by Norman Levine

   This article was published in The Productivity Institute (PI) Newsletter

Imagine a dinner party with 30 literary and visual arts luminaries and you are the fly on the wall or perhaps in the soup doing the backstroke listening to them jabbering away.

From mid-century 19th to mid-century 20th Rachel Cohen in her book,A Chance Meeting brings these poets and writers and photographers and artists alive on the page. After enormous research from diaries, memoirs and biographies she has found connective threads that became the tapestry of the American literary landscape.

We are treated to a stream of numinous moments such as Helen Keller remarking how she felt, in Mark Twain’s handshake, the twinkle in his eye. We tag along with W.E.B. Dubois and his professor, William James on their visit to Helen Keller.

Small gestures are carefully observed as Charlie Chaplin ducks into a Hungarian restaurant to avoid a crowd and stays for four hours studying a violinist whose body movements he will later use in a film. Joseph Cornell is arrested for loitering outside a movie theater. He was entranced by the lit booth of the ticket seller on an otherwise dark street.

We are brought along with Henry James Sr. and his eight year old son, Henry as they have their daguerreotype taken by Matthew Brady. We learn that the self-conscious look on young Henry’s face may be accounted for by a remark made a few days before by William Makepeace Thackeray concerning his nine button coat shown in the portrait.

We come to learn of the centrality certain figures played in gathering and supporting their contemporaries. William Dean Howells was such a man of letters. He edited the Atlantic Monthly and lent encouragement to Mark Twain, Henry James and Willa Cather.

Another person to whom his peers flocked was Alfred Stieglitz. His early pictures were seminal in elevating photography to an art form and his gallery in the first decade of the century was the first to show Matisse and Picasso in this country. Stieglitz could talk for eight hours at a stretch. Some visitors to the second-floor gallery would purposely come when he went to lunch just to see in quietude what hung on his walls. This juicy anecdote comes from his elevator operator who also revealed that the door was always kept open. After a Picasso exhibit in which 2 of 85 pieces were sold Stieglitz offered the Metropolitan Museum of Art the remaining 83 for $2,000. They refused.

From Whitman to the Harlem Renaissance we get an inside peek at the passing parade; the same sex loving relationships known as Boston marriages, the father-son affection between unlikely people to the grudging support, jealousies and rivalries. I come away from the banquet satiated and thank Rachel Cohen for the invitation.

Indeed there is a generative body of poets, writers and artists who together can be heard as an authentic American voice, a noisy conversation across the century, unique in its struggle to articulate the inclusive yawp of the newly-arrived, the blues of the underclass, the untamed frontier and urbane East. It’s the hum and the hum-drum, the air we breathe.

Norm Levine is a happily retired pharmacist. After reading doctor’s chicken scratch hand-writing for 53 years he has taken to prose and poetry writing himself. He has published two books of poetry along with his wife, Peggy Aylsworth and one work of his own. Some of his poems are available on http://poetsplace.blogspot.com. He claims to have found his calling in creative idleness, thinking great thoughts which he tosses off the Santa Monica pier in a bottle.  http://normsnorms.blogspot.com

by Norman Levine

   This article was published in The Productivity Institute (PI) Newsletter

The opening ceremonies were so spectacular I sometimes wish they’d cut directly to the closing ceremonies with an exhibition or two in between. Instead, after expressions of camaraderie, we get fierce competition provoking nationalism, grudges and divisive rivalries.

In spite of a general disinterest in most events I watch along with an expected global audience of two hundred million. I become an avid fan fixed on these athletes who soar and swoop and leap and loop in sports I’ve barely heard of. I even cultivate a sudden and short-lived enthusiasm for such alien pastimes as curling, biathlon and downhill mogul. If I learn the difference between a double axle and triple lutz I’m sure I’ll forget it before the next Olympics.

I’m caught up in ice dancing and snowboard competition but can’t work up much enthusiasm for the luge except relief when it’s over and no one else has met his maker at ninety mph.

Is anyone else bothered by the perfection we ask of these young men and women? The winners all have perfect teeth and the losers lay soft-boiled eggs, They all look great to me. But a bobble here and a wobble there and they’re dead meat. Is it right that teenagers should live in slavish servitude to their event and then return home humiliated because they didn’t nail the landing?

Bad enough that Sparta reigns over Athens for a few weeks. In the rush for gold the ice is littered with broken dreams but it’s the judges who frighten me most. They have those jaundiced eyes that see only faults and give me the heebie-jeebies. Dare I eat a peach?

When I cut the morning melon I can feel the eyes of the Bulgarian scorer all over me taking off points for my grip. Have I divided the sphere into four precise quadrants? Let’s get an instant reply and take out our protractors.

The next time I negotiate my shopping cart through Costco I must remember how those giant slaloms did it. But I’d better not try the speed bumps on the side streets at Olympian pace when the limit is 15 mph.

