Slime vs. Literacy

slime - noun - glop made from glue, baking soda, and contact solution (picture Silly Putty or Play Dough on a grander scale) that is currently trending among elementary school children.

Early on Sunday, I decided to be brave and take an unprecedented risk. Finding myself in my attic, I hauled out several boxes of books–titles (mainly for children) I had written and published years ago– carried them to my car and drove a few miles to become one of about fifty vendors at a local street fair, a.k.a. swap meet or flea market. The cost was $140 to camp out for seven hours on a segment of the pavement measuring twelve by six feet on Union Avenue in downtown Cranford, New Jersey. Quaint, compact Cranford has been used as a location for a few films and cable TV series, notably HBO's The Plot Against America based on Phillip Roth's timely, 2004 novel of the same name set during World War II. The innocuous, suburban hamlet fits the bill as the setting since it is complete with a stone railroad station built in the mid-1930s and Victorian hotel at its center, but I digress. As I was going to sell my paperbacks for $5 and $6, I didn't think I would break even no less garner a profit; but because my main man in L.A. told me he would make up the difference in long-stemmed roses, I figured I had nothing to lose.

The organizers of the event placed me, my card table, chair, simple signage and boxes of books in front of the food trucks and between a primitive fine artist sans a right eye and a entrepreneur of slime, i.e. a mother of a teenage daughter who at the age of nine was into making and marketing her own–slime, that is. As the girl grew into adolescence, the manufacture and distribution of slime grew banal, so her mother usurped her business, invested more time and money in the making and packaging of the glop, and became a regular at street fairs throughout the state, jumping on the bandwagon of a trend that is on the ridiculous side. (But aren't all childhood attractions?) I figured that the monocular artist wasn't competition, but the purveyor of slime? I had no idea how popular homemade putty could be. Scores of children dragging their parents lined up under the vendor's tent to press their fingers into soft, colorful samples of pure slime and to whine and plead for anywhere from eight to twenty dollars to buy what they can probably create at home for much less. Very few parents even noticed that I was selling books, selling literacy, for so much less. I have to admit that I was glad the kids were pumped up to experience something digital (tactile) as opposed to digital (technological), but I was disappointed that the parents were so quick to dismiss the idea of buying their kids signed books that took many years to write, illustrate, and publish. At the end of the day, ironically, the bearer of slime made hundreds while I walked away with $53. (My boyfriend owes me $87 worth of red roses :). And I will hold him to an arrangement stipulated in the arrangement.)

As I wheeled my collapsible red wagon filled with unwanted, once well-received/reviewed books up Union Avenue toward my car lodged in a parking garage blocks away, I couldn't help but think that there might be something a bit off kilter with parents who don't value the idea of literacy. In today's world, it seems that there are more writers than readers as it has become so easy to self-publish a book on-line as an e-book. If parents don't promote reading then who will read the massive amount of techno tomes? Teachers already have too much on their plates. And besides, there is a national deficient of individuals willing to toe the line and go into teaching as a career.  If parents are forced to homeschool as a result, will there be a sufficient amount of emphasis on the core subjects like reading, or will the science of slime and the like be at the center of it all? Okay, maybe I'm being a bit cynical here, but when it comes to education, I'm kinda of worried about the future. How about you?

Paracosm and a Very Real Bird of Prey

paracosm - noun - highly defined imaginary world created in a child's mind (Google)

Paracosm is not one of the words on the tips of people's tongues today. In fact, most children and adults tend to be a bit lazy about creating imaginary worlds since technology often does it for them. Which is a shame. I don't know about you, but I miss hearing original, tall tales from young kids or even from adults. Nowadays, the little and big ones generally point out something they favor on a tablet or a laptop. It just isn't the same.

Where I live, you don't need a vivid imagination. You can live inside the possibility of a paracosm easily just by stepping outside the door. To clarify, though, my house isn't in the Badlands of South Dakota. I reside in a development of overly priced houses (McMansions) about twenty-five miles west of New York City. It is called the suburbs, better known as "the 'burbs." (You might recall the Tom Hanks' '80s movie by the same name. Not much has changed since it was made.) There are swatches of green space (called parks) that punctuate the place, but that's about it. Why then would a hungry hawk from God knows where nearly attack me in my own driveway?

