Going Solo

•July 24, 2017 • Leave a Comment

I love to travel.

I have mixed feelings about traveling alone.

And there was a time, more than 20 years ago, when I wondered how much traveling of any kind I was going to do. Panic attacks that came while driving—usually but not always over steep bridges—left me questioning where I could go by car, especially alone. (At least the two times I had attacks with someone else with me, I could pull over and let them take the wheel). And one attack in Boston while simply walking over a bridge made me wonder if I was creeping into a sheltered life defined by agoraphobia. Not a pleasant prospect for someone who had some of the most memorable times of his life in Europe and the Caribbean.

Then there was the flying problem. After the second of those European jaunts in 1983, as the anxiety about many things—mostly untimely death—began to build, I flew exactly once in thirteen years—Hartford to Chicago. I do no recall how I managed on that trip, though I assume alcohol was involved.

Finally, in 1996, I made a decision: There was too much of the world I still wanted—needed—to see, and I couldn’t let my travel-related phobias limit me. So, on one 10-day trip, I confronted my bridge fears by driving solo to Chicago to visit family. Then, from there I flew to New Mexico (I had met a friendly doctor who had no trouble prescribing drugs to address my flying fears. Thank god for her and lorazepam). Despite some sweaty palms and a pounding heart a few times along the way, I survived the trip, and I have not looked back as far as tackling any travel adventure. Only time and, of course, money,  place restraints on them.

Still…while I learned I could travel alone, I increasingly realized I didn’t want to. I wanted a travel buddy, preferably a female who was also the love of my life, to share the hardships and the inanity and the beauty and the memories that are all part of travel. And in 1998, I thought I had met her.

Faithful readers of C?WC? know many of the ups and downs of the subsequent 12 years. Suffice to say, whatever struggles we had (and there must have been a few or the second phase of the Crisis wouldn’t have been kicked off with yet another divorce hmm?), we traveled a lot. And we traveled well, I always thought, except for the Cruise from Hell, well documented and often referred to here.


A Frank Lloyd Wright house we explored on one of those Midwest excursions.

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Lovely Budapest

We did short jaunts to Montreal and Toronto; we explored different parts of the Midwest when we lived in Chicago; we cruised several times before the Demon Sailing and had a blast; even before our marriage, we spent a week in Brussels, drinking beer, eating chocolate, seeing art, and struggling to listen to UConn’s first NCAA tournament win on a short-wave radio I bought on the trip just for that purpose; much later, we set off for Prague and Budapest, each of us studying one of the foreign tongues so we would not be complete Ugly Americans (and I think we pulled it off). I imagined even more trips together, wherever and whenever the mood struck, because we had no kids, flexible schedules (well, me more than her), and a desire to absorb all the art and history we could around the world.



Taos sunset, pre-divorce, solo.

We still traveled solo too, her taking a vacation here or there by herself, me traveling for work. My anxieties had almost completely faded, and going alone was less and less of an issue for me. For her, I think, it was a foreshadowing of the time alone she craved. And not just for a week here or there. And when the split came, she stunned me when she said she was “done traveling.” Events since then have shown she just meant done doing it with me.



Iceland–an incredible solo trip.


So, seven years into flying solo all the time, if you will, I’m once again mostly a solitary traveler. I’ve almost completely done away with the lorazepam, and I can juggle my overpacked luggage while going to the men’s room (boy, having someone to watch your gear is a real plus of traveling with someone). As far as pairing up for a road trip: There was one trek back East with a New Mexican girlfriend, but that was a meet-the-family kind of thing, not an adventure. With the most recent ex, we did not travel well together—symptomatic of the problems that constantly plagued us and ultimately drove us apart. Ironically, I travel much better now with a close female friend, but alas, we will only be friends. That’s a story for another day.


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This weekend–still exploring NM.


This weekend I took one of my many short, solo trips around New Mexico. There are benefits to going alone. I stop when I want to take pictures, do everything at my own pace. But I still crave that female travel buddy who is also my partner, the person I can share laughs with as we recount odd roadside attractions (“it’s just a big hole in the ground”) and our own travel silliness (beware the Eagles vortex of western New Mexico). Someone who will share my excitement as we plan our next adventure, for many years to come. But until then, there’s this trip to London I’d like to take next spring…



Birthday Blues

•March 10, 2015 • 2 Comments

Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me, happ-

OK, so the actual day, the infamous Ides, is not quite here. Don’t some people celebrate birthday weeks these days? I mean, why not just an endless string of festive events and nights out with friends and celebrations leading up to that special day?

Yeah, trying to get back to my fighting weight...

Yeah, trying to get back to my fighting weight…

Well, maybe some people do. But as I look over the social calendar for this birthday week, I see…nada. Unless you count that thrice-weekly torture some people call my exercise class (meant to try to alleviate sciatic pain that has had me wincing for several months now, not to try to recapture the fitness of my youth. There was none, remember?). And no, I don’t count that. So what else is there? Maybe a movie, solo, one night. And in the one highlight, a trip to ABQ on Saturday to see a play, once again sans accompaniment. Then on Sunday, the special day in question? A birthday repast that I will prepare by myself, for myself alone.

Oh, boo hoo.

