You would have been 141 years old today. Sadly, you fell about 100 years short of that mark; you passed away — of tuberculosis — just a month shy of your 41st birthday, on June 3rd of 1924.

I heard so much about you during that summer of 1991 when I lived in Prague, the city of your birth. Although you were educated in German schools, and spoke and wrote primarily in the German language, you had become the pride of your native Czechoslovakia.

I learned that your life was a difficult one: your physical health, your lack of self-confidence, your sexual confusion, fear of your tyrannical father, boredom with your routine daytime jobs . . . all of these undoubtedly contributed to your general melancholy. But your level of intelligence and profound thought processes helped you to overcome your difficulties for the most part, and you found satisfaction in your writing. You were influenced by the writings of others such as Edgar Allan Poe and Friedrich Nietzsche, and were so taken with Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment and The Brothers Karamazov that you were known to refer to that author as a “blood relative.” Is it any wonder, then, that your own works tended to lean so heavily toward the dystopian?

But that summer of 1991 was also the “Year of Mozart” in Prague. And I found myself attending so many concerts of his music in the evenings after work, and exploring the many wonders of Prague and the surrounding areas on weekends, that I found no time for reading. And in all the years since, I confess — with no small measure of shame — that I have yet to read any of your works.

But I am about to remedy that shortcoming. I have ordered an anthology of your most famous Metamorphosis and other stories, and having just finished the book I’ve been engrossed in for the past week, will dig right into yours as soon as Amazon delivers. Which should actually be any minute now.

Being myself a fan of Dostoevsky (though I claim no familial relationship), I expect not to be disappointed — or freaked out — by your creative imaginings. I’ll let you know.

In the meantime . . .

. . . happy birthday, Franz Kafka, wherever you are.

Brendochka
7/3/24

Two days from now, we in the United States will celebrate another birthday, with all the attendant fireworks and barbecues and lazy hours off of work. And in just two years, we will look forward to huge, noisy, Bacchanalian celebrations of our Semiquincentennial, or Sestercentennial, or Bisesquincentennial (none of which is recognized by Spellcheck, which actually makes me feel a bit better), or — final choice — Quarter Millennial.

Any way you pronounce it (if indeed you can pronounce it at all), it adds up to 250 years of Democracy: the experiment that nearly everyone — at least everyone in 18th-Century England — expected to fall flat on its forward-looking face.

But it didn’t. At least, it hasn’t as yet. Though looking back on this last decade or so, I just don’t know . . .

When the Founding Fathers signed off on the Declaration of Independence on July 4, 1776, even they, at the pinnacle of their optimism, hardly anticipated that their newly autonomous nation would one day be the most powerful, the most envied, the most emulated in the world; that our system of government would set the standard for most others; or that our economy would become the bedrock on which the world’s economies rested.

But it has.

And those of us who were blessed to have been born here, or to have been welcomed as naturalized citizens, would like to keep it that way for at least another quarter of a millennium.

But we’ve got problems . . . and I needn’t waste time and energy spelling them out for you. You know what they are. For the most part, they are the same problems that have infected the rest of the world. But in addition to the shared issues, the very foundation of our nation — the United States Constitution — is at peril of being undermined; our Supreme Court has lost its objectivity and its sense of direction; and we are without leaders to guide us toward salvation.

Our bicameral Congress is composed of Senators and Representatives who don’t seem to give a flying . . . well, you know . . . about the welfare of the nation or their constituencies. They care only for their own interests, their own privileged positions, and winning the next election.

And even worse . . . worst of all . . . our White House can’t find a candidate worthy of occupying it. If there is a Jefferson, a Lincoln, a Roosevelt, or a Truman out there, he or she is doing a good job of remaining hidden and anonymous. Instead, we have:

*. *. *

And here is the crux of our problem. I don’t care if you identify as a Republican or a Democrat, liberal or conservative, left or right, red or blue. I have my own political viewpoints, but they’re no one’s business, and they’re definitely not at issue here. What is at issue is that we are being told to choose as our next leader — the leader of the free world — one of two old men who, for different reasons, are no longer qualified for any position of authority, much less that of President of the United States of America.

