Taking a Break

 THIS BLOG IS ON A BREAK UNTIL MAY 19th 

MIRKA MUSE is recharging

👉See you then👈

THE POWER OF THE RIGHT WORDS

Or-

“COLORS IN THE MOUNTAINS”

 

I first learned the power of words when I was four years old. It was a lesson in marketing for wee-me.

 

When the preschool teacher sent the weekly crafts output home, my mother rested her eyes on one colorful painting by her daughter, (me) and gasped.

“What is that?” she said, looking at the unruly jumble of stripes and spots.

I had no idea what I had intended to paint. After all, a few days had passed since. But for some reason I felt compelled to say something.

“Colors in the Mountains,” I said. (צְבַעִים בְּהָרִים/ tsvaim beharim in Hebrew.)

 

My mother gasped again. The evocative words enveloped her with light.

 

She had this painting framed and hung it next to the dining table. To anyone who asked she told, “Mirka made it when she was four and it’s Colors in the Mountains.”

I heard her repeat these words many times before I left home at eighteen. I felt a tinge of regret every time because I knew the truth.

 

The truth was that I had tried repeatedly to paint people, objects, or places, and my hand didn’t yet have the proper control to execute my intent. All my paintings at that age were nonsensical blotches of colors because I couldn’t paint what I wanted to.

 

But, boy, I sure could label.

 

I don’t know what I intended for that particular lauded painting but “colors in the mountains” wasn’t it. Not even close. 

And I knew it.

 

The painting and the apartment I grew up in are long gone. What I was left with was the sense that if you use the right words, you can “sell” anything. Just make sure the naked truth doesn’t seep into your descriptions and you, too, might have your work framed and gawked over.

 

This isn’t my “Colors in the Mountains,” but as close as I can find to make my point: 

PAY THE PIED PIPER

                                                      Or—

"NOTHING IS CERTAIN EXCEPT DEATH AND TAXES"

Benjamin Franklin

{In a letter to Jean-Baptiste Le Roy in 1789}

 

On Tax Day, April 15^th in the USA, I hear the Franklin quotation often. This year, I actually stopped to think about it.  

 

While no one to my certain knowledge has yet cheated death, I know many cheat on their tax obligations. I also know some, either deemed too poor or otherwise deserving, who pay no taxes. These “deserving” include some uber rich citizens who have the means to employ specialists that expertly deploy loopholes in our tax system.

 

Death is still, and for the foreseeable future, certain. Taxes? Not really.

 

I take Ben Franklin’s statement to be morally aspirational. No matter your ability, some contribution, even miniscule, should be incurred. Even one dollar would put you into the basket of the common burden and give you a stake as to where it goes.

 

Take it not as an outrage, but as a point of honor to be part of the communal pie.

 

Death, however, remains an outrage. Take that up with the creator of life, raise a fist, and then allow that G-d’s ways are mysterious and G-d’s wisdom infinitely greater than ours.

 

’Tis Tax Day!

The Day I became a Cinematographer…

 

A few weeks ago, while minding my own business, a knock on my kitchen door snapped me out of my trance of contemplating what I should make for dinner. It was the neighbors’ young son, age still in the single digits, asking if I had a few minutes to spare and help him with “something.”

 

That something turned out to be a movie he was making with his friend, with whom he was having a weekend playdate. I should have known, as the boy was dressed in a black cape and his playmate wore something resembling a superman costume.

 

I like to help in general, and especially this friendly kid who still calls me Auntie Mirka. (His parents are Indian.) But how could I possibly be useful?

 

Turned out they needed someone to hold the iPad and videotape, then yell “cut.” As I was not familiar with the story they were concocting, I suggested I couldn’t direct it, but I could take the videos as long as they told me when to start and stop.

 

“You’ll be the cinematographer,” they agreed.

 

We proceeded to the neighbors’ back yard, where the boys yelled “start” and “cut” many times, and their cinematographer watched with both amusement and concern many choreographed fight scenes. There were swords that flew in the air, plastic weapons pointed and bodies falling on the grass only to rise again and fight another round.

 

The few moments I was asked to give turned out to be more than a few. By the time I headed back to my kitchen to renew making dinner decisions, I thought about the boys and wondered if perhaps I may have witnessed filmmakers of the future. Even Steven Spielberg and George Lucas started somewhere.

 

But being the age when things get wrapped up rather than born, my cinematographer’s career was over. There are many ways to tell a story. I’ll stick to writing.

Image^ by DD, who thought it was funny