I stress the solitary nature of this year’s celebration because it’s really hitting me in the face as I confront this milestone (or semi, anyway; the ol’ double nickel). It will be the fourth birthday I’ve had here in Santa Fe, the second alone. It didn’t have to be alone, of course, if I had not ended my most recent relationship almost three months back, but staying in an ill-fated coupling just to have a date on your birthday (or Valentine’s or Christmas or Arbor Day, choose the special occasion of your preference) is plain wrong. Definitely worse than just sucking it up and spending the day alone.

I suppose, for this birthday, I could have put some effort into rounding up one or two of my friends here to do SOMETHING on or around the special day. But my heart just wasn’t into planning my own party, even something small scale. No, easier to wallow in self-pity, eh?

Of course, the worst thing about the impending birthday is not the thought of being alone. No, it’s that whole, you know, getting older thing. And being alone.

Yes, still living...

Yes, still living…

...in a place I love.

…in a place I love.

I try to think back to earlier decades. Did I imagine what my life would be at 55? And if so, was this it? Living in a place I love, yes, but so far from my closest friends and my family, struggling year to year to make a decent living, and facing these quickly passing middle-age years without someone by my side. Well, I’m sure there were times when I didn’t even think I’d be breathing at 55, let alone lamenting whatever sad state my life had taken. But in those more optimistic times spent contemplating my possible longevity, I didn’t think this birthday would find me feeling so isolated.

If you want to say it’s my own fault, because I couldn’t make past relationships work, or I don’t feel able to take the initiative now to cultivate more friendships, let alone a relationship—ok. And if you want to say, “Grow up, finally, Burgan, and accept the givens of aging, of approaching the inevitable end, and stop feeling so damn sorry for yourself,” say it and I will nod in agreement.

And if you say all that, and maybe throw in a little slap to the side of the head while sneering with disgust, I will not rebuke you. Maybe that’s what I need right now, more than a relationship, more than companionship, on my birthday. But I can’t help wondering: would having the latter help me frame the approaching birthday in a better way?

Moot point now, I reckon. The reality is that this is my fate on this birthday week. And I can either ratchet up the wallowing or I can take a higher road. I can pledge to make myself the best damned birthday meal ever (homemade spaghetti sauce over vegan raviolis, and homemade pecan pie for dessert—a repeat of my Christmas feast), and enjoy that play the night before, and maybe call all those friends I haven’t talked to in a while, rather than waiting to see if any will contact me on the 15th. Yeah, getting older and being alone does suck. But it still beats the alternative. And it might give me the needed impetus to make sure number 56 turns out a little better. My choice, right? Go ahead, say it. Just don’t slap me too hard on the side of the head.

The Many Santa Fes

•February 22, 2015 • Leave a Comment

The longer you live in a place, the more you see its different sides. I suppose that’s an obvious truism, but one that also rests on how much you throw yourself into various social strata and subcultures. Me, being basically a boring kind of guy, I’ve only immersed myself in a few, and the rest I just observe from the sidelines.

Last night I tasted two of those somewhat self-contained worlds, as I went from the rarefied air of academia, courtesy of St. John’s College, to the wild and wooly music-and-booze scene that is the Cowgirl on any weekend night. Over the past three-plus years, I’ve spent more time at the latter than the former, I must admit, but last night—most likely because I was flying solo—I felt more comfortable at the college.

Scenes from last year's

Scenes from last year’s

Jazz on the Hill

Jazz on the Hill

St. John’s, our St. John’s, is an offshoot of the original that was founded in Annapolis more than 300 years ago. Its curriculum is built around the “Great Books” of Western Civilization; students read and intensely discuss (I imagine, since I’ve never sat in on a class) everything from Plato and Ptolemy to Kierkegaard and Schrodinger. Students also take ancient Greek and modern French. The emphasis, not surprisingly, is on critical thinking and the clear expression of ideas—the epitome of liberal arts education. It’s the anti-Scott Walker curriculum, and I’m glad we have a St. John’s here, even if I don’t take full advantage of the programs it offers the community (excluding the Jazz on the Hill concert series, which is a great way to spend a summer evening). And in a nod to Asia, the Santa Fe campus offers a master’s in Eastern Classics, an even more practical academic pursuit (and one I would love to take, though the part about learning Sanskrit, I don’t know…).

I went to the school last night to hear a talk about Abraham Lincoln, and yes, I know, that’s a mighty exciting way to spend a Friday night. Being single, poor, and a history nerd will do that to you. I hope to write about the talk itself on my other blog, over at my “professional” website.

I walked in the student center and saw two guys playing chess, which I know happens at UConn and other state schools all the time on the weekends. Tying into the emphasis on classics, there were Greek sayings on the walls, and even Greek numerals on the clocks. Outside the lecture hall, coffee and tea was available for anyone who wanted it (hey, why not, when undergraduate tuition comes in at a little over $47k). Inside the hall, the audience seemed to be mostly faculty and students, though there may have been a few other townies. When the guest lecturer walked in, the folks who know the ritual stood up, as a sign of respect. Not wanting to be the rube, I followed suit, and we repeated the gesture at the conclusion as well.

Sitting in the hall of this pretty exclusive private college, I couldn’t help but think: Santa Fe has some of the greatest intellectual resources you could imagine for a city of 80,000 people plopped into the high desert with no “major” university in site. It’s the home of the Santa Fe Institute, which attracts scholars from around the world, and the almost-equally powerhouse School of Advanced Research. And with the Los Alamos National Laboratory a major employer for the region, an impressive array of research scientists live and retire in the region.

