Friday, June 19, 2020

Telling a lie

From time to time, I meet someone who says, "I never lie." 

I don't believe them.

It's almost impossible for me to go through the day without telling a lie.  I lie in order not to hurt someone, for example.  Of course, the truth isn't necessarily called for when not asked for.  But sometimes you're asked for it, and sometimes it's better not to provide it.  If they ask you, are you going to tell your child she or he wasn't less than wonderful in the school recital?  And if you do tell them they just weren't that goodwhich is the truth, mind you!well, go live with the look on their face.  

But, hey, you can say you never lie.  Good for you. 

Someone asked playwright Tracy Letts what he says when he sees a play written by a friend that he thinks is awful and the friend asks him his opinion.

"I lie!" Letts said.  "I lie magnificently!"

I agree with what one of Graham Greene's characters has to say about this:  "The truth, he thought, has never been of any real value to any human beingit is a symbol for mathematicians to pursue.  In human relations kindness and lies are worth a thousand truths."

Of course, sometimes lying is despicable.  If the intent is to deceive, to cause harm, simply to gain an advantage, well, it's ugly.  Sometimes you have to tell the truth.  You're a coward if you don't.  I often fail here.  I lie when I shouldn't.  Not proud of that. 

I side with Tennessee Williams.  I trust his sense of morality.  In A Streetcar Named Desire, Mitch confronts Blanche with some unsavory details about her past:

Mitch:  You lied to me, Blanche.
Blanche:  Don't say I lied to you.
Mitch:  Lies, lies, inside and out, all lies.
Blanche:  Never inside, I didn't lie in my heart...


TW was the same guy who said the worst sin is deliberate cruelty.  And a lot of times a well-fabricated lie prevents me from being deliberately cruel.  In those moments, I'm content to be a liar.

A great friend of mine, who tells the truth faithfully more than anyone I've ever known, said to me recently, "I've made a vow not to lie to myself anymore."

Now that is a different story.

Wednesday, June 10, 2020

Farewell, Cake Cafe



It's hard to calculate a loss like this.  How do you measure warmth, conviviality, a sense of welcome, an always interesting mix of people, eclectic servers, and wonderful, heartwarming food?  How do you calibrate a sense of home?  Of a place that satisfied your belly and your soul?  That was relaxed, fun, colorful and faithfully reflected the Marigny, the New Orleans neighborhood it served so openheartedly.

Steve Himelfarb and Becky Retz, owners and partners. They earned every bit of the popularity bestowed upon the Cake Cafe.  The place was packed on the weekends, lines outside, people coming for a substantial breakfastmy favorite: the poetic homemade corned beef hash.  There was always robust coffee and a sense that they were glad you were there.


Some things need to be mentioned.  Steve's king cake, ranked high in the city. (Those reading this not from New Orleans who want to know what a king cake is, read this.)   I ordered one every year.  I ate a lot of their celebrated cupcakes, too.  But in the interest of not having to buy new pants every six months, I stopped.  Nearly.

On the weekends, Steve in back in the kitchen, you were greeted by Becky.  She had a small pad, took your name, asking if you wanted a table inside or out.  And however crowded it was, you got that table much sooner than later.  It was always so heartening to be greeted by her sunny disposition.


I don't like writing this.  I don't like the idea of not being able to go to the Cake Cafe any more.  Change your minds, Steve and Becky!  Don't leave me out in the cold, away from your embrace. Like so many places we come to love and to depend on to give us a big dose of the better things in life, the loss will hit us hard.  Has, already.

Tuesday, June 2, 2020

Cry

I woke up today with a hangover.  Not a booze-inflicted hangover.  A crying hangover.  Yesterday afternoon, I wept uncontrollably for an hour at least. I don't remember how long it actually was.  It all gushed out, the despair I'd been closeting in my heart.  I couldn't contain it any more.  My hands to my face, I let the dam burst, and I couldn't stop it. I wept and wailed, and, like a cut vein, the pain gushed and gushed.  Like a rain-soaked cloud, it poured and poured and poured, a hurricane of pain, a typhoon of pain and distress and hopelessness.  It had been brewing for months, but I'd contained it, until something set it off, I don't know what.  Somehow, my heart had become saturated.  I was on the phone with my brother, and I had to hang up.  I could feel it coming, and I couldn't stop it, didn't want to stop it.  

And I not only wept, I wailed, throwing out desperate question after desperate question. I don't know the answers.  Why?  Why did it end up like this?

The complete vulnerability, nakedness, all of it poured out of my eyes and throat.

And afterwardyou all know thisstunned and exhausted, wrung out, nothing left, nothing.  

No answers.  But surrender.  Blessed surrender.

The release of those pent-up feelings, overcoming the instinct to keep in control, for God's sake, not to mention the sense, in my case at least, that it's unmanly to cryto break past that and let it happen. Finally. 

Masked

I've been wearing masks for years.  I have an entire metaphorical closet full of them.  For all occasions and all times.  I made them all myself, actually.

I wear them to protect myself.  Not from any virus.  But from people knowing who I really am.

These masks are so cleverly constructed it's hard to tell I'm wearing one.  At least, that's the goal.

So now when I go to the grocery store or to the pharmacy with a literal mask, surgeon-ready, I'm relieved.  I don't have to go to the elaborate stages of putting on one of my many false faces to hide behind.  This real mask does all the work for me.

The relief of not being seen.