Must the Hero Be Tall, Youngish and White?

Mad magazine made fun years ago of the original Hawaii Five-O by presenting Jack Lord as a handsome, towering white man who was out to save the tiny, misguided islanders who were either criminals or crime victims.

Syberia 3, a weak sequel to the superb Syberia I, and the satisfying Syberia 2, has tall, caucasian, NY lawyer trying to save the very short, crude looking Yukal tribe from mad Russian doctors and environmental threats such as rivers that don’t freeze. It is nice to see a more realistically drawn Kate Walker.

I should know better but when I needed a chapter or round for Kick Groves before I insert the second book club chapter, I started with a scene of wife and husband in bed looking back to when they wanted a son, then moved to morning when their daughter Kelley wakes up screaming from a nightmare to a knock on the door after Kendall has gone to work. An Hispanic babysitter has locked herself out of the house across the street with the baby inside. Kick runs over, calms the woman down, then, being the athlete she is, climbs from tool shed to garage to open bedroom window while the babysitter is having an asthma attack. Kick then speculates about how she climbed in a window, brought a baby downstairs and to the front door to let the sitter back in and no neighbors knew what was up though it was the middle of the day.

It is based on a real event.✅

It presents action just when it is needed.✅

It depends Kick’s character showing how she can think of other’s though her son is missing.✅

It offers speculation about how Mattie might have been taken.✅

Yet, I am very unhappy to have present Kick as a tall, white savior. It could have been worse. Husband Kendall could have rushed in to save them all.

Final Frontiers

Okay, it’s.dramatic to say, “final frontiers,” but less so than “final frontier.” I know what the FINAL FRONTIER is: to be so unattached to this world that you can transmission to the next.

My education frontier was middling – BA, plus 30 graduate credits. Then came a Masters in special education and a license to teach braille. I was about 35 then.

An interest in English Lit led to a Ph.D. at 47. I’ll give myself an A+.

I didn’t get to Europe until 40, but I was blessed enough to see much of Italy, Britain, France, Switzerland, Germany and Czech Republic. Adoption brought me to Siberia, and the pressure of imminent parenthood sent me off to Israel for Christmas week. I’ll take another A+ for I saw what I wanted to see and then some.

My adventures in real estate faltered making me grateful for what I have: a co-op with a seasonal view of the Hudson and Tappan Zee Bridge in Tarrytown. Should I settle for a B?

Writing novels is not a frontier. It’s just a ongoing fulfilling process.

Spa new frontier seems serious exercise. Bought a Nordic bike and streaming program to push myself forward and an upper/lower body exercise machine from Hammacher Schlemmer. Since I have some weights and a weight bar, I think I’m ready to go. It’s going to be a slow, slow start but I don’t ask where I will finish. God knows.

Trying New Things

Someone in town runs a workshop on how to dramatize concepts to improve art. At this point, I can only act out a monologue for my novel or act out two different characters. I tried this today. If you don’t fall over the cat or the couch, it does make the conversation more vibrant, and I saw how the characters position themselves or gesture with their hands.

I wonder if this lends itself more to drama. As Liz said to Richard Burton, You can’t.act on the screen the way you do on the stage. In other words, Down, Richard, down.

Writing Songs Part 2

The pale moon appears
The shadows curl ‘round
A restless child I run
Dark hands pry, Walls close in
My heart falls prey

Almarilla indicates a small stool so Harry sits down with his guitar. An art student places a whisky bottle with an X on it in front of a faux stone. The director tells Harry to stretch out his legs so that one foot will rest in front of the bottle. “Bend the other one back a little,” he requests. When Harry realizes his club foot will be on display he begins to protest.
“Shoot me from the other side.” But when Amarilla appears to be exasperated, Harry suddenly relents. “It’s okay. Ole. Ole. Ole. Let’s get on with it.”

Whether he took compassion on the crew or realized his right profile for handsomer, I will never know.

Writing Songs Part 1

The hero of Harry Childers doesn’t write Byronic verse; he writes songs.

As I got into bed, I watched Harry strumming his new guitar by the window. Sometimes he hummed, then paused, searching the air for words. He la-la-ed his way to the next verse. His sensitive fingers stretched across the frets. His voice was like silver. I fell asleep to the silvery melancholy sound being evoked. Feeling alone in the cold moonlight, I waited for the sun. The moon peeked through the curtains.
“‘Unmask my heart.’ Sound okay?” Drowsily I agreed and listened and Harry sang out the refrain.

Pivotal Moments

A Pivotal moments in We Killed Ichabod:

Eccentric bill collector Richard Post has returned to his studio apartment near the Flat Iron Building. He takes up the antique journal he purchased up in Tarrytown to continue reading the story of Damen Willem, a guilt-ridden young man who lived in the Sleepy Hollow region during post colonial days.

Was it only two weeks ago that I was proud to be a Sleepy Hollow boy? Given a dare we would do anything. There was Abraham, Hobnail, Caleb and me. We thought that since we would soon have to put away our childish things, we should whoop it up now. Until that night when we went too far, it was silly prank after prank. We only stopped when there was work to be done. We just wanted to have fun. Only Abraham had more stake it than a laugh, but we rode out down the post raid to scare a man to death. It was a bargain made with the devil and we got
more than I can bear. Wrangle it about in my mind as I may, relentlessly the thought comes back to me that in our harum-scaring ride, We Killed Ichabod.

Richard is so astounded to glean who the people in the journal are, that he shouts “We Killed Ichabod,” causing the red, lame, tabby cat, Chester, to fly out of the covers and up into the air.