But then, you step back and look at the attitude toward and success with local public education, and you shake your head. The state, by some accounts, ranks dead last in education, a product of, this newcomer believes, deep poverty and a general attitude among parts of the population that education is not that important. Throw in the difficulties kids from different backgrounds—Hispanic, Native American—have in a system that has trouble meeting their needs, and you have the reality that Santa Fe represents in a microcosm—well-educated pockets of people side-by-side with lots of folks who never even graduated high school (not surprising when the functional illiteracy rate is almost 50%!).

Thinking about this educational divide, I remembered conversations I’d had with people—Anglos—who had been here longer than I had. Santa Fe is a small city, more like a town, and certain social and cultural classes never really cross over. You have visual artists and the wealthy people who patronize them. Rich Anglos who come here to retire, art patrons or not. Classical musical folk, Americana folk, folk folk. The Hispanos whose roots go back hundreds of years and who still shape local politics and recent Central American immigrants who keep the expensive, I mean NYC-prices expensive, restaurants humming. Real cowboys, wannabe cowboys, aging hippies, next-generation hippies, New Agers and body practitioners of every stripe. Working artists, artists who work at other jobs, hobby artists, and every thing in between. And don’t forget the fairly large gay and lesbian population.





Now, is it fair to say that all these classes of people never overlap? Of course not. But the events at which you see people of all ages and ethnicities and personal interests rubbing shoulders, at least from my admittedly limited experience, is not large. Maybe Zozobra, our annual burning of a moaning giant puppet, or the farolito stroll on Christmas Eve, but not a lot else.

Which brings me to the Cowgirl, where I ended up after the lecture. I won’t say it transcends all the local divisions, but the contrast between the scene there—live music, booze and conversation flowing, people dancing—and the staid lecture hall was pretty stark. The Cowgirl is sorta funky, sorta kitschy, but there’s music every night and lots of beer—albeit overpriced—on tap. Hippies come, bikers come, music fans come, families come, tourists come. Anglos, Hispanics, and Indians come, and I recently brought some gay friends from out of town. No one feels out of place, and there are certainly no airs. It has some of the “anybody can fit in” ethos that I think attracts so many different people to Santa Fe, for a visit or a lifetime. Me, I’ll be doing something in between, while trying to figure out which of the many “tribes” I can comfortably call my own while I’m here.

Return of the Son of C?WC?, Part II

•January 6, 2015 • 2 Comments

It’s time.

Yes, just as the undead know the proper moment when to arise from their graves, and film producers know they have a small window of opportunity to make money on a sequel of their mediocre movie, I realize the time has come to resurrect Crisis? What Crisis?

Look for: pictures of Santa Fe!

Look for: pictures of Santa Fe!

The reasons are myriad. For one, I can no longer post to the blog I created when I moved to Santa Fe a little over three years ago, thanks to some quirk in my WordPress account that I can’t figure out. And the new blog I can post to, I’m reserving for serious-minded (relatively speaking) work-related posts, since it’s part of my “professional” website. Perhaps most important, the time is right for this resuscitation because I am once again in crisis and need an outlet to explore the nuances of my neuroses, anxieties, and often-bizarre thoughts (yeah, it’s cheaper than therapy, though I still have that too…). Though some things have changed. My stereo is way better, with the addition of new speakers and a receiver to go with the turntable I bought a few years ago. I own my home. And I struggle to survive as a freelancer like I never did before–another source of current insecurities.

As the loyal readers of C?WC? will recall (all six of you),  my initial virtual musings started more than six years ago, when I was living in Chicago, happily — more or less — married, and facing an impending move back to my home state of CT, largely against my will. On top of that, I was experiencing in various ways a midlife crisis, though one devoid of extramarital affairs, overpriced, overpowered cars, or male cosmetic surgery. As midlife crises go, it was pretty tame and mostly internal.

Now, with 55 rapidly approaching, I can no longer refer to a midlife crisis; hell, I am not even middle aged. I am on the downward slide, baby, ain’t no denying it. Yet, crises remain. At times they even become magnified and multiply. I am not one of those lucky people who, through their faith or therapy or New Age beliefs, have come to peace with aging and dreams unrealized and impending death. No, I am, still, an adolescent in adult’s clothing, a writer with little faith in his talents, a male unable to fully comprehend the women I choose as partners.

The original C?WC? took an unexpected turn about 18 months in when it became the chronicle of a marriage dissolution unforetold, though perhaps, in hindsight, an inescapable one. And as much as that unwanted divorce reduced me to tears and stirred fears and conjured up all forms of grief, it did lead to some good blog posts, if I say so myself. I mostly avoided diatribes against the ex and managed to find humor, and perhaps even poignancy at times. At least I like to think so (the Alaska blogs, from the Cruise from Hell, were particularly memorable; here’s a sample).

Given that past, I doubt anyone will be surprised to read that part two of the online explorations of an aging writer’s angst once again reflects relationship troubles. The second of my post-divorce relationships has recently ended, though not without real effort to keep it going. In the end, the too-frequent conflicts outweighed, for me, the love we did share in calmer moments. I have a hunch future efforts to secure another relationship, or the frustrations encountered while attempting same, will come under scrutiny here at C?WC? 2.0. And surely provide chuckles for all those lucky enough to be my age and happily involved and free from the demands of dating when your years are running out.