When the gun goes off for the speed skating sprint did I detect an ever so slight lunge? Tell me, what is the first bud in an early spring other than a lurch in response to the starter’s gun?

If I were a judge I’d give messy humanity it’s due. A misstep here, a blemish there. Satchmo’s rasp, the riff not on the page. Blessed are the slips and flops, the accidents that have gotten us this far as we stumble our way along. Hopi potters knew to make an imperfection in their bowls so not to offend the gods.

Norm Levine is a happily retired pharmacist. After reading doctor’s chicken scratch hand-writing for 53 years he has taken to prose and poetry writing himself. He has published two books of poetry along with his wife, Peggy Aylsworth and one work of his own. Some of his poems are available on http://poetsplace.blogspot.com. He claims to have found his calling in creative idleness, thinking great thoughts which he tosses off the Santa Monica pier in a bottle.

by Norman Levine

   This article was published in The Productivity Institute (PI) Newsletter

Saturday afternoon. We’d come in anytime. Who had watches? There were two movies, a serial, Looney-Tunes, RKO Pathe News, a Pete Smith Special, previews, a sing-along and the March of Dimes collection box. Five hours.

The guy from the other side of the tracks got the girl next door. The schoolyard bully did a stretch up the river while the smarmy class prez went from the D.A.’s office to the Governor’s mansion until a cub reporter got a scoop that he threw his wife down the stairs and the big time lawyer fell while the newspaperman rose and the world was set to rights.

Having been suckled on matinees we had movie-smarts. We could tell the suave double-crosser from the honest sucker by his mustache alone. And when we were ready for the mean streets, just a bit unprepared for the grit and grime we remembered what Tarzan said to Jane, It’s a jungle out there, and that’s when our skin grew its necessary fur.

If the Shadow knew what lurked in the hearts of men who knew what lurked in the heart of the Shadow? Did he have a double life? Was he a mad scientist in his subterranean garage? Not likely.

The villain operated out of an abandoned warehouse on the other side of town. One day the place would be surrounded by incorruptible police and the chief would shout for him to come out with his hands up. If he shot his way out the good cop would simply nurse a flesh wound while Pat O’Brien would appear to give the nut case his last rights.

It was a tidy world. Even second bananas knew who they were. They taught us about the unattainable. If there was an object of desire to be had these were the one’s who never quite got it. There was usually a fellow with glasses who ended up with the second banana(ette). She was crazy about him anyway. How nice when seconds marry seconds, the rule of bananas.

It’s a good thing we don’t get to see the movie of our life before we live it, or even the coming attractions. Then we would know our place by the billing alone and the rest of it wouldn’t be the worth the price of admission.

We got weary as the plot finally caught up to what we already knew. This is where we came in, somebody mumbled. When we left the theatre we almost believed that life made sense. Look how the middle always connected the beginning to the end.

Norm Levine is a happily retired pharmacist. After reading doctor’s chicken scratch hand-writing for 53 years he has taken to prose and poetry writing himself. He has published two books of poetry along with his wife, Peggy Aylsworth and one work of his own. Some of his poems are available on http://poetsplace.blogspot.com. He claims to have found his calling in creative idleness, thinking great thoughts which he tosses off the Santa Monica pier in a bottle.

by Norman Levine

   This article was published in The Productivity Institute (PI) Newsletter

In the Depression decade when breadlines were the headlines we had up to three mail deliveries a day but no telephone. Instead most people depended on “runners” who hung around the drugstore hoping to make a nickel tip, They would dash up the stairs of our four story walk-up to convey messages or summon people to the community phone.

During the war there were none available so I was fourteen before we had a phone in our apartment; a party line, of course. With all these impediments I’m not so sure it wasn’t a better system than what we have today. Fewer digits to dial, friendlier operators to whom you might ask the meaning of life (on a dare) and phone booths where Clark Kent shed his merely mortal self.

Over the years we’ve witnessed one innovation after another from colored phones to match the bedspread to push-button to answering machines along with a monthly bill higher than our old rent.

Answering machines are a symbol of our age; a soliloquy addressing the elongated silence. First it’s just you and the beep. And now it’s your turn to grab the open mike without Interruption and say your piece, or burst into song, wax poetic or rant.

If you are calling a large company you are generally told how important your call is. This is what goes through my mind while on hold:

I’m glad you have a chance to get away from your desk. May I ask why you change your menu more often than my local deli? I’m sure you’re experiencing a high call volume. No, I can’t call back between mid-night and three. You’ve put me on an elevator with your music. Perhaps I was abandoned as a child and you have just opened up the wound. Is it my numb ear you are monitoring for quality assurance or my withered arm? Seasons have passed; my arm is in its foliage. I’ve finished the newspaper, the police blotter, weather reports in Asia and the obits. I’m almost mentioned. The grandchildren have grown. Life is slipping away. There’s no one left but that great operator in the sky and all humanity is on hold with faith that their call will be answered in the order received.

