fallen gods II

Words and photo by F LoBuono

 fallen gods

How I love the rain in summer

the Thunder and Lightning

at night

when nature’s awesome power is displayed

for all to see

in a bolt

to pale even the brightest city.

How I love the rain in summer

its boastful roar

beckons a query:

“Must you bellow and exult in your fearsome power,

Old Man”?

How I love the rain in summer

to hear its gentle clatter -

a soft and peaceful music

played upon my bedroom roof

to ease a troubled mind into blissful sleep.

How I love the rain in summer

for the relief it brings

to a parched and thirsty land

Listen

you can hear the earth drink

after a day’s summer swelter.

How I love the rain in summer

filling the air with scent

Fresh, Clean, Renewed

an odor of union

between earth and sky.

How I love the rain in summer

for the gift it truly is

for the memories in my mind

Flowing

like streams of water

Tears

from some fallen god’s eye.

Today's MOZEN: With Regard to Our Humanity

Original Photo by F LoBuono

While watching the local TV news, I was amazed by the vast range of human behavior exhibited in 2 stories, broadcast back to back, and that lasted for a total of about 3 1/2 minutes.

But, in that short period of time, I was moved to tears by the compassion shown in one story and horrified by the lack of any decency in the other.

Stephen Siller

The first feature was a LIVE update on the Tunnel To Towers event that raises money for various 911 and military families with runners from all over the world by recreating the steps of NYFD firefighter Stephen Siller who, despite being off duty, ran - literally - in full pack - back through the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel and into the dying towers on 911. His body was never recovered.

The event honors ALL of the First Responders who gave their lives on that faithful day.

William Burke

One of the them was William Francis Burke, a.k.a. Captain Billy Burke of the NYFD, Engine 21. After ordering his men to evacuate the mortally wounded North Tower of the Trade Center, he went back to the 27 Floor where he refused to leave a man in a wheelchair and his friend who could not be moved any further. Despite knowing his fate was sealed, he would not leave a defenseless man, an act not only of incredible courage but of immense compassion, as well.

The three perished together. Their bodies were also never recovered.

The second story was about a robbery/shooting in a bodega in Brooklyn. In the video shown, a tall young man wearing a dark hoody and mask enters the store. Within seconds, he produces a handgun and starts shooting INSIDE the store, possibly targeting an employee by still indiscriminately blasting away! Who, despite his intended target, might have been also injured or killed was obviously of no concern to this man.

It's easy to call him a coward and monster. He certainly exhibited the behavior of a person bereft of any moral compass, especially when seen in contrast to the 1st story.

However, in addition to the disgust that I felt for this misanthrope, I could not help but acknowledge that, despite the extreme range in behavior, BOTH of these men are just that, MEN, i.e., HUMAN BEINGS. We can label both, hailing one as a hero and the other as a creep.

But, by doing so, are we really coming to an understand of what it truly means to BE human? How is that one gives to humanity in the ultimate way and another takes from it without regard to moral judgement?

I suppose that this is a rhetorical question. Well, at least I don't have the answers.

What I DO know is that the only way to combat the evil that lurks in the hearts of men is to counter it with the type of courage and compassion exhibited by so many on the fateful day.

BOTH lie within. The choice is ours.

Frank LoBuono

 

Today's MOZEN: Birthday Reflections. #68

 

It's unavoidable.

At least it is for me.

As my 68th so-called trip around the sun approaches, I find myself reflecting on where I've been, where I might be going, and, most importantly, who the hell I've become!

There is so much swirling in my head that it's hard to even think about and damned near impossible to put those thoughts into words.

The very thought that so much more of my life is behind me than in front is not lost on me!

68?

How the hell did that happen?

Well, I will say this:

I think that I've done OK, not just in terms of profession and career but personally too. Like all of us, I've hard my share of both joy and heartbreak. There have been some memorable triumphs and lots of miserable failures too.

In other words, my life has been full and I truly hope and trust that it will continue to be!

And, I am certainly (often painfully so) aware of my many faults.

But, I am also confident that my heart is pure.

