A Not-So-Beautiful Mind

It all came to me as an epiphany in the late stages of my evening reverie. It was as brilliant an idea as it was transcendent. It captured truth and explored the notion of ideation. It could be written to meet the needs of those in transitions of their very lives.

I smiled at what would become this morning’s essay; an essay worthy of a second or third reading to completely capture each moment offering crystalline clarity in the realm of the metaphysical.

I went to my bed and fell into a deep sleep, dreaming of oddities that had no relation whatsoever to that which I had imagined to meet the needs of today’s work.

A faint light entered my room, pale yet growing stronger. It woke me. I laid in bed for a while, staring at the ceiling and thinking of a five-letter word that would allow me to succeed at Wordle in no more than three guesses. Suddenly it occurred to me that my evening’s thoughts had disappeared. I had no recollection of my epiphany from just hours ago, although I remembered having one. Again, I was reminded of the advancing years that came adorned with memory slips, if not fails. No doctor has assessed me having an early onset of Alzheimer’s; early being an odd word to apply to a septuagenarian.

There are many rewards that accompany growing older. Other than Medicare and senior discounts at the movie theater, I can’t remember any others. Forgetfulness and failing to lift one’s feet high enough to clear the edge of a throw rug are mere asides to that daily wondering about the waning days of life.

I am growing more forgetful these days. For instance, I haven’t a clue about today’s ramblings. I also have trouble with names, which is nothing new.

A dozen or so years ago I attended a wine tasting for fewer than ten or so sommeliers, all of whom I knew from other tastings. The host apologized for giving us name tags. I kissed him on both cheeks like an exuberant Frenchman, expressing my heartfelt thanks. Without being encumbered by memory, I could fully address another oenophile by merely glancing at his or her bosom.

It is with increasing frequency that I need to stop to think of a word that I needed to complete a thought. It’s only evident in conversation; nobody knows my struggles at the keyboard.

President Joe Biden seems to be having a few lapses of memory these days. So does his apparent opponent in the next national election. Biden’s slips, I think, come from his wanting to use exactly the right word to best express a thought whose purpose is to make our lives more bearable. It is exasperated by the remnants of a childhood stutter.

His opponent is just an idiot who seems unconcerned about any clear expressions of thought, presuming that he might have had one; he settles on whatever will arouse his base audience.

I once attended a lecture given by Igor Stravinsky, the Russian-born composer of such orchestral works as The Firebird and The Rite of Spring. He spoke several languages and was insistent on finding the precise word to best inform his audience. His wife sat behind him on stage, and he deferred to her word choices when he couldn’t find one on his own. That the two of them could settle on a single word in Polish wasn’t all that helpful to those of us who didn’t speak Polish. But they seemed happy.

That level of communication was antithetical to understanding. He would have better reached us with even a vague notion of his idea in a language we all understood rather than demonstrating a level of definition that was both exclusive and elusive.

I wondered what my paternal grandparents would have thought. They spoke Polish, along with several other languages. My guess is that they would have had trouble with the English parts of the lecture.

When my sister was going for her second doctorate in some esoteric field of communication, she sent me her dissertation proposal—a forty-page introduction that would someday blossom into a full-fledged book that would never find a place on any best-seller list.

I was on winter break at the University of Illinois, and I welcomed reading the proposal. Since I had to refer to a dictionary to understand the title, I knew I was in for a long winter’s slog. Blue pencil in hand and reference materials at the ready, I blew through that sucker in about two weeks of 10-hour days. By the time I was done, I had whittled her work down to seven readable pages that could be understood by anybody with an eighth-grade education.

She was livid.

Her work was not for the masses, she informed me. She was clearly not interested in having any part of doing what her proposal suggested: communicating.

When I pointed that out, she grew angrier. Her work, as it turned out, was meant for the fifty or so fellows in her tiny corner of academia.

She vowed to never show me her work again. I was relieved. We didn’t speak for two years.

Now, where was I?

Photo Illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Caramelized Leeks

My family likes leeks and none better than how my daughter-in-law Pauline captures the onion-essence and silky smoothness with her simple preparation. These are a wonderful accompaniment to grilled meats or fish.

1 leek per person, equal parts olive oil & butter, salt & pepper, water & beef bouillon

Clean leeks and slice into 1/2″ rounds. Saute in butter and oil over low heat for 10-15 minutes. Season with salt and pepper. Add 1/2 cup water and a teaspoon of bouillon. Cover and cook until caramelized.