And pictures of  my travels!

And pictures of my travels!

One downside of that recently ended relationship was my not devoting as much time as I would have liked to my personal writing. Hell, I didn’t even write one post on my incredible trip to Iceland, or other excursions both near and far. Now, I have the time for those posts and ones on myriad other subjects. They will be personal, as C?WC? has always been, they will reflect my fears and doubts, but I hope they will not be too bleak. And maybe they will even offer some levity—to me at least, if not my readers.

Does the world need this iteration of that original blog? Did the world need 29 different Godzilla movies? OK, that’s hubris on my part, thinking I can match the entertainment value of even the worst of the Godzilla movies (perhaps Godzilla Against Mechagodzilla, the 2002 version?). Of course the world does not need this blog or my random thoughts. Luckily for me, the world has no say in it. But I will strive to provide something of interest as the new crisis unfolds.

Looking Up

•September 4, 2017 • Leave a Comment

From time to time, my devoted readers—all six of them—express concern over the tenor of some of the scribblings here at C?WC?  Why so glum so often, they ask. Should they be concerned for my emotional/psychological well being? No, no, I assure them; the sad stories that emerge here (like the last two posts, which you can find here and here) might reflect some down moments, but overall, at least this week, life is OK. Writing about the gloomier things is a form of therapy, and of course if anything gets too dark you can always skip a post and  go back to all the cheery social media posts about our beloved president.

That, of course, was a joke.

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From one of the daily walks. The birds bring me joy.

But just to show that I can pull myself out of the self-pitying muck I sometimes wallow in, here’s a post that reflects some of the good stuff that has happened of late and that I anticipate for the near future.

For one, I got a rush job from a client, which I just finished today (well, at least the first draft) and which has eased some of my financial fears of the summer. As a freelancer, there will always be some angst about the workload—too much, too little—and the worry that the money that does come in just won’t quite be enough to make ends meet. Yet somehow, the mortgage gets paid, the electricity stays on, Callie my beloved feline does not starve, and I still manage to get a few pints of IPA every week at my favorite watering holes.

Another benefit came from this recent assignment. I validated a theory I had been kicking around for a while. Work, at least for me, is therapeutic. When I have to scramble to meet a pretty ridiculous deadline or push myself to  juggle several substantial jobs at once, I don’t have the time for lamentations. And when works slows, I have another thing to worry about it, which makes me more depressed and not eager to do work. So, for me, work is good (even if I do sometimes enjoy those slow days when I can knock off early and go to a matinee).

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Rain’s a comin’.

Also boosting the mood the last few weeks was having an East Coast visitor, one of my oldest and closest friends. I put aside the rush job for a few days so I could play tour guide, take him to some of the must-see sites here in Santa Fe and a few favorite places of my own. The touring included a stop at the Valles Caldera, which I had been meaning to go to for ages. Rain cut short our hike, so I plan on returning very soon.

Now,  his trip here was not all fun and games, as we each had tales of woe to share. But knowing that someone who cares was listening and at times offering solace was comforting. (Of course, the solace sometimes turned into pointed advice, as my friend reminded me that in the search for a significant other, or at least a date, I should stop being so damn picky.)

Another plus: While I don’t always feel as connected to the theater folks I know here as I would like, the reality is they form my largest social network, and at times, the camaraderie and inspiration I get from them is essential to my well being. I felt the latter in spades while attending another playwright’s informal reading of a new play and after attending the annual Fiesta Melodrama, a tradition almost a century old and still going strong. I left the theater the other night recommitted to pursuing my playwriting and am applying to a retreat and a conference for 2018, to try to turn that intention into reality. Fingers crossed.

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Recent purtiness #1


Other small highlights: seeing a one-hour preview of the new Ken Burns’ series on the Vietnam War; hanging out with friends; going to the art museum to see an exhibit of drawings from such heavy hitters as Rembrandt, Michelangelo, and da Vinci; making a daily walk part of my new health regimen (have not missed a day in two months! We’ll see how that record stands when winter comes…); harvesting my first tomatoes; making plans to see Green Day and Wilco this month; making plans to finally get my butt down to White Sands on another solo camping trip (report to come on that, I’m sure); anticipating my first trip of any substance since May, when I go visit a dear friend in Washington state.

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and #2

Then there are those things that always give

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and #3

me pleasure, even if I lose sight of them during the darker moments: friends, Callie, music, the farmers’ market, the mountains, the sunsets, taking pictures of the sunsets and other bits of nature around me. I’m grateful that things have taken the upward turn of late. The trick now is to let all these things buoy me a bit when the next down time comes. Or even better, use them to keep the darkness at bay.

The Obsession That Won’t Die

•August 3, 2017 • 6 Comments


I am, as many of you know, something of an obsessive when it comes to certain topics, people, places.

I am also a liar. And a thief. But more on that later.

Of all my obsessions, the one that I have the hardest time letting go of, and explaining, is my enduring fixation on my first love, a brainy, funny, voluptuous, creative, tortured woman named Jami. So obsessed, that I was moved to write my one and only solo stage piece about her. So obsessed, that I then self-produced the show in Chicago nine (!) years ago, a process I discussed in the early days of C?WC?