Despite so many mistakes and so much pain caused to many, I have always tried to do my best to do the right things for the right reasons. My execution was often flawed but my intentions were always meant to serve a greater good.

At least that was my goal.

I'd like to say that I never intentionally hurt anyone in my life - but that would be ridiculous - I ain't St. Francis.

However, even with that admission I do feel that I've always done more to be bring light and life to the people around me than darkness and despair. I've treated people with the respect that I demand for myself and have put myself at risk to defend the principals that I was taught and still deeply believe: a commitment to social justice, freedom from oppression, and, above all, the power of love to conquer hate.

I always have, and will continue to look for the light.

Today's MOSTLY TRUE SHORT STORY: My Sicilian Challenge

 

All photos, F LoBuono - Motta D'Affermo

Perhaps some of you are aware that along with my stepson, Jeremiah, we purchased a villa in a village in Sicily named Motta D’ Affermo. It is an ancient place where time has remained little changed for centuries. In fact, the current village dates back to the early Middle Ages built over an even more ancient, Greek settlement.

This is both its blessing and curse – Motta is a living paradox.

The village, located about 90 minutes from Palermo, high in the mountains above the Mediterranean, can be a challenge to get to. You can see it, glistening in the distance. 

Getting to it is another matter.

Of course, this is the 1st of many paradoxes: they built these villages there because they ARE difficult to get to (i.e., to keep invaders out). And they ARE special BECAUSE they can be a challenge to drive to.

In other words, they are off the beaten bath, providing adventurous travelers opportunities to experience a truly Mediterranean culture. If you’re looking for a valet to carry your bags, go to Firenze!

It is blessed with its ancient homes and churches, spectacular vistas, ancient olive groves, delicious, fresh food, and soulful, friendly people.

However, it terms of modern conveniences, little are found there.

There are 2 small grocery stores, a pharmacy, a small night-time bar, and, of course, the obligatory coffee shop. But there is no sit-down restaurant – a deficiency that the remaining residents understand needs to be addressed.

And Motta is quiet at night – very quiet. There are only about 600 people left. Most of the younger people have left to find work on the mainland.

Again, here is another paradox – what makes it too quiet for some, appeals greatly to others – people like me.

At this point of my life, I’m in the been there, done that phase. I had a long career in the media that involved its share of both challenges and rewards. I left few stones unturned. Now, it’s time to find another reality, one of a quieter nature.

I believe that I can find it in this ancient, frustrating, and magical place.

Besides, my entire family is Sicilian. Both my mother’s and father’s ancestral villages lie within driving distance of Motta. And as soon as I breathed the fresh air under an azure sky, a blazing sun, with the aqua blue Mediterranean in the distance, a deep, abiding peace came over me. I felt that I had come home.

Sicily, and Motta, is not for everyone – and it shouldn’t be – that’s what makes it special. I hope that it is for me.

And, perhaps for you too.

 

Today's MOSTLY SHORT STORY: If Even for a Moment.

While my stepson Jeremiah and I were exploring our new village in Sicily, Motta d'Affermo, we found ourselves in one of only two small grocery stores in town. They're kind of the equivalent of what we call a bodega here in the States - you can get a little bit of everything. In the case of Motta, that includes locally made pasta, incredible panini sandwiches, dish soap and toilet paper.

Motta d' Affermo, Sicilia, F LoBuono

We needed a cigarette lighter or matches to be able to light the stove in our new villa. Well, of course, the ONLY 2 items that they didn't have were those. No big deal, Jeremiah said, I saw some at the other store.

So, we turned to leave the store and head the flew blocks to the other bodega. As we did, we noticed that we were being approached by a local man. He looked perhaps in his 40's and was, quite frankly, a little unkempt. His clothes were worn and dirty and he looked as tired as they were. He had a shoulder bag slung around to the front of his body and one hand in it. With the other, he was gesturing to us with a vigorous wave.

We thought that maybe he was preparing to give us a pamphlet or brochure - surely something to sell. But, being experienced travelers, Jeremiah and I were prepared for whatever might come.

As he came closer, I began to realize that he was not a vagabond at all but was dealing with some type of mental and physical challenges that were affecting his appearance.