It happened just yesterday. As I approached my house, I noticed two unfriendly looking ravens standing near my garage, most likely confabulating in their own language about whatever ravens confabulate about. I thought nothing of them, but probably should have since they don't come around too often. Ostensibly, they were foreshadowing but how was I to know that? As I pulled into the driveway, they flew off only to reveal a previously unseen sidekick, a hawk (or at least an osprey), struggling to tear its already deceased prey, a male cardinal, from the deer netting protecting the front bushes. I figured that if I opened the door of the car, the carrion raptor would fly off in fear. I was wrong, of course. As I attempted to exit the vehicle, the ominous hawk, in attack mode, took wing at ramming speed. Thankfully, my reflexes are still pretty sprightly so that I was able to shut the door before I got viciously pecked at a la fellow blonde Tippi Hedren in Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds." (Now it is my guess that based on his films, Alfred probably had impressive paracosms as a kid.) I started the car, drove it down to the edge of the driveway where I parked it. From there, I ambled to the house, all while my plumed antagonist sat perched above on the TV cable, watching my every move. Fortunately, I got into the house safely so that the now starving creature could take the opportunity to devour the cardinal, leaving only several gray tufts of feathers to float faintly through the air minutes later. Fortunately again, it left the premises, hopefully never to be seen again.

Now since you don't know me or my circumstances at all, you might think that I could have invented the entire anecdote, making it an epic paracosm created in an adult's mind. However, I didn't. Who needs a paracosm when real life is weird enough as it is?

Determination in the Decade

ambition - noun - strong desire to do or to achieve something, requiring determination and hard work.

This morning as I was contemplating going through the motions of starting the day, the most recent edition of Time, lounging auspiciously on my dining room table, caught my attention. Since I pay for a subscription to the magazine, I thought I had better read at least some of it before the next installment came, and I felt guilty for not having opened it up at all before I pitched it into the recycling bin. While paging through it, I noticed a personal essay on ambition, a word that no longer is broached in conversations that I tend to have with people, probably because most of my associates tend to have been there, done that already and are now striving for R&R as opposed to a raise or promotion at a job. Still, according to the article and my own cachet of common sense, a certain amount of determination is necessary to ward off depression (apparently), a.k.a. mental illness. In other words, just because you or I might be retired doesn't mean you or I should cast aside all of ambition entirely.

Ostensibly, the best way to stay young and healthy is to have an altruistic purpose in life. Face it, striving for money and power can definitely have setbacks. Inside this decade of "woke," selfish ambition doesn't cut it anyway. It's just not trendy since there is just too much that needs to be done to preserve life on the planet. Even so your cause could be partially self-motivated (a reflection of who you are) and partially public-spirited (magnanimous). What I do, for instance, fits the bill. I write and record music with the intention of somehow improving the status quo of people's lives. Fame and fortune are not in the picture simply because A. I don't want the hassles involved with both and B. when it comes to the business of music, I am a realist. Thousands of songs debut a day, so why should anyone wish to listen to mine in particular? Well, I am hoping my lyrics speak to people in some way. On Sunday, someone in the Ukraine found my song "Looking for the Light" on RadioAirplay (jango.com) and listened to it. Whether or not, the person, ravaged by the effects of the continuing war there, felt a sense of solace or relief as a result, I don't know. But I would guess something good came out of the three minutes of hearing the one phrase from the song's refrain repeated several times: "I'll put up a sure fight just to overcome the pain."

The takeaway is you never know what you can do for others until you try. Staying determined to make a difference in this decade of problematic politics, etc., isn't easy, but a clear, generous purpose in life will keep you away from destructive thoughts and behaviors. And at the end of the day, you might just feel a lot better about yourself.