The arguments for and against each of their innate abilities and past accomplishments are infinite . . . and irrelevant. What is so blindingly obvious is that their respective conditions today totally disqualify each of them from even running (if either of them can still, literally, run). Let’s look at it from a strictly logical viewpoint:

Joe Biden, 81, is visibly fighting the normal challenges of aging. His movements have slowed, his mental responses have slowed. He looks tired, and no wonder — he’s been laboring at the hardest job in the world for four long years. Hell, I have the same issues, and my stress level isn’t even on the same chart as his. It doesn’t necessarily signify dementia, or even mild senility. It’s just age. Could he survive another four years of the same lifestyle? And why would he even want to (other than to keep his opponent out of office)?

As for Donald Trump, 78, he is only three years younger. Other than a serious weight problem that would be dangerous for someone even half his age, he does appear to be in better physical condition than President Biden; but appearances can be deceiving. In four more years, he will be 82 — if his health holds out. And even assuming that it will, his mental focus is constantly interrupted by the need to deal with all of the legal battles that have arisen from his own illegal actions. He is, when all is said and done, a convicted felon. You would be ill-advised to buy a used car from such a person. Do you really think he can be trusted with the future of an entire country?

Incredibly, and sadly, our Constitution — as all-encompassing as it strives to be — does not disqualify either of them from holding the office of President. But common sense does . . . or at least it should. Unfortunately, along with any qualified individuals willing to run for office, we seem to have lost that attribute as well.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
7/2/24

* Note for the youngest of my readers: Thou mayest find thy selves unable to read thy country’s Constitution, as thou hast not been schooled in the art of cursive penmanship in which it is written. But do not despair: our modern world hast provided thee with Google, and thou shalt doubtless be able to find a printed replica of the document in that mysterious place called “Online.” I wish thee good fortune in navigating the rocky shoals of the rest of thy lives.

Message to Kanye West:

By “we,” I mean the general public. We’ve become accustomed to your usual level of sleaziness and depravity, your foul language, your degrading treatment of your wives. And although you manage to have your picture and your loathsome opinions plastered throughout the media, we have the option of simply tuning you out, so you’ve gotten away with it thus far.

(Normally, I would include here a picture of you, but instead I’ve found what I consider to be a fair substitute.)

Just for kicks, I have added a couple of photos of the real you with your wives, Kim and Bianca. Sorry the heads have been cut off in the second picture (with Bianca) — the photographer seems to have been going for a specific look.

*. *. *

But enough about your personal life; it has nothing to do with me in any event. In case you’re wondering about the reason for my sudden compulsion to write about you at this particular time, let me explain. It was the mention — actually, several mentions — in yesterday’s news of your visit to Moscow. Yes, that Moscow: the one in Russia. You know — the totalitarian country that has invaded and is intent on overtaking Ukraine (and beyond); the one that has killed and wounded tens of thousands of Ukrainian civilians and kidnapped an estimated 20,000 of their children for “re-homing” in Russia; the one that takes innocent Americans hostage on non-existent grounds and holds them for eventual trade like so many head of cattle; and the same one that keeps tossing around threats of nuclear “retaliation” against NATO member countries. Yeah . . . that Moscow.

You claimed to be there for the birthday of a Russian designer, Gosha Rubchinskiy, whom you have retained to work in one of your business enterprises. But are you so dense that you’re unaware of the sanctions in place against Russia by most of the free world? (By the way, you do know what “free” means, don’t you? It’s the concept that makes it possible for you to maintain your degenerate lifestyle.)

Okay, so you thought it would be cool to say you’d been to Russia and stayed in the Presidential Suite of the Four Seasons Hotel there. But did you also have to express a desire to meet with Vladimir Putin? And did you have to align yourself with the likes of Donald Trump and Steven Seagal as another of Putin’s greatest admirers?

Well, of course you did! Because that’s what a baboon would do.

(Hey, did you consider that Seagal might arrange that introduction to Putin? They’re great buddies, you know. Just a thought.)

*. *. *

And then I reread a 2022 interview you had with Alex Jones in which you shocked even him by expressing your adoration of none other than Adolph Hitler, your incomprehensible belief in the falsehood that the Holocaust never happened, and your ingrained raging anti-Semitism. And that’s when I couldn’t take any more.