When he finally reached us, he removed his hand from his satchel, and low and behold, he had produced a used - by working - souvenir cigarette lighter. And, he wasn't selling it to us, he was giving it to us!

With outstretched hand, slowly, in Italian, from what I understood, he said, please take this and have a pleasant and safe journey.

We all smiled completely and with great joy, for it was one of those special moments when you realize that good people come in all forms and can be found all over the world.

I responded in my basic Italian, molto gentile, signore, molto gentile.

Then we went our separate ways to continue our different journeys knowing we shared the same path, if even for a moment.

Today's MOSTLY TRUE SHORT STORY: A Night in Trastevere

 

3/9/23

Well, here I am again, alone in a magical spot, not by design but by circumstance.

I'm drinking delicious red wine while sitting outside in a tiny, relatively quiet café, deep in the heart of an otherwise buzzing Trastevere. In an odd coincidence, great American Blues is playing in the background. I tell the owner, me piace la musica!

So far, Rome has been her magical self; full of surprises and contractions. She's dirty, rude, ancient, sublime, frenetic, frustrating, and fantastic. In just 3 days here I've already experienced so many highs and lows. It's definitely a love/hate relationship.

The Romans themselves are very much like their city: awful AND wonderful, both at the same time - much like we New Yorkers. I think that I may actually love the place. It may be a hell of a lot older than New York but one thing is for certain - their 'tude is pretty the same as ours!

They call it the Eternal City, and for good reason. The place seems to be mostly in an eternal state of mass confusion and decay. Yet, it not only survives, but thrives and continues. Around every hidden corner, I find another ancient vestige of long gone glory. They drive like savages and can manage to squeeze a car into a parking spot the size of a shoe box. And, everyone smokes cigarettes like fiends. Everyone. It's quite a turnoff for me to see an exquisite woman, dressed impeccably, burn one as she sashays by.

As I sit and sip, a couple of young women, speaking in their native German, take the small table next to me. The difference in the Italian language and German is of great contrast to me. Even when the Italians are loud (often), the sound and melody to their speech has a calming rhythm to it. On the other hand, the Germans, even when whispering, seem to be shouting.

I continue to sip, listen, and observe. Then, at one point, the bartender, waitress, and, obviously, a regular patron decide to come outside and stand near by table to have their conversation - and, of course, their CIGARETTES. They happily drag away, filling what was once sweet night air with a suffocating layer of smoke.

I quietly take my last sip, raise myself out of my chair, and make my way back to my hotel.

Ah, Roma, I love you so!

Today's MOZEN: A Moment of Grace

They are usually fleeting; normally lasting only a few minutes. They also come at the oddest times and usually under the simplest of circumstance. They may be ephemeral but those brief Moments of Grace are always spiritual - at least to me.

It's a warm feeling of well-being, when all is right with the world. At that very moment, your stars have aligned, your ducks are all in a row, a steady course has been set, and everything, in its own time, will be just fine. You have no doubts.

I had just such an experience last night. It was cold; below freezing - the kind of weather for a nice cuddle under a warm, hand-made quilt. 

On this night, I was fortune to have access to both.

So, when it was time to sleep, I quickly stepped out of the chilled air and slid myself between the sheets and under the quilt. My girlfriend, Amanda, was already in bed and rapidly approaching sleep. I immediately came close to her to spoon against her warm body, She responded gently to my presence, eagerly accepting my embrace.

Then, as an added bonus, my little bear of a cat, Joe, jumped onto the bed and quickly ensconced  himself at our feet, providing further warmth and comfort.

Within seconds, that feeling washed over me: it could only be described as a State of Grace! It was if I was bathing in the pure light of simple satisfaction. At that brief, fleeting moment in time, my existence was as complete as it would ever be.

I drank it in deeply, as I would from a tumbler of the best bourbon.

I giggled gleefully, sighed. And smiled. Broadly. Completely.

And, then I slept. . . 