All In to Generosity

all in - fully committed to or involved in something (Google)

Last week, reluctantly, I attended yet another funeral of a dear friend who had passed away too suddenly, too young. His wife, his second–as he had lost his first, my best friend–provided an apt eulogy, commencing it with "Bobby was all in," meaning he had never done anything halfway, what some would call "half-assed." Unfortunately, it was that same never-say-die spirit that eventually contributed to his untimely demise. He passed as he was all in to abusing alcohol. However, no one needs to travel this route since she or he can be "all in" in positive, practical, productive ways. And being all in to generosity is one.

This past Monday was Halloween, one of my favorite days of the year as everyone and anyone can participate and enjoy the effort. Historically, the day celebrates the dead. Even the smallest and youngest of us can relate in some way to the idea of loss. What child hasn't lost something? A goldfish? An overly hugged teddy bear beyond repair? My friend Bobby loved Halloween because it provided him with a legitimate opportunity to fool others into thinking he was someone he wasn't, and he was all in to creative deception. I like the holiday because it gives me a chance to be all in to spoiling the local trick-or-treaters with movie theater boxes of candy that I procure from the local Dollar Tree at $1.25 per treat. I wind up spending about a hundred dollars because I usually get nearly a hundred costumed revelers lining up in front of my house within two hours. I spend the big bucks on the big boxes because I love to see the stunned expressions on the kids' faces: the wide eyes revealing disbelief, the mouths opening in perfect O's to admit breathy wow's. It is as though I am handing each a scratch-off for the million-dollar lottery pay-off and each has the winning combination. And I get to witness the visual-oral thrill multiple times. It is positively exhilarating as well as heartrending.

Yet, my friends, being all in to generosity doesn't have to cost you an arm and a leg monetarily. You can be all in to volunteering your time to a worthy cause or friend or family member. A life well-lived is a commitment to passion. Why not be all in to generosity?

The Sybarite, the Materialist, and the Hoarder

sybarite - noun - person who is self-indulgent in their fondness for sensuous luxury (Google).

Sybarite is a fascinating word that apparently is gaining in popularity since its initial use in the mid-16th century. The word derives from Sybaris, once an ancient Greek city in southern Italy, where sybarites thrived. Sybarites are materialists who tend to have taste, preferring the elegant over the cheap. In short, they are hedonistic in nature, reveling in things that are sensuously provocative. According to biographers of F. Scott Fitzgerald, he was a classic sybarite, one drawn to epic grandeur even though his wallet was not capacious enough to support his cravings for the highlife. The sybarite, in my mind, is a cut above your average materialist, one who ranks material possessions and physical comfort as more important than spiritual values.

If I were to consider my neighborhood as a microcosm, I'd say that the majority of the populace is materialistic. "Big is better" seems to be a mutually decreed motto as everyone around me is building up and out, eliminating all green space for the sake of comfort. At the extreme end of the materialists would be hoarders, those who can't stand to toss out anything for fear it just might be valuable at some point in time. I have known more than one hoarder in my lifetime (one lives two doors down) and realize there is a psychological component involved that tugs on the strings of compassion. My own mother, a victim of the Great Depression, was a closet hoarder, meaning that all of the stuff that she wouldn't throw out, she accumulated in a gigantic closet: our garage. Just after her death, my father, who was seven years younger than my mother, and hence, too young to experience the Depression full on, looked at the floor-to-ceiling expanse of moldy "antiques" and declared, "Don't even bother to look through it. It's all going." Within days, five dumpsters were filled and carted away. 'The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away."

Over the weekend, I helped a dear materialist friend pack up the contents of her beach house which is slated for a complete million-dollar renovation. She told me that over 200 boxes were filled and stored although to look at the place, still brimming with miscellany, you wouldn't think so. Nothing that she wanted to keep was of any monetary value nor was it necessarily in use. For example, she had about ten identical Corning casserole dishes. In forty years, not once do I remember her making a casserole. The rub is that she owns two other homes in different states that are also packed to the gills with goods. I can't help but feel for her two adult daughters who will someday inherit the expanse that will most likely fill thirty dumpsters, contributing immensely to some lucky landfill in New Jersey or Pennsylvania or Florida. The psychology behind my friend's inability to let go of things is simple: she had spent a large portion of her life with her mother, who died at nearly 100, and anything remotely associated with her, my friend has found impossible to release. The six-hour experience of packing (seemingly to no real avail) left me wanting to return home and start eliminating/donating anything impractical on my own shelves.