When your pronouncements are too extreme even for the likes of a demagogue like Jones, shouldn’t that say something to you? But never mind that. I have just one question for you, and it is this:

How can you, Kanye West, as a proud Black man whose ancestors were so brutally treated, justify your hatred of an entire race of people simply because they’re different from yourself?

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
7/1/24

Another Sunday, another week of trials . . . and tribulations. The first part of the so-called “trial” of Evan Gershkovich — a two-hour closed-door session that can only be assumed to have been some sort of scripted preliminary proceeding — was held on Wednesday, June 26th, in the Sverdlovsk Regional Courthouse, Yekaterinburg, Russia.

As reported earlier this week, representatives of the U.S. Embassy in Moscow, as well as some journalists, were granted brief entry into the courtroom . . . but only prior to the proceedings; and they were not given access to Gershkovich. The only hard information to come out of Wednesday’s hearing was the continuation date of the trial: August 13th.

Whether coincidentally or not, another HOSTAGE, Russian-American Ksenia Karelina, is also being held prisoner in Yekaterinburg. Following a preliminary hearing in Moscow, she has been charged with treason; her trial is to be resumed in Yekaterinburg on August 7th.

It promises to be a busy week at the courthouse.

It is not yet known — and probably won’t be until the 11th hour — whether American Embassy personnel, legal counsel, or family members will be permitted to attend either trial, which have already been announced as being “closed” . . . or even to meet with the prisoners beforehand.

Due process . . . presumption of innocence . . . the very concept of justice itself . . . continue to be unknown under Russia’s legal system. With a conviction rate of 99%, one need hardly bother going through the motions.

Just sayin’ . . .

*. *. *

And to another of the HOSTAGES named below, Ilya Yashin, belated best wishes on your 41st birthday (yesterday). May the coming year be infinitely better than the last.

Brendochka
6/30/24

*. *. *

And to my readers: Please — once again — let us not forget the other HOSTAGES, still wasting away in various Russian prisons and penal colonies for the simple act of disagreeing with Vladimir Putin’s increasingly onerous edicts. It is for them that this regular Sunday posting — now at the half-year mark — is written.

To those known . . .

Vladimir Kara-Murza – HOSTAGE
Evan Gershkovich – HOSTAGE
Alsu Kurmasheva – HOSTAGE
Paul Whelan – HOSTAGE
Ilya Yashin – HOSTAGE
Robert Woodland Romanov – HOSTAGE
Boris Akunin – HOSTAGE
Marc Hilliard Fogel – HOSTAGE
Asya Kazantseva – HOSTAGE
Ilya Barabanov – HOSTAGE
Aleksandr Skobov – HOSTAGE
Antonina Favorskaya – HOSTAGE
Oleg Orlov – HOSTAGE
Boris Kagarlitsky – HOSTAGE
Oleg Navalny – HOSTAGE
Ksenia Karelina – HOSTAGE
Ksenia Fadeyeva – HOSTAGE
Lilia Chanysheva – HOSTAGE
Vadim Ostanin – HOSTGE
Sergei Udaltsov – HOSTAGE
Konstantin Gabov – HOSTAGE
Danuta Perednya – HOSTAGE
Olesya Krivtsova – HOSTAGE
Staff Sgt. Gordon Black – HOSTAGE

. . . and those hundreds of others whose names remain unknown to me . . . you are not forgotten, nor have you been abandoned. The fight continues on your behalf.

Brendochka
6/30/24

You may have noticed a distinct shift in the direction of my postings over the last few days, from the urgency of world news to the more . . . much more . . . mundane. Rest assured that this does not imply a loss of interest in the crucial events taking place in various parts of our planet. Quite the contrary. My morning routine remains the same: hightail it to the bathroom, return to bed, check my phone for emails and clear out the 95% that are pure junk, and peruse three or four news sources — all before finally getting up for breakfast. (At my stage of life, that first order of business is non-negotiable. Too much information? Okay, then . . . onward and upward.)

