Cameo Scenes Mainly

Talking To The Pictures On My Walls

Considering the fact that I live in almost perfect isolation and that the few people who visit my website don’t bother to comment or respond, at least not to me, I spend a lot of time talking with the pictures on my walls.  I talk to them, they talk to me, and often they also talk to each other.  Each picture embodies a story which it is anxious to tell, and each also comprises a related story or stories.  As a matter of fact there are many stories attached to them, but personally I’m acquainted only with a few.  The painters have their own stories about each of their pictures and sometimes they give us a hint by endowing the picture with a title.  However, once painted, the text is subject to my personal impression and interpretation.  I leave it to art historians to discover the stories and the history behind paintings but, as far as I’m concerned, I’m happy living with the front, with what I see, and what I see is affected by the time of the day, the changing weather, and the changes in my own mood.  The artists can of course describe their own mood when they had painted these pictures but the truth is that, to me at least, it doesn’t matter.  Most of the pictures were painted by friends.  Sometimes I got them in exchange for a photograph, sometimes I paid for them.  I never had much money so it’s a poor man’s collection.  Nevertheless, I acquired them because they appealed to me and they still do, very much so.

Women in My Life

If I were to sum up my life in one sentence I’d most likely say that with very few exceptions, I’ve always been in the wrong place at the wrong time.  The exceptions may be the women in my life.  But the truth is that I really cannot make up my mind exactly where should I place them.  That alone justifies a bit of scribbling about this topic, besides the fact that now, when I’m over eighty years old and terminally ill, thinking about women is one of the few delights I can still practice and enjoy.

Detroit

I arrived in Detroit in 1970 after the deluge of the black riots. The shops facing the university were empty, vacant, sans front windows, sans locks, sans content. They looked like a wide open mouth with toothless interspaces; empty cages that exuded deep and hopeless despair. The black students at the university huddled together, separate from all other students, despising those from among their lot who were interested in “white” studies. Anxiously perusing their identity, they cast a wide shadow over the whole campus. Some blacks just returned from Vietnam. One of those ex-soldiers told me, with not even the slightest doubt, that the “whites” in the South were building internment camps for the blacks with the intent of expelling or exterminating them.

How I Lost a Girlfriend in Lyon, France

A long affair, longer than my two marriages, was nearing its end.  We didn’t talk about it, but something had certainly changed; some aspects in our relationship became a bit foggy, less clear, less focused.  Nevertheless, Ruthi and I were heading towards a trip to Europe, not yet aware that it might be our last…

Educating (My) Rita

Watching the movie Educating Rita evoked in me memories of a past affair with "my" Rita.  The appeal of the movie has been in its Pygmalion motif – a working class girl who by the magical touch of education turns into a different being, more complete, sophisticated, complex, and – alluring.  Something similar happened with “my”…