When it comes down to it, I will admit that I do like to indulge in expensive vacations as I like to stay at the four and five-star resorts. If that makes me a sybarite, then so be it. When it comes to material things, though, I'd like to think that I am not Madonna, the material girl living in the material world. I'd like to think that if all of my possessions were eliminated via a holocaust, I'd would just fall back on, "The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away." To lose everything would force me into a more spiritual state of being. Which wouldn't be a bad thing. Would it?

Mastering Maundering

maunder - verb - to talk in a rambling manner; to move or act in a dreamy or idle manner (Google)

The English language tends to be on the surprising side. Perhaps some would postulate that "surprising" is euphemistic and that what it really is, is confounding. Take the verb maunder for instance. I found it while reading Lois Banner's authentic 2012 biography of Marilyn Monroe, The Passion and the Paradox. Just in case you didn't notice, the word has two unrelated definitions so that context clues located within the same sentence would be totally necessary to determine the writer's intended meaning. Apparently, Marilyn was often guilty of both: chatting away incessantly or ambling about as if sleepwalking. I am guessing that if you really tried, you could very well do both simultaneously albeit it would take cognizant effort, and everyone would question your sanity.

This past Friday, I did a bit of essential maundering (definition 1 and 2) separately at a very upscale wedding on Long Beach Island in New Jersey. The set-up would have pleased any suburban sybarite within a radius of at least 200 miles. The reception was held at an elegant yacht club on the bay side of the island. Facing west, guests on the back deck had the opportunity to view a picture-perfect sunset while imbibing top-shelf booze and indulging in sundry selections at a raw bar during the cocktail hour. It was at this time that the maundering (definition 1) was at its best. There was even a soundtrack provided by two-tenths of the Earth-Wind-and-Fire-esque band (a pianist and saxophone player), imported from Philly; however, those engaged in conversation had to up the ante in terms of volume just to be heard. And before I knew it, there was cacophony, which caused me to want to relocate anywhere peaceful enough to maunder (definition 2) on my own. So I drifted inside only to find myself maundering (definition 1) with the grandmother of the bride, banter which continued until everyone from the exterior migrated into the interior, and the band began to play with such vehemence that any and all maundering (definition 1 and 2) ceased to exist, and guests either tried to shout above the music or gave in and danced to it. All in all, though, I would have to conclude that the party was exceptional, with or without any opportunity to maunder in either sense of the word although ultimately, I found that maundering (1 & 2) was practically effortless.

And now I find myself alone on Monday with only the second definition of maunder to contemplate. On the other hand, neither you nor I have the time to go through the day in a dream-like or idle state. Maundering may have to wait until the weekend unless I can get back to reading about maundering Marilyn Monroe today :).  

The Entente, Ians, and Shakespeare

entente - noun - a friendly understanding or informal alliance between states or factions (Google).

Lately, the entente has populated the domestic as well as foreign news. Due to the unmitigated wrath of Hurricane Ian, two normally politically unfriendly factions–Democrats and Republicans (namely President Biden and Florida governor Ron DeSantis)–are expeditiously seeing eye-to-eye in terms of relief funding: Biden being the giver, DeSantis being the receiver of the dollars. Ironic as it may seem, natural disasters affecting human life and interactions tend to motivate ententes albeit the human equivalent, war, often causes the opposite: strife among the warring factions as well as neighboring states that are forced to take sides. And then, there is the smallest, most personal entente, that which is made between friends or relatives, that might also prove pernicious or perilous.