Strangely, over the past week I’ve seen a definite lag in new news — at least, the sort that I feel compelled to comment on. Perhaps that’s a good thing, since in most cases an event isn’t even considered to be news unless it’s bad . . . or about Taylor Swift. And I don’t have to tell you that we’ve had more than enough of both of those. Of course, there are still the ongoing, never-ending tragedies of the wars — Russia vs. Ukraine; Israel and Hamas vs. each other; Putin and Xi vs. The World; Trump vs. Reality — as well as the health of the British royal family; the latest mass shooting; the ever-worsening climate; the Harry and Meghan soap opera . . . You see what I mean? How much can be written about anything before it becomes the same old same old?

You’re probably wondering why I haven’t commented on the first U.S. presidential debate that was apparently held on Thursday, involving — let’s see now — oh, yes: President Joe Biden and convicted felon Donald Trump. Well, the answer is simple: I refused to watch it, I haven’t read anything about it, and I have better things to do with my time. It isn’t that I don’t care about the election; of course, I do. I simply don’t want to go to that dark place where I’m thinking about the future of the world if either of the two presumptive candidates should win office in November . . . And I don’t publicly comment on my political views in any event. But here for your viewing pleasure are the boys — Joe and Donny — just so you don’t think I’m unaware of what’s going on in the world:

Well, that’s done. So now, once again, onward and upward . . .

*. *. *

I did find one bit of happy news. The San Diego Zoo has been gifted a pair of giant pandas from China! They are the first in quite a while, and the single bright spot in the otherwise murky relationship between China and the United States. I remember the first pair — Ling Ling and Sing Sing — arriving at the National Zoo in our nation’s capital back in 1972. The lines to visit them were endless, but the viewing was well worth the wait. They were pure joy.

These adorable, happy, playful, simply wonderful creatures have been such outstanding goodwill ambassadors over the years. Too bad they can’t run for president.

*. *. *

That’s it for today, I’m afraid. I’ll be working on finding something (hopefully) interesting for tomorrow while the globe continues spinning on its wobbly axis. Maybe I’ll get lucky, and something shocking will happen somewhere . . .

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/29/24

Picture it: 1984. The year in which George Orwell’s dystopian novel is supposed to have taken place. In real life, the Cold War is still hot; Ronald Reagan is in the White House; Konstantin Chernenko occupies the Kremlin . . . well, for a few more months, anyway.

And I — now an empty-nester — decide it might be fun to spend my evenings studying Russian.

“Really?!! Why would anyone . . . ?” I hear you ask.

Truthfully, I’m still not 100% sure. I knew I wanted to learn a second language — I worked with a number of bi- and multi-lingual people and really admired their ability to switch languages so effortlessly. And I didn’t want anything simple or “common,” like Spanish or French; I wanted a challenge. All of my grandparents had emigrated from Russia (well, Ukraine actually, but it was all still part of Russia when they left in 1905), so that just seemed like the obvious choice. It certainly met the criterion for difficulty. I set out in search of a Russian language class, and finally found one in the fall of 1984 at the community college near my home. It was convenient, and the tuition was low for in-state residents, so I wouldn’t be losing much in case I decided it wasn’t for me, or I found I couldn’t decipher the alphabet or wrap my tongue around all those consonants. So I enrolled.

Little did I know that that one simple decision would alter the course of the rest of my life. But if you’ve been following my blog, you already know about that. Today’s story concerns just one little incident that, to me, was so amusing it has stuck firmly in my memory for nearly 40 years. It’s a story of patience vs. anger . . . reason vs. impulse . . . clever vs. stupid. And as we all know, you can’t fix stupid.

*. *. *

It was around 1985 or ‘86, and I’d been happily immersed in my Russian studies for a year or two. I was living in the northern Virginia suburbs just south of Washington, D.C., commuting daily to my job in the city. On this particular sunny Saturday, I was engaged in my usual local errand-running, and was headed to my dry cleaner’s store in a strip mall a couple of miles from home.

About a half mile from my destination, I was stopped at a red light behind one other car, waiting to turn left. I could see the driver — a man — turned around to talk to someone in the rear seat when the left-turn arrow for our lane turned green. He obviously didn’t see it, so I gave him a single, polite beep of my car horn. Not a blast. Not a series of honks. Just a beep to call the other driver’s attention to the fact that he could make his left turn now.

And he flipped out. Looking in his mirror and shaking his fist at me, he peeled out, burning a few centimeters of rubber off of his tires; squealed around the corner; pulled over to the curb; and stopped. I didn’t know why he had stopped, but I just kept going right past him. And then I found out. He began following me.