(I also recounted the subsequent threat of a lawsuit I received from one of the other principals in the play, leading to the hard-earned lesson that you shouldn’t use someone’s real name in a biographical work, especially if that someone seems to have some misgivings about certain decisions in her life. But the gag order prevents me from saying anything more.)

I suppose I could just say, if you’re curious about my relationship with Jami and the turns it took, read the play. But I don’t post or send that out any more. And reading the play wouldn’t really explain why I still think about her so much, and why today I was moved to find any trace of her that I could on the Internet. And truthfully, I can’t answer either question. The latter one might be easier to understand if she had appeared in my dreams last night, as she often does (which I know makes it sound as if her spiritual being wills herself into my dreams. Which is, of course, silly. Right?). Sometimes, we interact in my dreamscape the way any dreamer does with someone from their life, past or present. Other times, though, I know she is dead, I tell her she is dead, and can’t understand why she is there in front of me.

Obsession, maybe?

jami2A little bit of back story is in order. A one-month relationship (physically, nothing below the neck) during the summer of 7th grade, which had been proceeded by many marathon phone calls (I mean like two hours), in which we mostly talked about our shared passion for music. Later, even as she had several boyfriends, one quite serious, we spent uncountable afternoons and evenings at her house. We explored drugs together. She turned me on to music that I still listen to today. She introduced me to Eastern philosophy and Rimbaud and the Beats and so much more. And as we went through high school and college—she finishing both early, a sign of her restlessness to move onto the real part of life, the writing she wanted to pursue—I remained in love with her. Would have dropped any other relationship for her. Thought I could be the one to dissolve all the pain she carried from a fucked-up childhood and that contributed, at least in part, to the heroin addiction that played such a role in her downfall. I could “save” her.

Hubris is a funny thing, eh?

Our contact grew sparse as she stepped deeper into her druggie lifestyle in NYC. When we were about 30, I found out she was living in Hartford, got a number, and called her. She didn’t want me to come visit. I drove to her place anyway, knocked on the door in the oh-so-sketchy apartment building in an equally sketchy neighborhood, but she wasn’t there. Then, years passed, and the obsession kicked in again. On a Thanksgiving Day, with no premeditation, I stopped by her mother’s house—the house that had been like a second home during so much of my adolescence. Her mother told the sad tale: Jami was in a nursing home, in practically a vegetative state, after trying, but failing, to kill herself with an overdose of pills. I left and immediately went to the nursing home where Jami was staying. Two times, actually. And it was not a pretty sight. But at least I had seen her, tried to reach out one more time, though still thinking I could save her. Thinking the mix tape I made for her of some of our old, favorite songs and that I brought on the second visit would somehow snap her back into the Jami I had fallen in love with decades before.

The tape did not have its desired effect. Jami had no clue who I was. Her mental capacity was that of, oh, a five-year-old. The reading material by her bed consisted of picture books. But even in that state, Jami did not want me to go. She asked if I would come back. And here’s where the lying comes in: I said yes, which I knew was not true. I could not bear seeing her like that again.

She died in May 1999, never recovering from that failed OD. There was no obituary in the local paper.

And as I found today, there is barely a digital trace of her. She’s mentioned in two alumni magazines from Barnard. The first, from 1982, says this: “Also looking to capitalize on the English language is Jami Morrone who, while working as a researcher in an executive search firm, is seeking a publishing position. Jami admits her job is interesting.” The second piece reported her death, five years after it happened.

I also found what may be the only extant example of her writing, besides the few notes she scribbled inside several books she gave me. Appropriately enough, it was a review of Elvis Costello’s third album. God, we both loved Elvis. And she liked the album.

Another find was her mother’s online obituary. I had seen it before, when Mrs. M. died in 2013—and today I got pissed again when I saw that whoever submitted the obit couldn’t even be bothered to get her first and middle names right.

I’d seen the police report online before too. A story from the Hartford Courant, dated April 3, 1996, listing her as one of many people caught in a police drug sting. She was still living in Hartford, still, apparently, using. No word on what happened after the bust.

The last mention I found came in an unlikely source: an online catalog of the papers of Allen Ginsberg, held at Stanford University. But maybe not so unlikely, given her love of poetry and the Beats and the fact that it was written some time during the ’70s, a time when I’m sure Jami would have had the gumption to write one of her literary idols. Her name appears during correspondence from that era, box 151, folder 37, and I’m betting there wasn’t another Jami Morrone who would have written him.

The letter is not available online. Now, if I were truly obsessive, I’d have already booked a trip to California or written the archive to see about getting a copy. I still might. But even I realize obsession needs some limits. Though not enough to keep me from stealing. See, on that second and last visit to the nursing home where Jami eventually died, after I lied to her, I took a picture her mother had included in a collage  of old photos hanging in the room. It showed Jami as she looked right around that time she wrote that Elvis review. A time when I knew I still loved her. Would always love her.




Let It All Out

•August 2, 2017 • 2 Comments

When did all this crying start?

Was I like this in my 20s and 30s? I  don’t think so. And I definitely don’t remember it during my 40s, not like this anyway, when I was mostly happily married. Of course, being a sap, I’ve always shed a few tears over some pretty silly things, like overly sentimental or manipulative ads and movies designed to tug at the ol’ heartstrings (see this post from December 2010 on that). And there have been plenty of times when my emotional (irrational?) attachment to “my” sports teams has led me to unleash tears of joy with hard-fought (in something of a Freudian slip, I first wrote “heart-fought”) victories or wail with grief at painful losses (1986 World Series, anyone?).