Those of you who follow me (both of you) know that I belong to a book club of former colleagues. For October's selection, I, whose turn it was, chose Ian (no relation to the hurricane mentioned above) McEwan's Booker Prize-winning novel Amsterdam that involves a pact between two close friends, Clive, a well-known classical composer, and Vernon, a respected journalist. At the novel's entrance, the men interface at the sparse funeral of their mutual lover, Molly, who at a relatively young age, contracted an unnamed, fatal disease similar to ALS. As he fears a similar fate, self-possessed Clive decides to involve Vernon in a bleak entente: should he fall victim to a terminal disease, Vernon must agree to call in the British equal of Dr. Kevorkian to end Clive's life a.s.a.p. to prevent any unwanted suffering. Eventually, a reluctant Vernon does decide to sign the dotted line of agreement, but only if Clive consents to do the same for him. As Drama will have it, at the turning point, the two find each other in a political debate, which does irreparable damage to their friendship. The end, as you might have already guessed, is far from agreeable. In fact, it is a wonderful example of situational irony. (I'd love to spoil things and tell you what happens, but I'm hoping you'll read the book, which is under 200 pages and highly digestible, but probably not while imbibing champagne, a wine that figures into the plot.)

When a pact of any kind is mentioned, particularly one involving money, I tend to find the nearest exit as soon as possible. William Shakespeare's "Neither a borrower nor lender be/For loan loses both itself and friend" (from Hamlet) is the one quote that has stayed embedded in my memory for good reason. Ententes involving the loan often turn sour as the borrower, who is often a friend, forgets he is the borrower and usually absconds with the funds, forgetting the original terms. Which is why when push comes to shove and I feel the urge of altruism or am backed into a corner, I tend to give food rather than cash. Why? It is a pure need rather than a want. Most people who consistently rely on relations or acquaintances rather than a legitimate bank to make ends meet are usually guilty of poor decision-making regarding their own lives. Rather than learn from their mistakes, they keep making them, knowing that they can always depend on the lender, the friend or relative, to be at their beck and call with wallet open and the willingness to be forever generous. I am sure that if you are reading this, you know exactly what I mean as you have "been there, done that" and couldn't afford to buy the T-shirt after it was all over.

The takeaway: There is nothing wrong with giving, but there are ways of being magnanimous without enabling. An honest entente need not involve anything controversial that might test the love between you and someone close to you. It could be as easy as, "The next time you find yourself short of cash, give me a call, and I'll cook you dinner." Feel free to borrow the line. It's on me :).

It’s All in a Rainbow

rainbow - noun - arch of colors formed in the sky in certain circumstances, caused by the refraction and dispersion of the sun's light by rain or other water droplets in the atmosphere (Google).

I don't know about you, but I have always appreciated the symbolism and artistry and magic of a rainbow. It is God's palette of colors that human beings have associated with superficially unrelated abstract concepts and have reproduced visually probably since their first glance of one. The rainbow has been connected to luck, hope, promise, peace, equality, new beginnings, and internal life. In 1978 after Harvey Milk commissioned him, Gilbert Baker, a Vietnam War vet, artist, designer, and part-time drag queen, created the rainbow pride flag just in time for San Francisco's annual gay pride parade (www.history.com). Ever since, the LGBTQ community has seen the rainbow as a symbol integral to its identity. Yet Baker wasn't the only painter to duplicate the rainbow. In fact, the fine artist Norman Adams realized fifteen on canvas (Google). My personal favorite rainbow portraits are those that children create on paper. I have always poised to enjoy their anonymous pastel colored chalk designs on the concrete of sidewalks and macadam of streets. They generally remember to include all seven colors (the number seven being mystical in itself).

The appearance of an actual rainbow during or after a significant event can be viewed as a sign or coincidence: A sign if you are drifting on a spiritual plain; coincidence if you choose to live the material world. I know that during my daughter's high school graduation in 2009, two rainbows surrounded the football stadium that cupped in its hand administrators, parents, the graduates, the concert band and chorus. The rainbows were so magically timed that not one of the attendees, I'm quite sure, thought of them as a random occurrence.