When I got to the little shopping area a couple of minutes later, I headed for a spot close to my dry cleaner’s shop, and backed in, leaving my motor running in case I needed to make a quick exit. This jerk . . . er, man . . . backed into a space directly across from mine, so that we were facing each other across the driveway. I rolled up my windows and made sure my doors were locked, and waited.

I could now see that he had a young boy — presumably his son — around 8 or 10 years old, in the back seat of the car. I could also see that dear old Dad was not having a good day.

Leaving the boy in the car, he got out and stomped — yes, literally stomped — across to my car, where I sat with a well-rehearsed, innocent expression frozen on my face. He stood by my driver’s-side window, yelling about women trying to tell him how to drive and what to do, tossing a few expletives around to prove his masculinity, and turning progressively redder and redder from the neck up. When he finally paused for breath, I took advantage of the lull to answer him — in Russian!

I began babbling about nonsense. As I recall, I told him that my favorite author was Dostoevsky, and asked if he had ever read Crime and Punishment, The Brothers Karamazov, or — and I highly recommended this one to him — The Idiot. I called him a few well-chosen names, also in Russian, and all with the most pleasant attitude. And as I watched his anger turn to complete bafflement, it was all I could do to keep from laughing out loud.

Finally, he seemed to realize that he hadn’t understood a word of what I was saying, and angrily shouted through the glass, “What did you say? I can’t hear you!” So I rolled the window down a couple of inches, and began repeating myself . . . still, of course, in my very best Russian. I even threw in a few gestures, pointing at my car horn and beeping it once as I had done back at the traffic light, all the while jabbering about how stupid he was. And he was completely gobsmacked. He had at last realized that I was speaking a whole other language . . . and it may as well have been Martian, for all he knew.

At that point, I knew I had him. Finally, he sputtered a bit, shook his head slowly from side to side, waved a hand dismissively in the air, and grumbled, “G*ddamn foreigners! They let ‘em into the country and they can’t even speak English!” . . . as he slunk back to his car, where he no doubt explained to his son that “That’s how you treat a woman who tries to tell you what to do.”

My favorite part of the whole scenario is that it never occurred to old shit-for-brains that, for someone who allegedly did not speak English, I had had no problem understanding that I needed to roll the window down when he said he couldn’t hear me.

Genius.

*. *. *

I sometimes think about the fact that that man must be well into his 70s by now (if someone hasn’t knocked his block off), and the boy would be middle-aged; and I wonder whether they remember that day as I do. Probably not. But I do know that if I were to find myself in a similar situation today, I would drive to the nearest police or fire station rather than a dry cleaner’s shop, because that pissed-off driver would most likely pull out a gun and shoot me between the eyes, instead of simply acting like a jackass.

I do so miss the good old days.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/28/24

“I think, therefore I am.” – Rene Descartes, Discourse On the Method (1637).

*. *. *

It all began a few days ago while catching up on the daily news, when I made the colossal error of asking myself which I thought was more important in the character of a world leader: being guided by rational thought, or by human emotion. And since the obvious answer (to me) would be “both,” then the next logical question was, “How do you balance them?”

Well, naturally this led me directly to the writings of a long-dead French philosopher. (Doesn’t everyone’s mind work that way?) Luckily, nearly 400 years after his demise, I assumed that Descartes’ copyright had long since expired — if copyrights even existed in 17th Century France. So I felt free to paraphrase the philosopher’s words to suit my own purpose:

“Sentio, ergo sum.” I feel, therefore I am.

Not the sort of “feeling” described as one of the five senses: sight, hearing, smell, taste, and . . . obviously . . . touch, or the literal ability to feel a solid object. Because if existence depended upon having each and every one of those five senses in good working order, then wouldn’t a person lacking one of them cease to be? (“I don’t feel, therefore I am not . . .” )

Rather, I’m talking about the vast range of human feelings: love, hate, joy, anger, pleasure, sorrow, sympathy, empathy. Without these, would we truly exist?