When You Think About It. African American History Month

You may be hearing the year 1619 quite a bit lately. It’s a seminal date in African American history as it was the year when 20 black African slaves were introduced into what would eventually become The United States of America at the nascent Jamestown settlement in Virginia. It is therefore often cited as the beginning of the black African presence here.

That may be a convenient date. However, the history of Africans in The New World is much longer and much more complicated.

The presence of black Africans in the Americas, mostly as slaves, can be traced back to the late 1400’s with their presence in what would become part of the modern United States as early as 1526.

That’s a nearly 500-year presence.

And, for far too much of that time, Africans have born the burden of bondage in one form or another. Remember, millions of others came to these shores bearing hardship and tragedy, but virtually only black Africans were brought here completely against their will and literally in chains.

Now, we say we have made progress with eliminating racism like that’s a badge of honor! But shouldn’t we be questioning why our society is so deeply rooted in racism in the 1^st place???

But have we really?

Just to prove how far we still must go, another young black man was literally beaten to death for mostly just being BLACK – and in the ultimate irony, by 5 other black policemen!!

So, yes, February may be African American, a.k.a. Black History Month when we celebrate the contributions, against staggering odds, of our black brothers and sisters but what does it really mean if there is no justice. Without it, there can be no peace.

When You Think About: Santos and the GOP. Perfect Together

First, let it be said that I ALWAYS felt that George Santos was a phony - from the very first time that I saw him.

I had no idea who he was as he was not a candidate in my voting district. But, of course, as an unexpected winner for Congress in his, he was being given a considerable amount of coverage on the local TV news.

I was watching his victory speech with my girlfriend. Much to her dismay, I'm sure, she will have to act as my witness; from the very first frame of video, I swear that I could tell that he was an out-and-out phony. In fact, once again as my girlfriend would attest, I was flabbergast that I seemed to be the only one noticing! I mean, his supporters were roaring in the background.

Everything about Santos (the name he is currently being identified as), to me, reeked of insincerity: his smile, his body language, his clothing, his copious amounts of what appeared to be make-up, his remarkably straight, ultra-white teeth, spray-on tan, and his "little boy" haircut.

Of course, at this point, none of the details had been released defining him as a lying sack of shit. It was just a feeling, a vibe. I've been a photographer for a LONG time and one of the keys to any success I may have had lies with my ability to get a sense of people/situations to capture them in the light of THEIR truth.

Frankly, I couldn't believe that he was elected. But, obviously, he was chosen by the voters and their decision would have to be respected. (How all of his deceit went undetected by his opponents and the press until now is a story for another post.)

That is until HIS SHIT STORM OF LIES TOOK OVER HIS LIFE!

Rather than spend a considerable about of time to document ALL of his blatant LIES, let me streamline the process by simply saying, if his lips are moving, he's lying. He tries to defend himself (when he bothers to) by saying they're not lies but embellishments. Screw that - I know a lie when I hear one!

I'm not a psychiatrist but I think it safe to say that the man has some type of pathological condition that simply prevents him from telling the truth.

But, that's not my problem or ultimate concern. What IS is the Republican response to the situation.

Mr. Santos, despite a growing groundswell of opposition, refuses to resign and, so far, the GOP leadership, led by Kevin McCarthy, has not only generally turned a blind eye, has even appointed Santos to a few important Congressional committees! 

Any reasonable person should/would legitimately ask, why, especially in the face of such irrefutable evidence, would you do so?

Well, the answer is simply - and, unfortunately, typical of today's Trumpian GOP; they need his head count to keep their razor thin majority in the House - thereby, once again, demonstrating their lust for power over the integrity of our very Nation.

Obviously, they deserve one another.

Today's MOZEN: Color Blind

Growing up in the 60's in Fort Lee, NJ wasn't exactly like "Leave It To Beaver". But it sure wasn't quite "The Jeffersons" either.

Neighborhoods were not flashy but, rather, solidly working-class with a fair amount of ethnic diversity featuring a healthy mix of Irish, Italians, Christians, and Jews. However, the racial component was virtually lily white. There were a handful of Asian families but I can't recall a single black family that we even knew of much less associated with. In fact, I really didn't experience any aspect of black life until I attended university at Rutgers in Newark!

