PETER

Dear Harry,

I think you'll like this Easter Day story, Did I ever thank you and Peggy for giving me my name?

So there was little Luka, 10 years old, our youngest grandson, sitting with us at the breakfast table on Easter Sunday. I have long since abandoned the Christian faith--I'm more of a Buddhist these days--but still it saddened me to see Easter reduced to a big bunny, egg coloring and searching, and of course chocolate eggs. I wanted to tell him something meaningful, something he might even remember my telling him in later years, sitting at the breakfast table in our Laguna Beach cottage here in California, so far from the village where my family celebrated Easter when I was his age.

So I told him the story of Peter, my namesake, because I was born on his Feast in the Anglican calendar and my parents deemed it proper for me to have his name. The story of Peter the "fisher of men", liberated by Jesus from his labors on the Sea of Galilee to become his faithful disciple; Peter who, on the night of Jesus's arrest, thrice denied knowing him or being his follower; Peter, who went on to preach the gospel in the pagan Roman Empire and was imprisoned for his pains--and released from his chains by the "angel of the lord"; Peter who wad persuaded to escape the dangers of early Christian Rome, was accosted on his way out of town on the Appian Way by Christ with his cross on his shoulder; who asked, famously, "Quo vadis, Domine?" (Where are you going, Lord?) and was shamed by the response: "I'm going to Rome to be crucified a second time"; and turned around to continue his dangerous work in the city; who was captured again and himself sentenced to crucifixion, but denied the honor of being executed in the same way as his Lord and asked to be crucified upside down (see that powerful painting by Caravaggio!); and who was chosen to become the first Bishop of Rome, into whose shoes every Pope has stepped ever since and crowned in St. Peter's Basilica.

That Peter. As I told my grandson, I'll admit it, tears came to my eyes without my quite knowing why, except that I'm now an old man, an old Peter, who was often reminded in the course of his life about the origin of his name--especially at those moments when he failed to live up to it: Peter, the Rock; and was reminded of the singular honor of being blessed with that name.

Remembered with love, Peter

"THE LEHMAN TRILOGY": A REVIEW

             A contrarian view... 

            We heard nothing but rave reviews before going to see “The Lehman Brothers” at the Ahmanson Theater yesterday. I beg to differ.

            So… the set was ingenious—pretty much a minimalist revolving glass box with transparent, mostly rather nondescript office spaces through which we could watch the actors, three of them, one for each brother, as they perambulate leisurely from scene to scene. The props were no more than a couple of couches, a couple of desks and infinitely variable stacks of file boxes, used to keep the action glowing. A screen at the rear of the stage allowed for the projection of various land- or cityscapes and sometimes dramatic lighting as storms or battles rage in the background of the story. The acting, too, was excellent, with each actor rapidly exchanging roles to fill in for the characters—wives, children, colleagues—who do not themselves appear. The result can be funny, rapid-fire, poignant… (A small complaint: we had a hard time following the dialogue from the mezzanine; big theater, inconsistent projection.) 

The story, too, is an engaging one. Three German brothers arrive in succession in America in the mid-19th century in search of a new home, a place in the world, financial success; their business acumen serves them well, first in the purchasing and sale of cotton in the South (there are matters of conscience to be overcome in profiting from the labor of slaves, but they are, after all, just “middle men”; then in the expansion of their business north to New York, soon becoming the financial capital of the country, then the world; survival through two world wars and, between, the Great Depression; and the final disaster that follows the dissolution of the family and the shift from legitimate business to an abstract concept of money for the sake of money, and eventually sheer greed. In short, the American story.

            It’s also a story of Jewish immigration, Jewish customs and religion, Jewish survival, central to the narrative of the Lehman Brothers. Jewish humor, too. 