Unless you have been in hiding from all things digital or analogue, you already know that Queen Elizabeth II, the only British monarch that any of us under 97 have ever known, passed away today. Above Windsor Castle, after the announcement of her death, a rainbow graced the sky. It made news internationally despite the naysaying bourgeois or apostates who would rather label the event "coincidental." I am sure most of the Brits who loved QE2 best saw it as a mark most likely of the Queen's eternal life or the foreshadowing of a new beginning. I'm guessing King Charles III just might be contemplating the significance right now. As well they and he should. I'd like to think that God must have saved the Queen and needed to write proof in pretty colors for all to witness so as to assuage the grief of a nation.

The takeaway? May you never cease to notice and ponder the wonder of the rainbow.

What They Really Ate on Thanksgiving

inedible - adjective - not able to be eaten (Google).

Thanksgiving has a tendency to creep up on you. And like any other holiday, once it is upon you, it stays for a few hours and then vanishes unlike the wild turkey (I'm talking the fowl here, not a hyper idiot or whiskey) of New Jersey that can decide to have a picnic in front of your car and refuse to relocate even when you lean on the horn. Most who celebrate the Pilgrims and Native Americans being united in good cheer for the first time up in Massachusetts in the early 1600s, adhere to their own set of traditions, which almost always includes a turkey (not a stubborn one, a defrosted Butterball). That being said, there is some controversy as to whether the original celebrants included the turkey on the menu.

Yesterday, as I was eating a hardboiled egg (a safe choice for any meal), I read TIME's "Her Tribe Fed the Pilgrims..." which is all about a Mashpee Wampanoag chef who is perpetuating the recipes of her people at her restaurant. The Mashpee Wampanoags were the friendly tribe who joined the refugees from England, some of whom just wanted to practice their religion sans any conflicts, which is nothing new even in this age. It is probably true that the natives chose the food for that initial dinner as the English have never been known for their cuisine although the last time I was in London, I did notice a vast improvement. What I am trying to impart here is that according to Sherry Pocknett, the Wampanoag cook featured in the essay, the vast, diverse party of diners probably didn't eat any turkey because the tribal people respected the "intelligence" of the turkey way too much to sample its edible wares. Instead, they most likely consumed the first two of which I consider to be inedible: venison (I don't eat deer because I feed them everyday on my front lawn; I try not to serve up animal friends to friends), duck (another pal) and various fish in addition to cornmeal, the latter most on the list being the only thing I have ever served on Thanksgiving. You must know of Jiffy corn muffin mix? Yes, that's it. The packaged cornmeal makes a great loaf of cornbread and only costs about a dollar.

I have to admit that I was a bit disappointed after reading the article. The acumen of the turkey must have gone down considerably over the centuries as I have never met a smart one. And it's a good thing because I enjoy eating turkey on Thanksgiving Day. I don't know what I'd do if I were forced to start thinking of them as friends.

Happy Thanksgiving to all who celebrate it!

#word-to-words, #slice-of-life, #literature, #blog, #blogging, #books, #editorial, #reading, #vocabulary, #history, #ReadersMagnet, #spilled thoughts, #good advice, #personal-essay, #writing community, #writing

Excrement and the Like

excrement - noun - waste matter discharged from the bowels; feces (Google).

Like many of you out there in cyberspace, I live in what is known as a suburb, a residential community on the fringe of an urban metropolis. My neighborhood is composed of single-family dwellings housing mainly young families. I can't quite fathom this myself, but when people find themselves marrying, having kids, and moving into homes like mine, they invariably feel that the experience of nesting for life cannot possibly be complete without the acquisition of a cat or a dog or both or multiples of one or the other. Don't misunderstand me. I respect and appreciate creatures great and small; it's their owners–the irresponsible ones–with whom I often have a problem.

