruck. The real question is: Will she come to dinner and eat what is sure to be one of her new all-time favorite dishes that is named after a movie she doesn’t like?

Follow the string of responses; I’m sure hers will appear some time soon.

5 Comments

Post Conference Blues; Pre Conference Jitters

April 17, 2012 at 7:51 pm (Personal, Writing)
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Last month was the KWA Scene Conference. The Friday night started off with Pitchapalooza. all day Saturday was filled with a vibe and an energy. I came out of it like most people who attended — energized and ready to write, edit, publish, self-publish, network, promote.

And then Real Life set it.

I’m not saying I feel like the rope is slipping through my hands, but I’ve barely made a dent in transcribing my notes from my digital voice recorder and I haven’t gotten started on an edit for an existing piece and a complete outline for two new pieces.

And now, I’ve just determined that my work schedule is NOT changing and I WILL have the opportunity to go to OWFI Conference. Which is barely three weeks away. Which I sill haven’t registered for or gotten a discount rate on a hotel room.

I can hear all the comments now. “What are you waiting for?” “Go online and register.” “Don’t miss out on a good deal.” “You NEED to go.”

It’s the last one that’s the kicker. I think most writers go through a phase which starts with showing your work to mommy and daddy. They, of course, think you’re brilliant and wouldn’t say a word against you. You may have some friends who are not writers who you trust — until they read your work (because, after all, they’re your friends) and you realize you can’t trust their opinion. Spouses will support you. They’ll tell you they’re behind you. That makes for a great relationship but you know you need more.

That’s where writer’s groups and conferences come into play. Agents, editors, publishers, and other book industry people don’t necessarily think you’re brilliant, can be trusted, and give you what you truly want — an In. A foot in the door. A chance. An opportunity.

But they don’t come to you. You’re supposed to go to them.

So after this entry, I am going on to the OWFI site to read about registering. I am going to reserve that hotel room before it goes up (and what struggling writer can afford that?) And I will be as prepared as I can in the short time I have.

Because, the bottom line is I believe in myself.

8 Comments

This is how you know it’s real

April 16, 2012 at 8:47 pm (Dudeism, Personal)

When you sign a marriage certificate, a legal document, that’s when you know you’re a legit ordained minister.

The Rabbi Dude abides!

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