Literally, yes . . . of course we would. Our bodies wouldn’t suddenly evaporate, and even if they did, wouldn’t they still exist in another form: gas, rather than solid? So, according to Descartes, “Sentio, ergo sum” would not be a valid statement. After all, look at the people who have walked this earth — and some who still do — who have exhibited no human emotion whatsoever (with the possible exception of hate): Vlad III of Wallachia (a.k.a Vlad the Impaler, or Vlad Dracula), Adolph Hitler, Osama bin Laden, Vladimir Putin, Donald Trump . . . (Or is narcissism the ultimate form of love — self-love — thereby eliminating the last two names from the list?)

Okay, maybe we’d better just forget about the existential stuff for now. I’m getting caught up in my own limitations, because I have failed to differentiate between literally being alive and feeling alive: that sense, if you will, of being eager to get out of bed in the morning; of facing the day with optimism and enthusiasm; of wringing every drop of pleasure or pain out of each minute of the day, knowing that it will become an integral part of what makes you . . . you.

Isn’t that far preferable to hanging around the house in your pajamas, trying to find that last corner piece of the monochromatic jigsaw puzzle you bought in a moment of pure masochism; or watching a rerun of one of last year’s “Christmas In July” Hallmark movies for the 13th time?

And by now, I’ve drifted so far from my original question about world leaders that I’ve forgotten why I asked it in the first place, or where in the world Wallachia is. So I go ahead and Google it, and find that it was part of what is now Romania, but thanks to that insatiable Ottoman Empire of yesteryear, it no longer exists, so who cares how it’s pronounced anyway?

*. *. *

You know, I’m thinking that perhaps I should leave the philosophizing to the philosophers, and stick to things I know, like news reporting and childhood reminiscences. Or maybe I just need to reread The Unbearable Lightness of Being.* That should complete the confusion.

Boy . . . even yesterday’s poetry was easier than this.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/27/24

* Milan Kundera, 1984.

I hope I needn’t remind you who Evan Gershkovich is.: the young Wall Street Journal reporter arrested in March of 2023 in Russia, allegedly for spying, while simply doing his job as a journalist — one of the few who didn’t leave the country after the Russian invasion of Ukraine.

And today, his trial — not surprisingly, behind closed doors — began in Yekaterinburg with a preliminary hearing that lasted about two hours. U.S. Embassy officials from Moscow had been trying to gain admittance to the proceedings and were finally permitted to enter the courtroom briefly today, though they later reported that they were not allowed to speak with Gershkovich. The next court session is scheduled for August 13th, nearly two months away.

It is said that the trial is expected to last “months,” though it is not clear whether that includes waiting time between court appearances. Why is that necessary? How is it even possible? If he is guilty, as the Russians claim, how difficult should it be for them to prove it? How many “witnesses” can they have? How much “evidence” could they have manufactured to “prove” their charges?

Or is it all simply a ploy to press Russia’s demands for a trade: Gershkovich for someone such as Vadim Krasikov, a Russian assassin currently imprisoned in Germany following his conviction for the murder of a Chechen rebel leader in Berlin? The Kremlin has signaled a possible willingness to negotiate such a swap, but they continue to delay, now insisting that it will first be necessary to reach a verdict in Evan’s case.

In the meantime, Evan Gershkovich remains a hostage, imprisoned in the hell of the Russian penal system . . . his head shaved, but his spirit unbroken . . . while Vladimir Putin calls the shots.

I lived through the Cold War; I held my breath while the world rejoiced at its supposed end in 1991; and I’m turning blue because I’m still holding my breath. Tragically, Evan Gershkovich has become the poster boy for the 21st Century’s production of Cold War, Act II.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/26/24

I sit upon a cloud
Looking down at the Earth below,
and I am sore afraid.
For we have become our own undoing.

Given everything in the Beginning,
Yet we have destroyed so much:
The trees, the oceans, the animal life,
the very air we breathe.
Going, going . . . how soon to be gone?

Given the gift of Knowledge,
Yet we suffer fools,
Worship scoundrels,
Blindly follow those who lead us
to the abyss.
We are our own undoing.

Our years are finite,
Yet we waste them on frivolities.
I am as guilty as any.
I carry that guilt daily:
the guilt of being my own undoing.

So as my years run out, I write,
And in the writing find pleasure and release.
But if my words go unread,
Is not my writing the ultimate conceit?

