plywood

Joseph Heller started his novel "Something Happened" with as memorable an opening line as you're going to find:

"I get the willies when I see closed doors."

Well, I get the willies when I see plywood.

Especially plywood replacing windows.

You don't want to see plywood in your neighborhood unless it is part and parcel of a healthy renovation or construction project.

Saving Face

Did you know some people find it difficult to remember or identify faces? It's called prosopagnosia, or "face blindness." Here's a simple test you can take to see if you have it. (Hint: you have to guess whether it's Bush or Blair. Yuck! Why not Jennifer Lopez vs. Salma Hayek? Or Brad Pitt vs. George Clooney? Whatever.)

Not having one's face recognized is especially onerous in the Age of Celebrity. Imagine how slighted the glitterati feel.

It turns out authors are frequently among the unrecognized faces. But I'm alert to such sightings, probably because they are what I am not. Years ago I worked at Random House in New York. I saw Joseph Heller on the elevator. I approached John Updike in the lobby, asked for his autograph, and he chatted with me amiably. Kurt Vonnegut was often seen in the neighborhood. I saw Norman Mailer strutting up Second Avenue. (Before all that, I even met the satirist Peter DeVries at his house.) I saw James Baldwin sitting alone in a hotel lobby in Chicago in the 1980s, shook his hand (somewhat cold and feeble), and asked for his autograph. He pleasantly obliged, and his face warmed with a smile seemingly at the fact someone recognized his face.

(As you can see, I am a shameless name-dropper. Is it a sign of poor self-esteem? Or just living vicariously?)

I shouldn't joke about this face blindness phenomenon; it is considered a real neurological impairment. It's not that I think I have it, but I do find it difficult to describe a face to someone. It's hard for me to draw that picture with words. And I have no talent as a visual artist beyond the creation of stick figures.

I remember the youthful thrill of trying to rivet into my brain the image of the visage of someone I liked. (Typically, of course, I was unable to articulate such affection.) Must be what Lennon and McCartney had in mind with "I've Just Seen a Face."

Then there are the images of those I feared or loathed: a kid who bullied me, a teacher who smacked me to the ground. I wish I had no memory of their faces. Prosopagnosia for the antagonisti, call it.

Whether visually or otherwise, we seek to save face. In domestic quarrels, each participant tries to save face.

Barry Bonds held out on signing a $15.8 million contract with the San Francisco Giants, just to save face.

Nations and sects and rivals also fight to save face, even if it means destroying the whole body, the whole body politic, the whole soul, in the process.

I wonder if there is such a thing as mammogagnosia, "the forgetting of breasts"? I think I'm afflicted with whatever the opposite of that is. And let me tell you, Braille may not help but who cares!

There's even a romantic comedy film called Saving Face by Alice Wu. It concerns a Chinese-American lesbian.

Maybe right about now, some of you are wishing I'd do an about face (which is also the title of a work by Dario Fo, but not by Dario Marquez)!

Does all this make me a facist? (Read that last word carefully. Remember, spelling counts.)

The Dawn's Early Light

I do not count myself among those who are "morning people." I awake slowly and reluctantly and typically with some measure of grouchiness. I count myself among the night owls.

I used to work roughly 3 p.m. until midnight or 1 a.m. at a newspaper. Loved those hours. Never set an alarm clock in those days. But, alas, my working those deadly nightshade hours became a skein of ruinous and profligate ways swirling into a self-destructive vortex. I was plucked from that vortex, rescued in ways that are hard now to define except to echo the title of a tragic but heartfelt book by Joseph Heller, one that used parentheses more artfully than any other book I've read:

Something Happened.

I used to feel guilty about not being a morning person, as if it reflected a negative and defeatist and bankrupt view of the world.

I'm resigned to it now. . . .not the worldview but the morning's slow march. I don't think there's much choice. It may even reflect my alleged sleep apnea and multiple awakenings every night. Hence, my nearly daily morning heavy weight of grogginess. The hangover of memory and night and darkness.

But is there anyone more luminous and prayerful and mystical and poetic about morningtime than

The Secretary of Dawns?

I offer you the rich tableau of his incandescent and singular ponderings of dawn.