Instead, this could be an occasion for retreat and contemplation rather than reaction, a time to reconnect with a more elemental sense of who we are away from the buzz. Might it be that we are too connected and at some level crave the aloneness?

Norm Levine is a happily retired pharmacist. After reading doctor’s chicken scratch hand-writing for 53 years he has taken to prose and poetry writing himself. He has published two books of poetry along with his wife, Peggy Aylsworth and one work of his own. Some of his poems are available on http://poetsplace.blogspot.com. He claims to have found his calling in creative idleness, thinking great thoughts which he tosses off the Santa Monica in a bottle.  

by Norman Levine

   This article was published in The Productivity Institute (PI) Newsletter

It’s so hard being good and it used to be so easy. I finished my liver so I’d grow up to be strong and prevent famine in China. I wore galoshes and three sweaters because everyone knew disease came from drafts and I swallowed cod liver oil to ensure that I’d grow up at all.

Now, with an alphabet of vitamins playing Scrabble in my bloodstream and trace minerals making noise like a heavy metal band, my life is threatened daily by new findings telling me I’m doing it all wrong. What’s a person to do?

My email is full of messages from close friends I’ve never heard of urging me to take ancient herbs for longevity but my “gevity” is quite long enough, thank you.

I ponder this as I’m pedaling to the Punjab on my stationary bike. I’m staying out of the sun to prevent melanoma only to read that I need more sun to get that essential Vitamin D. I’m drinking water to flush my kidneys but wait. The water is suspicious. No it isn’t. Yes it is. O.K., I’ll drink bottled water but the plastic is toxic. I’m doomed.

Eat organic. Is there anything in this world that isn’t organic? Then it must be other-galactic. I have an herb-garden in my gut. Where did the rumor start that “natural” is necessarily beneficial and harmless? Opium, Digitalis, anyone?

I’m drinking tea as fast as I can. Black? Green? Or was it Oolong that is supposed to oxidize those nasty free radicals? And we all know about free radicals.

The latest bulletin warns against drinking tea straight from the whistling kettle which can scorch the esophagus. Now I am sucking ice trying some tepid extract from the leaping frogs of New Guinea awaiting next week’s latest breakthrough. Maybe a new study will prove how hot tea really extends life so I can die on a Thursday instead of a Tuesday.

What would be a good moral? Email us or comment and we’ll print the best ones.

Norm Levine is a happily retired pharmacist. After reading doctor’s chicken scratch hand-writing for 53 years he has taken to prose and poetry writing himself. He has published two books of poetry along with his wife, Peggy Aylsworth and one work of his own. Some of his poems are available on http://poetsplace.blogspot.com. He claims to have found his calling in creative idleness, thinking great thoughts which he tosses off the Santa Monica in a bottle.  

By Norman Levine

   This article was published in The Productivity Institute (PI) Newsletter

I can handle having an e-mail ignored but its tough when your neighborhood hummingbirds reject your feeder. I was scrubbing it and replacing the sugar water when a friend remarked that all my attention to the tiny birds was counter-intuitive.

He explained that my red plastic flower look-alike was destroying the bird’s natural survival instincts. I was stopped in my tracks. One more time I did it all wrong.

As an urban creature I have long been two with Nature. I can’t even recall being attached to stuffed animals. My idea of camping is to go to a motel and sleep with the windows open. I couldn’t tell dog poop from bear droppings. But I digress.

The subject is counter-intuition. By “intuition” I mean common sense or a hunch; an opinion based on scraps of information often indistinguishable from a wish. The “counter” must therefore mean that which contradicts the gut feeling which itself could be oppositional to received wisdom. Already I’m getting a brain ache.

Thus with 4th down and inches the quarterback goes for the bomb. Ah ha, the element of surprise. The manager pulls his clean-up hitter and sends in the guy at the end of the bench to pinch hit. Maybe it’s nothing more than the triumph of the unexpected; going by the seat of your pants rather than by statistical analysis.

In the case of the beloved hummingbird who works so hard just to stay still isn’t my friend simply weighing in with new information? And all for the ultimate well-being of the fluttering wings. So why call it “counter” anything?

Maybe the counter-intuitive is yet another phrase to describe the innovator, one who sees around the corner; who picks up whiffs of tomorrow’s news. The Swiss who had 80% of the watch market at one time lost it to the Japanese who took the transistor and ran with it. Five years ago we would have called that kind of vision, “intuitive” and let it go at that.

Norm Levine is a happily retired pharmacist. After reading doctor’s chicken scratch hand-writing for 53 years he has taken to prose and poetry writing himself. He has published two books of poetry along with his wife, Peggy Aylsworth and one work of his own. Some of his poems are available on http://poetsplace.blogspot.com. He claims to have found his calling in creative idleness, thinking great thoughts which he tosses off the Santa Monica pier in a bottle.