            But—and here’s where I find myself in disagreement with friends and theater critics alike—there is a fatal flaw to “The Lehman Brothers” as a theatrical production. There is an abundance of narrative—nearly two centuries of it—but no drama. I’m a traditionalist, even an Aristotelian when it comes to drama and narrative is not drama in that sense. It has no single, purposeful action, no “plot”. It is rather a progression of actions and events that lack the dramatic mainspring of a true plot. It may have many heroes and many heroic moments along the way, but no single hero, whose downfall is the necessary outcome of his actions and his character. It may have moments of conflict, but conflict is not the apex of plot whose resolution satisfies the expectations of an audience. In short, it lacks the suspense that, to me at least, is the necessary ingredient of drama. It is, as the saying goes (variously attributed to Churchill, Edna St, Vincent Millay and a number of other suspects) “just one damn thing after another.”

It's an interesting story, yes. Even an instructive one. It’s just not drama. It’s history. And maybe I’m just old-fashioned but when I go to the theater, it’s drama I’m looking for. Something to raise my expectations, get me engaged, cheer for the hero or hiss at the villain. Make me pick sides. No matter how visually impressive or "dramatic", great storms enacted on the backdrop don't cut it. Not do big bangs or pistol shots. Narrative—especially three hours’ worth of it—can get, um… boring when it’s talked out on a stage.

 

DOCTOR, MY EYES....

 Dear Harry,

You may be wondering why I have been so negligent of my usually more regular writing habits. The truth is that I have been experiencing some dark days. You'll understand what I mean by that because I think you experienced something of the same. We did not see much of each other in your latter days--very little, indeed, since I came to live in America some forty years before you died. But my sister Flora told me of those dark days, and I have no reason to doubt her word.

For me, it's a physical as well as an emotional sensation. It's distressing to feel so complete an absence of energy in the body. Yesterday I went back to sleep soon after waking up and slept for another hour. Then, right after breakfast, I dropped off to sleep again on the couch in front of the television news. And so it went all day. When I wasn't actually asleep, I felt like nothing but going off to sleep again. I went out for a walk in the park with Ellie and Jake and felt like I was dragging my body around with me. After a mere half mile, I'd had enough. 

I tried putting my meditation skills to work but all I could come up with was the observation of a body so heavy, so inert, that the mind could do nothing but wish to leave it behind. It felt already like a useless old carcass that imprisoned me. The mind felt trapped, the spirit weighted down. 

Is this something akin to what you experienced, Harry, in your dark days? I wonder how you handled it. You were taught to pray. That was your métier. I wonder, was it helpful? Did the good Lord reach down to uplift your soul? I don't mean to sound facetious about this, because I know you suffered. As you know by now, I don't particularly believe in the power of prayer, addressed to some omnipotent being. I do, however believe in the power of the mind to achieve a kind of distance from suffering, a dissociation that allows me, when I'm able to find the focus, to simply watch it happening rather than attach to it as "me" or "mine".

As far as that "me" is concerned, I'm sure the feeling can be attributed in part to the recent surgeries on both my eyes, the left a week later than the right. It has been a difficult recovery--more difficult than I expected. Each day my eyes see better, and by now my actual vision is immeasurably improved since before the surgery. For this I'm deeply appreciative. What's difficult is the physical discomfort of the eyes themselves. They ache, they sting, they scratch, they tear up after only a few minutes with a book or on the computer. To bring about some relief, I have to close and rest them for a while.

Is all this normal? I don't know. I don't hear similar complaints from other people who have had cataract surgery. True, mine was complicated by a second minor procedure in each eye, but still... I keep wondering if my eyes are unusually sensitive? Or is it that I am less than usually tolerant of discomfort? Am I just a chronic complainer? Perhaps.

In any event, I was truly grateful to wake up this morning with the realization that the gloom had lifted significantly from the day before! And here I am, typing out this letter with only the occasional time out to rest the eyes! I have an appointment with my eye doctor tomorrow and will have the opportunity to discuss all this with her. Meantime, I'll stick with gratitude and the good intention to allow my eyes the time they need to heal.

With love, Peter