Or is today’s failure destined to become
the wellspring of my posthumous success?
For now, I have no way of knowing.

I sit upon a cloud,
But only in my dreams,
For I am yet alive.
And as I wake, I wonder:

Is there still time?

Brendochka
6/26/24

I may be getting a bit ahead of myself here, because I’m not quite through with my current life yet and I’m already looking ahead to the next one . . . assuming there is a next one. But in the same sense that so many of us — and you know who you are — fantasize about what we would do with that half-billion-dollar lottery jackpot we don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of ever winning, I’ve been picturing the new, improved me when I come back for the next earthly go-round . . . as though I’d have any more choice in that one than I had in the last one. But a girl can dream.

And, of course, it all starts with the outer shell:

Not a bad shell, don’t you agree? Haven’t you always wanted to walk into a room filled with smart, successful, beautifully-dressed people and have everyone and everything — the party-goers, the orchestra, the waiters — stop dead in their tracks and fall completely silent, all eyes on you as you glide gracefully toward your host, wrapped in an aura of such magnificence . . .

(Deep sigh.)

Yes, I know: that’s a Grace Kelly movie, complete with designer gown, professional hairdo and makeup, Tiffany jewels, and a script to ensure she says exactly the right thing at exactly the right time. But look at her! That was her real life, too. She was an honest-to-God princess! Of Monaco! And originally from a wealthy, high-society Philadelphia family, taught from birth to use all the right silverware, eat without slurping, and speak with the most well-rounded vowels; educated at the “right” schools; introduced to all the “right” people. Always so damned sure of herself because she was as close to perfect as any human being could be. Who wouldn’t want to be her??!!!

But on second thought, maybe she was a little too perfect, too cool, calm and collected. And who really wants to live in a royal bubble, with its restrictions and constant scrutiny? I’m not sure I would. I need to be free to be me . . . whoever that is.

So, moving on . . .

*. *. *

Still going for the outer beauty, but this time with an inner mischievous side, maybe even a little quirkiness. Audrey Hepburn had a more exciting early life: born to an aristocratic family in Belgium, fled with her mother (her father having left the family) to the Netherlands at the start of World War II, which turned out not to be the safest choice. As a student of ballet, she gave performances to benefit the Dutch Resistance, and nearly died of malnutrition as a result of the wartime food shortages. But she was a fighter; she survived, and after the War she embarked on an acting career that brought her the fame for which we all know her.

My life needs a bit of excitement, and the strength and courage to get through the perilous times. She had all of that, and more. She also had that outer beauty, and the charm, and the humor . . . and the most gorgeous eyes. Yes, a definite candidate for my next incarnation.

*. *. *

But . . .

Methinks I’ve been focusing too much on the external. I also want to leave this world a bit better than I found it, and just leaving behind some entertaining films isn’t what I had in mind. I want people throughout the world to say, “Oh, no! She can’t be gone!” when I leave this earthly realm yet again. So whom have I most admired during this lifetime? Who was brilliant, courageous, kind, determined, successful; had a wonderful marriage to her soulmate; and possessed a wry wit that always hit the mark without ever being cruel?

Well, how about a Supreme?

No, not those Supremes (although they did make great music). This one:

My idol. A woman who fought traditional gender roles from the very beginning, graduating from the prestigious Columbia Law School, climbing the professional ladder all the way up to — and right through — that glass ceiling to become an Associate Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States, where she became the country’s foremost advocate for gender equality. She passed away in 2020, leaving the Supreme Court foundering to find its proper voice ever since.

That’s the kind of person I want to be next time around.

*. *. *

But wait — there’s more. Never completely satisfied — I want one last thing. I want this woman’s incomparable, unrestrained sense of humor, her talent, her innate goodness, and her ability to look at the world when it criticizes her and simply . . . give it the finger (or the horns).

I loved this woman, as did millions of others. Who wouldn’t love the best of the Golden Girls? She, too, left a big hole in our hearts when she passed away, just shy of her 100th birthday.

*. *. *

And if I thought I could possess the best qualities of any (or preferably all) of these amazing women in my next life, I would leave this one with a big, goofy smile plastered on my face. So I’m off to find someone to take my order now, while there’s still time. Wish me luck.

“Saint Peter? Can we talk?”

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/25/24