However, despite that deprivation, since I was so into athletics as a young man, most of my roll models were black! I don't think that it was some type of spiritual awareness but much more practical: I loved playing football and most of my favorite players were, well, black.

I remember my first encounter with a professional football player - who also happened to be black. His name was Sherman White and he was making an appearance at the local Shop Rite. I was about 12 or 13 and since I lived just a few blocks away, I walked to the store early so that I could get a good spot to meet him.

When I did, I thought I saw a god. He was big. He was handsome. He was incredibly well-dressed, and his dark skin made him look like he was carved out of a block of ebony. I swear his feet never touched the ground when he walked - like a mythical black panther.

It never occurred to me that role models came in particular "colors." Now, I understand that it is important to see others who look like us and have achieved great success to show us the possibilities - especially for minority communities. But, at that time, it simply didn't matter to me - he was a pro and he looked and acted the part. That was fine by me.

Furthermore, my favorite player on my favorite team (the NY Giants), Ron Johnson, was African-American. I even wore his jersey #30 in his honor for my entire playing career. I even went to great lengths to find and wear Puma football shoes - just as he did.

Of course, my parents played an important part in emphasizing the only truly important thing about a person is their strength of character, not the color of their skin. That just seemed natural to me - and it still does.

Today's MOZEN: A MOST VIOLENT GAME

In my day, I was a pretty damned good football player, mostly as a defensive specialist - good enough to be named captain of both my high school and college teams. Unfortunately, most of those teams weren't very good but that's not the point of this post.

What IS most important was that I loved playing - until I didn't.

I have to admit right off that part of my initial attraction was that it IS a violent game and I was so gentle in my soul as a boy I was afraid that if I didn't "toughen up" I would never make it in the world I was most familiar with - both my father and his brother were excellent players in their day and I wanted to make them proud. In fact, my father would go through great lengths to attend my games and often offer needed and eagerly accepted advice after a contest.

On the other hand, my mother hated everything about football; so much so that she never attended any of my games AND I had to hide ALL injuries I may have incurred (and I had a few) from her - my father instructing me, for the sake of peace and harmony, to "keep it between us".

So, in a very real sense, I had something to prove, mostly to myself, and football would be that vehicle.

I wasn't very big at all but I was quick, strong, and fearless. I followed the instructions from my coaches to make punishing tackles by "putting my face in there". I did that so many times that I stopped counting how many times that I broke or damaged my nose! Still, I persisted. That was the point - persistence against all odds.

For as many punishing hits that I delivered I received back, in at least equal measure, every blow leaving a lasting impression - even now when I close my eyes tightly, I can still envision the little flashes of light that came with EVERY blow to my head. Still, I believe that I managed to escape that violent game mostly with no long-lasting ill effects.

So, one would reasonably ask, why would someone expose themselves to such potential harm - for fun?

Well, like the game, the reasons, at least for me, are complex.

I had something very personal to prove, especially to myself. And, in it's own way, football did that for me. For every time I was knocked down, I found a way to get up. I'm sure that there are better ways to learn this but it worked for me!

And, the nature of the game itself is one that can bring awe to the observer. Allow me to explain: in my post-football career, one of my jobs was as a news cameraman. As part of my duties, I was able to shoot some professional football games from Giants Stadium. I also had the privilege of photographing multiple space shuttle launches. And, I will say this; being on the sidelines for both is an awesome experience of power and explosive energy, the only difference is that one is mechanical and the other completely natural.

However, at one point, the game held nothing for me BUT violence. Besides, I had pushed a 5'10", 190 lb. body as far as it would go. I was NOT going to be a professional football player. And, you know what, it all worked out in the end.

I suppose that George Sauer, the late, great NY Jet wide receiver who quit at the height of his career, said it best when writing for the NY Times (paraphrasing):

Football is a game of great contrasts. On one hand there is incredible skill and grace and on the other, brutal violence. When I could no longer rationalize the difference between the two, I quit.

Of course, at this time, our attention lies with Damar Hamlin of the Buffalo Bills. May he recovery fully and continue his life unabated.