Case in point, this Sunday morning, I woke up and headed into my kitchen, looking for something to eat as I tend to do daily. Upon looking out of the window, I spied my next-door neighbor's one black cat (she has two) that had a definite agenda: to excrete excrement on my front lawn right beside my walkway. Now I am not a racist when it comes to humans or pets. Ordinarily, I have nothing against creatures of color, but this black cat I don't like at all. Would you like a feline that purposely journeyed fifty more feet beyond its home territory just to crap on your lawn that you had paid $2,000 to have reseeded just last year? I'm thinking you wouldn't either. To make a long story shorter, after the cat did its duty in a slipshod way (the cats of a former generation used to bury their waste, but not indolent millennial cats), I took a shovel to the poo and placed it in a convenient spot–next to my neighbor's garbage can–where she just might step in it. I thought it was the least I could do: return what is rightfully hers. Apparently, there are no laws governing the excrement of domestic cats because–and get this–it is assumed that "responsible" owners of cats keep them inside! For years, I have been reminding my next-door neighbor of this unwritten law, but anything I say to her seems to produce the identical response: a smile with a chaser of a laugh. So I'm screwed.

Then there are my neighbors across the street, who after twenty years of foregoing pet ownership, decided to get a dog for their two teenage daughters who have better things to do (like spending hours on social media) than care for a dog. Because no one wants to walk it, they tie it to a tree outside, permitting it to bark pretty much all day long. (Mind you, the husband is a police officer, so you'd think he'd know better.)  I guess I should feel blessed that the dog (ironically named Faith) hasn't figured out how to break free from the chain that binds it so that it can come onto my front yard and contribute to the cat's excrement. Thank Goodness for small favors!

The takeaway? If you just happen to own a cat or a dog, those of us who don't, can't fault you for adopting a lovable, furry family member, but can you please be considerate and responsible about caring for it? Thanks :).

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Seeing Eye to Eye

eye contact - noun - the act of looking directly into another's eyes (Google).

idiom - noun - a group of words with meaning not deducible from the individual words themselves.

English, particularly American English is filled with idioms, expressions, which may or may not contain figures of speech, used enough as to convey specific meanings. The idiom "seeing eye to eye" simply means sharing the same point of view or opinion with another individual. It has nothing to do with eye contact albeit a foreigner who is learning the English language might guess that it might, especially if the person is prone to literal interpretations. Oddly enough, you don't have to connect with someone's eyes in a direct manner if you two share the same opinion although it may help if you want the other person to trust you. Or if you just want someone to take you seriously.

Lately, at least in my line of work, I have been finding that the average person finds direct eye contact to be a bit uncomfortable. In case you didn't already know, I am a professional entertainer by day, a writer of music and prose by night, usually. Most would conjecture the opposite: entertainer by night, writer by day. However, my audiences are composed of people in nursing homes, assisted living facilities, and shelters. And most of these folks are asleep by 10 p.m. These well-rested types are engaged, appreciative and don't seem to own smartphones, which is a very good thing from the perspective of anyone in show business as no one in the spotlight likes to compete with screens no matter how small they are. 

Anyway, what I have been noticing lately is that when I look directly into a person's eyes (and gender has nothing to do with it), while singing, the person almost immediately looks away. Just what is that? It's not as though I am DaBaby, rapping away one obscenity after the next just to horrify these aged captive persons. I am usually singing a Sinatra favorite that contains nothing emotionally distressing unless you consider the lyrics in "Witchcraft" a bit too salacious. Would you consider "Those fingers in my hair; that wild, come hither stare; that strips my conscience bare" to be embarrassingly flirty? But the lyrics tend not to make a difference. I could be singing "I've got sunshine on a cloudy day" ("My Girl") directly to someone, and he or she still would still avert his or her eyes from mine. Huh? What is probably behind this odd happening is fear, the fear of seeing eye to eye, perhaps literally or figuratively.

 My advice would be to be brave when it comes to eye contact. Pretend that you are in a staring contest in middle school again and see how long you can stay engaged in a nonverbal conversation with someone using just your eyes. You may be surprised to find out that most people can speak well with their eyes and can reveal so much about themselves sans any words at all. But maybe that's why so many look away. They fear being vulnerable, baring their souls. I kind of think so. What do you think? 

#word-to-words, #slice-of-life, #literature, #blog, #blogging, #books, #editorial, #reading, #vocabulary, #history, #ReadersMagnet, #spilled thoughts, #good advice, #personal-essay, #writing community, #writing