Well, at least it wasn’t raining…

But the real and often unexpected crying jags started in 2010, with the news of the IMD. Jags that left me curled up on the floor, soaked and breathless, after the initial onslaught of tears and tightness in my stomach and certainty of thought that I would never overcome the emptiness that engulfed me. All compounded by the grief for my father’s death four years previously, which I had—obviously, in retrospect—never really processed.

So, all that explains the bawling bouts then. But what about since then? What has spurred those moments of late when I sit on my bed and feel a wave of sadness—and yes, often self-pity—rise unexpectedly from somewhere deep within? Within my brain, of course, because thoughts of some kind are usually a trigger; thoughts of loneliness, of unworthiness, of feeling like a fumbling, bumbling fool as I try to navigate what’s left of my life. But at some point, the thoughts touch something outside my head, something in my heart or soul or call it what you will. And the tears come.

Like they did about ten minutes before I sat down to write this.

The pause came as I sought to discover, what positive comes out of all this wet wailing? And I quickly found several answers in an old Psychology Today article.

(An aside: I love PT. I discovered it in 8th grade or so, and used to read it in the public library before briefly having my own subscription. I’m not a regular reader today, but often when I have questions about emotional or relationship issues, my Google searches seem to take me to the PT site. It even helped me find a therapist when I tried to navigate, unsuccessfully as it turned out, my last relationship.)

So what I found, courtesy of Dr. Judith Orloff, is that we cry for different reasons. My suddenly arising bouts are, not surprisingly, called emotional tears. As with the other two forms of tears, letting out emotional ones has some physical benefits: “Typically after crying, our breathing, and heart rate decrease, and we enter into a calmer biological and emotional state.”

But emotional tears can do so much more. When we cry these tears, we purge stress hormones and toxins from our body. At the same time, we are ramping up the production of endorphins. Orloff says, “Crying makes us feel better, even when a problem persists. In addition to physical detoxification, emotional tears heal the heart.”

Yes, I have felt the benefits of a “good cry.” And maybe when they come unexpectedly, I should truly welcome them, since they indicate that whatever emotional distress I might be feeling on the surface has entrenched itself even deeper within me than I realized. It’s a signal to take stock and take action—and hopefully something more productive than drowning the tears in drink or seeking some other addictive outlet. I guess it’s good that I’ve never been hung up on the idea that “real” men don’t cry. Or not been too concerned about whether people think I fit their or society’s image of masculinity (hey, when you’ve had one of your nuts yanked out of its sack, you don’t get so wrapped up in the external things).

So, my advice to myself and others: cry away, baby. And if you’re with me and you start to cry, I will hold you and comfort you and wipe away the tears. And be happy, too, since you’re doing something so healthy. Do the same for me sometime, OK?

The Anti-Poet

•July 27, 2017 • Leave a Comment

poetry-274x300God knows I am not a poet. I have never taken a class in writing poetry, cannot tell iambic pentameter from trochaic tetrameter, and probably have not read a poem since taking an English lit class more than 30 years ago. OK, there was the silliness a friend and I called speed haiku, with the emphasis more on the speed than the poetry. And once, eons ago, when I was dabbling–badly–in free verse, I did manage to get one poem published in the Christian Science Monitor, of all places. But since then, my stabs at poetry have been sporadic and confined to my notebooks, something for which I’m sure the world is grateful.

And yet…at odd times, usually when I’m in the midst of emotional angst (all right you wags out there, enough with the comments like “When aren’t you?”), I attempt to put down some strings of words that might be considered, in a certain light by a generous observer, something akin to poetry. Very mediocre poetry, but there you have it. And an event of last night moved me to write something today.

There are elements of the real-life situation that sits behind these words that, if you knew them, might give you a better sense of the meaning. Or maybe not. But in the end, they stand or fall on their own, eh? So, if you’re still with me and the slightest bit curious, here goes.

The Weekly Marathon Call

“I didn’t trust her”
was the last thing I expected her to say
about her mother.
“I don’t trust her now.”
A vehement distrust planted and nurtured in childhood,
with only brief, almost begrudging bouts of love
to bring down her guard.

“She was not a motherly mom,”
she went on,
her voice starting to deepen and shake
as she inhaled the soft sobs ready to rupture,
saying what had already become so clear.

Then she said she trusted me;
whatever our past misunderstandings,
whatever anger I had pulled from deep within her,
we could talk.
We did not deceive.
Our love was a stepping stone for understanding.

I listened, nodded, a nod unseen in her bedroom
half a continent away.
As unseen as the tears that unexpectedly pooled
in the corner of my eyes.


•June 12, 2017 • Leave a Comment

I went to church yesterday.

I’ll wait for the peals of laughter to subside before continuing.


But it doesn’t look like a church…

I had been thinking about going to the local Unitarian Universalist church for a while, and yesterday I finally had the time on a Sunday to do it. Of course, one uses the term church loosely when referring to a UU congregation; it’s certainly not like any church most people with Catholic or Protestant backgrounds would identify with. It’s safe to say, I think, that the words God and Jesus were not uttered once during the hour I was in the chu—ah, sanctuary, as the UUers call it.

