This Boomer woman remembers. An American past.

In the fifties in America it was still the late forties, and a not insignificant social preoccupation was the considerable amounts of time necessarily spent in assiduously maintaining and promoting ones utter conformity to the agreed upon standards of normality. It seems to me now that no one was fully cleared for passing as acceptable. The wrong address, the lack -or presence- of a hanging loop on a shirt, assigned by birth to the not quite top tier of bestChristian sect, (forget the other planetary possibilities of Atheism, or being Jewish, Heathen, Quaker or Mormon) wearing glasses, not wearing braces, being too loud, cheating, being too quiet,  not cheating, not knowing the popular songs or singers, being poor at sports, having freckles, wearing the wrong gymn shoes, getting bad grades, getting good grades, labeled with an ethnic identity other than European (and the distinct and unchangeable hierarchy of European and other nationalities and ethnicities with Polish -in my village, in yours you know perfectly which place of origin was utterly off the playlist- being dead last). An out of wedlock birth and or child of divorced parents was not merely suspect, but utterly branded as somehow flawed in some essential and unreedemable  way. I have never forgotten my childhood friends' wedding taking place outside the most sanctified corner of their church, since as an adopted child, clearly, the bride had been been born in a state of sin so dire and complete as never to be expunged, much less forgiven. Add to this  the 50% possibility of being born an actual female. A category of not quite qualified for full humanity that was bestowed randomly by nature. Eligible to vote, but not qualified to possess personal credit, wear trousers to school or work, informally banned from certain professions, and mocked as a bluestocking, frigid, or immature if seeking to acquire any intellectual or professional distinction. Lesbianism was a variety of oddity so obscure and secret that there was no means of addressing the possibility. At my womens' college, parents (really only fathers counted, as they were the potential donors) were assured that Lesbians were not admissible. Students sexually approached by faculty left in disgrace, and males other than family banned from dorm room visits. Proudly they now welcome the qualified transgendered, though not males (yet). Oh Hillary, we know what you have had to overcome, and the scars this journey must have left. But until you win this our scars will never go away and the wounds still limiting men women, and genders not yet fully determined will remain unhealed.

Image and Reality

Another work of political satire breifly flashed across or collective consiousness this election season.  A statue called 'the emperor has no balls', that bore a striking if utterly unflattering and perhaps viciously cruel to a subject so known for (among many choices) a fragile vanity about anatomy and appearance.  All while more than willing to point out the unattractiveness of interlocutors, opponents, and entire human racial and religious catagories.    Being the subject of a cartoon, a lampoon, an unflattering portrait has ever  been the bane of leaders, elected and born to the manor. Shakespeare famously did a number on Richard III.  Image making and breaking has become a respected career since Machiavelli and Plato wrote lesson plans for princes.  But in our time the proliferation of images, and personal branding has created a moment when we have come to confuse the chosen, crafted or lampooned   image with the person.  A photograh, a cartoon, a campaign photo op are moments of theatre. Reality is quite other. Melania Trumps poses, clothed and not, are not her.  Donald and Hillary's cartoonish avatars, appealing or appalling are a visual language for very selective revealing and concealing of characteristics we loath or admire.  Its is, all of it,  Art with a capital A.  So watch and listen, not for the person, but for the messages.  Get out your best decoder rings and watch and listen for any tiny glimpse of the hidden behaviors, and search for a reality that speaks as true to you.

An appointment with Godot in the Gulag. A prequel to earlier remarks.

If you have not waited for Godot, believe me, he's already here.  Waiting to tell you his  story in the dank, poorly lit, miserably cleaned, wretchedly designed corridors and sanctae of the official burocracy responsible for the (I wrote orderly, but had to rub it out, there is NO ORDER HERE) determination of the legal status of foreign visitors to the Hellenic Republic.  Lovely welcoming Greece, virtually the parent of the consept of hospitality, has a few rules for those who wish to make an extended stay. An application stating the urgency of the  need to overstay the allotted months.Ok, fair enough, but this is tightly circumbscribed, as valid reasons do not include any of my useful or fanciful ones, such as  "I like it here, I want to stay here to spend more money, or to volunteer to help with humanitarian services for  refugees flooding from war zones, or  to help Greek students find good educational opportunities,or  to share a home with my partner of 50 years, or to write and publish about the local attractions", as these are not acceptable reasons.   So a plausible version of a partial truth ( A LIE) must be concocted to fit with the guidelines that accept only urgent medical situations as a valid reason for overstaying the allowed period of 90 days. What fate awaits the overstayer is poorly defined -and it must be stated that  the chance of any laws being enforced as written is way less predictable than a crap shoot,  but dark hints abound regarding"possible fines of over a thousand euros and disruption of onward travel"...Homer, you romantic bard of decades long adventures we now all call Odysseys,  are you paying attention here?  CP Cavafy, about those long and fruitful journeys you benignly wish upon us?  No Way! the danger to the state is too clear and present for that mythic sensibility.