And not hearing those two words is one reason why I went.

I haven’t talked about religion too much here at C?WC?, except for the occasional mention of my interest in Buddhism. And I’m not going to launch into a screed now about my disdain for the Abrahamic religions in general and the mostly negative impact I think certain strains of Christianity have had on our country over the last few decades (yes, yes, I know that that faith comes in many stripes, there are good Christians, etc., etc. But I stand by my opinion, at least as far as Christianity’s impact has played out in the political realm). All I know is, when I’ve sought some sort of public show of spirituality and ritual in a social setting, I have turned to UU services.

Of course, the spiritual nature of a particular congregration and its services is sometimes not apparent. From my experiences, a community that came out of the Unitarian side of the denomination’s background is more apt to offer a service that feels like a college lecture with music, not the groundwork for a spiritual awakening. And that’s ok, though I think my Catholic background predisposes me to like the Universalist side of the equation, which seems a little more comfortable with emotion and ritual.

I have to confess, though, that yesterday’s visit was not really about looking to deepen my spirituality. It was more about searching for community, something I’m still struggling to achieve here. And about singing—I do like to sing with others, even if I don’t know the song (I’m pretty good at faking it).

And, if I’m going to be really honest—that is, after all, why the Crisis was conceived and endures, even if only sporadically—social connection also means relationship connection. Yes, I was taking the advice of several people who, over the years, have said joining a religious community was one other possible way of meeting women. So yes, I scanned the room looking for possible candidates, wondered what one woman looked like from the front, since I only could see her from behind, and knew that if I went into a Christian church with the same self-serving thoughts, I probably would have been struck with a lightning bolt from above.

(Which made me think about the last time I was in Catholic Church, serving as the godfather—ha!—to my niece, and we all commented on how amazing it was that the holy water had not turned to acid and I had not spontaneously combusted as signs of the Big Guy’s wrath.)

Did I meet this mystery woman when the service was over? No. Was I disappointed? No. As the time since the marital dissolution goes on—more than six years!—and the dating process becomes more frustrating and the paucity of any meaningful bond-building with men and women I meet remains, I’m not disappointed about too much in that realm. And if I didn’t meet any potential dates, I did have a nice conversation with a guy who sits on the board of trustees.

Perhaps appropriately, the theme of the day’s sermon was about stepping out of our own little social circles or bubbles and trying to reach out to others. That’s not always easy for me; I’m realizing that as I get older, I’m a little more of an introvert than I used to think. Going into a church (or sanctuary), I can be around people, escape my isolation at home, yet still remain anonymous. Even as I fantasize about meeting there the woman of my dreams—spiritual and carnal. But as the sermon suggested, there is a lot to be said about making the effort to expand the circle, especially to include people definitely not like ourselves. On that score, Sunday’s visit fell short, as I was amidst decidedly like-minded folks. The odds of breaking bread with, say, a Trump supporter in a UU congregation in Santa Fe? Pretty slim, indeed. But that’s not to say I couldn’t meet people with different backgrounds and experiences and who have a lot to share. And maybe know a single lady friend they might like to introduce me to…

From my admittedly limited experience, I can get a sense of a UU community pretty quickly. I don’t know if this church is a fit for me, though my first impression was—no. Still, I’ll go back a few more times. Let the humanist messages sink in. Sing a little, if quietly. And try to make some connections, even if I don’t find Ms. Right.

Listening and Hearing

•May 22, 2017 • 2 Comments

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about listening–really paying attention to what people are saying to you, or to music you choose to play or audio programming you go out of your way for, either on the radio or through the Internet. And I thought that was going to be the subject of this post, the first in way too long. But work and travel and life in general have kept me either too busy or semi-depressed to find the time, so I’m cheating for now, just to keep C?WC? somewhat active.

Capehart radio

I have this radio!

Instead, I’m posting a short story I wrote in a class I took at the local community college this spring (a topic perhaps worthy  of its own post, given the slightly crazy nature of the experience…). I am the first to admit that I’m not a fiction writer, aside from my plays. And I doubt I’ll pursue fiction in a serious way in the near future (though there is that nebulous novel in my head I keep yakking about).  But I thought this story was a decent effort, for something that was mostly written in a 20-minute burst in class, with some revisions. And while it’s not about listening per se, it is about hearing–hearing stray music, and the thoughts and associations that can go with it. And it certainly ties in to the theme of this blog, since it directly relates to so many posts I wrote during the peak Crisis time–the dissolution of my marriage and the aftermath. Take a gander if you’re interested. Or don’t if you’re not.


italy squareHe heard the sax first, an alto solo bouncing off the stone walls of the centuries-old buildings that crowded the narrow street. He followed the music as the solo returned to the melody—something by Charlie Parker? He couldn’t place it, but it was familiar. Maybe from a record Andy had played for him so many years ago.

Andy—thoughts of him always lessened Paul’s bouts of self-pity, like the one that had hit him just before the music had drifted his way. And the ones that had seized Paul throughout this trip. This adventure.

Well, this is what you said you craved, he thought to himself. A trip to Europe, alone. A trip to revive your soul and begin chipping away at the memories of her.

Andy would have wanted to come, if Paul had asked, but he knew it was pointless. Before, Andy had always been up for any adventure, a new path to knowledge, a chance to grow. But now, the vagabond days they once shared were over, as Andy’s broken brain chemistry left him stiff and walking like a stumbling drunk. Play a trumpet solo? Not likely, not now, not like the one Andy blew outside St. Paul’s Cathedral on their backpacking trip across Europe decades before.

Walking down the street, Paul could hear another musician now—a guitarist strumming chords under the sax’s melody. Then a voice rose above the two instruments, a soulful contralto. A woman’s voice, pure and clear. Nothing like hers.

Entering the square, he saw the three musicians playing for too small a crowd, given how many people were nearby enjoying the sunny Sunday afternoon. For Chrissakes, Paul wanted to scream, they’re pouring out their hearts for you. Pay attention! Listen! And maybe throw a few Euros their way.

The song ended. Paul joined in the meager applause, trying to draw out more by clapping harder. It didn’t work. After a moment’s huddled consultation, the trio began its next number. A ballad. The sax played softly beneath the singer as she crooned a Gershwin tune: “Someone to Watch Over Me.”

He loved that tune—usually. But now the melancholy returned. Sarah should have been there next to him, holding his hand, leaning in close, as the two of them shared this simple serene moment. A travel moment, the chance encounter on the street when beautifully played music scaled the old stone walls, reverberated through the square, and settled back down on them like a comforting cloud. A memory they would always have together. Perhaps when the song ended, he would motion her over to the band so he could take her picture with them, the tall, skinny saxophonist dangling his alto, the guitarist smiling behind his hollow-body, the singer striking a flirty pose. Perhaps he would have done that. But Sarah wasn’t beside him, and she wouldn’t be when he returned from this solitary sojourn. Or ever again.

She had been clear: No, there wasn’t anyone else. She just needed to be alone. She felt, perhaps not in an instant, Paul assumed, but in a slowly accumulating realization, that for 11 years she had never been comfortable living with him. Had never truly been herself. That tidbit stunned him, and he tried to imagine the weight of that emotional burden on her. And of course he hadn’t helped. He knew at times he had been insensitive to her needs, but she knew he could say the same thing. And he did, for what it was worth then. Because as soon as she said she wanted out, he knew it was over. No amount of pleading or bargaining or especially arguing was going to change that.

So, she moved out. After smoking one last cigarette on the porch steps, as the mosquitoes began to emerge and the moths darted around the floodlight and he watched her, as he usually did—their after-dinner ritual. She savored her one smoke of the day, he sat with her, and they talked. Except for that last time. When there was nothing to say.

From Gershwin, the trio moved to something more upbeat, almost poppy. He couldn’t place it. And despite the sadness swirling in him, he couldn’t shut off his automatic response to something with a happy bounce. His right foot began to tap, his head rocked in time to the music.

The moment brought him back to the canals of Venice many years before. He and Andy were drinking grappa with some girls they had met at the youth hostel. As they talked and laughed, Paul was in the scene but not part of it. He felt isolated and unloved. It was Andy the girls were drawn to, not him. Andy and his fucking trumpet. As Paul sat there, only the strains of an accordion coming from a nearby café kept him grounded, kept him from hurling himself into the fetid, dense waters of the canal. Well, all right, and a massive fear of death. He was not then and would never be suicidal. He would just wallow in his insecurity, his growing sense that he would never find true love. Three decades later, that sorry sentiment still clung to his heart.

Andy, he thought now, remember Andy. Who was Paul to moan about anything when Andy approached his diminishing physical capabilities with such grace, such wisdom. He said that to Andy, right after Sarah left and his grief spilled out in beer-fueled tears. Even in that moment of despair, he knew he had so much to be thankful for. And look at how well Andy bore his burden.

“Ah,” Andy had said. “You only see what I want you to see.” Paul recalled how Andy had struggled to get out the words, as he waited for the latest round of Parkinson meds to kick in. “I am no saint. And I have plenty of fears. Plenty of anger. We all deal with some shit in our lives, you know?”

The singer put down her mic and watched the guitarist stretch out with a solo. There was nothing flashy about it, which Paul liked. No speed for the sake of speed, no painful grimaces accompanying a bent note held too long. No, he went for honest emotion over histrionics, and Paul appreciated that. There was no effort to impress. It was just clean and simple.

Paul closed his eyes and listened to the notes roll out. Then, with just the slightest flourish at the end, the solo ended. The three musicians went back to the head, repeated it,  and then out. After a slightly more appreciative round of applause, the musicians signaled that they were done. The crowd began to wander off in different directions. Paul watched the band members pack up their instruments and the small sound system they used. He stared at the singer. She looked up and caught his gaze.

“You like it, yes?” she asked him as she wrapped the cord of her mic around her hand.

“Yes, very much,” he said, and he dug into his pocket to fetch some Euros, which he threw into the hat that still sat on the ground.

“Grazie,” she said. He knew he was still staring at her, though all he really saw was Sarah, an image of her from so many years before.

“You’re ok?” she asked.

“Yes, yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stare. You look like someone I used to know,” he lied.

“You miss her,” she said.

“Yes. And all our travel moments. Shared memories”

“Ah, yes, very important. Making memories together.”

Paul smiled again and turned from her and her bandmates. Shadows were starting to streak the square. Almost dinner time, he thought, and he walked back the way he had come, hoping he could find a good restaurant.