Will the Next David Bowie Please Put on a Dress?

Will the Next David Bowie Please Put on a Dress?

[Click to read on my Huffington Post blog.]

I’m in a state of mourning, and for more than just the loss of a music icon (or two) this month. I’m stricken by the fact that there is no one to succeed David Bowie—and I’m downright rancorous over the reasons why.

For someone who experienced college in the mid-80s, it’s particularly wounding to realize that a major creative engine of the new-wave fueled era has ceased to exist. To us post-modern, mini-skirted, artsy new wave chicks whose hair was stiff with BOY LONDON gel, Bowie was God. The Internet has since become overrun with tribute slide shows that far outnumber commentary on his contribution—especially discussion of who might continue his legacy. It is apparently easier to gather clips of his ten best videos and costume changes and movie roles than it is to contemplate the environment left in his wake. The slide show parade itself is symptomatic of why no one is waiting to take up that mantle.

Why will there never be another David Bowie? Because the current entertainment industry would never tolerate him. It has become mind-numbingly easier and cheaper to depend on recycled and homogenized entertainment than to put up with the inconvenience of nurturing an actual artist.

Genuine talent is unmanageable. It does not adhere to a contract. It is sexually confused. It throws televisions out the window and says f@ck in public. It gets pissed off at its bandmates. It will not be judged by a panel of well-styled celebrities with buzzers in their hands for the public’s general amusement.

Right now, I imagine there are a hundred Millennial Bowies out there. Instead of being fabulous, at their boldest they are mimicking contrived Disney protégés at network-sponsored national cattle calls. More likely, they’re hiding their true preferences and creative impulses so they can keep their jobs, afford their apartments and justify their unwarranted degrees. They are settling for Instagram as an artistic outlet.

Don’t think another innovator of the Bowie variety just can’t happen. As freakishly brilliant as he was, and as devastating as his loss is to popular culture, talent of this magnitude is not an isolated occurrence. Case in point:  John Lennon and Paul McCartney grew up in the same region of Liverpool. At the same time. If the world is ready to ingratiate itself to the next genius, he or she will emerge.

The deluge of online slide shows point to something deeply askew:  Rather than expound on David Bowie’s legacy, resulting in fresh insights and unique prose, the more effortless route is to embed videos or repost a collection of existing images and call it a memoriam. Such is easily digestible, and the content is free.

YouTube has become the new vocabulary of our emotions. We are a civilization that communicates via a series of regurgitated flash cards instead of thoughtful narrative.

A watershed of top ten lists is a disservice to what any genuine artist stands for: The conception of material that never existed until, magically, it is brought into reality by the sleight of the artist’s hand. Art is born, not linked.

This is why a whole generation of hipsters have devoted themselves to retro culture, rejecting the artists and even the technologies of their own era and declaring themselves aficionados of material that was conceived and produced long before they were.

I’d like more opportunity to glorify those who originate as opposed to reconstitute. Priority needs to shift back to supporting the strange and unbearable and tortured, instead of the managed and choreographed and sanitized. Until that happens, we will never see another Bono and U2. We will never see another Sting and The Police, or David Byrne and the Talking Heads. We certainly will never see The Doors, The Stones or Led Zeppelin again. Ever.

To that dormant Bowie in the audience:  Please recognize a glimmer of yourself here. Please stand up and put on a dress and dance. Write yourself out of the cultural stupor you’ve been born into. Masquerade in glitter eyeshadow and spandex and don’t care what the world thinks about it. Date men. Date women. Dye your hair. Do drugs. Shun the X-Factor auditions. Please, I beg of you—quit your day job, lay off the freaking Pinterest and spew out something amazing.

I pray this happens. But I won’t hold my breath.

Now on to the Glenn Frey slide shows …

 

Quarters With The Chippendales

Quarters With the Chippendales

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I see the Chippendales dancers are doing a tour this year, including in my home town. I guess we have “Magic Mike” to thank for dredging back up the franchise; I thought they were defunct for a while.

I have a Chippendales story.

My first job out of college, I worked in Manhattan as a researcher with a major entertainment company. It was a lousy, entry-level job that only sounded exciting. There was one definite perk, though:  I constantly received postcards from city venues advertising special pricing and parties and such.

My buddy Sharon worked across the hall from me in the file room.  She lived in Jackson Heights, right over the 59th Street Bridge, and she owned a little Jeep. And oh yeah—Sharon was gorgeous, and boy-crazy, and never said no to anything. Like I explained in the story about the bass player, since going out in the city was a complex and often dangerous undertaking for young women, we had a pact:  Whenever one of us wanted to go somewhere, the other would agree to do it with them. It was the buddy system.

We were symbiotic:  I shared my special-event invitations; Sharon provided transportation home and let me stay the night at her house. I provided the classy Long Island college girl vibe; she delivered the Queens there’s-nothing-I-won’t-try bravado.

A postcard arrived on my desk for special admission to the Chippendales show.quarters 1

We got there early and claimed a decent table by the show floor. A shirtless guy in a bow tie, white cuffs, and black spandex pants introduced himself as Steven Our Waiter. He had Italian looking hair and nice cheek bones, but was kind of boyish compared to the dancers advertised on the billboards, and was not much taller than me. Sharon was immediately smitten, and started ordering glasses of wine like crazy.

Steven appeared and disappeared at our table throughout the show, as various dancers did their schticks, sometimes backed by a chorus of other guys. One guy was the fireman, one was the cowboy, one was the businessman, one was a cop… it was like the Village People on Broadway. There were about six different acts from individual guys, leading up to the Finale Guy, who slid all over a motorcycle seat in a g-string while colored lights splashed on him like an AC/DC concert.

Once the show was finished, the women were let loose on the floor to dance off their energies for another hour. The male dancers stayed around to take photos with the patrons; the line was an hour long. Sharon and I skipped the photograph, but did our share of dancing and drinking and hollering.

Late in the night, she took me aside. Steven Our Waiter stood behind her.

“Steven’s done with his shift,” she said to me. “We’re gonna take a walk.”
“A walk?” I said. “It’s 2:00 a.m.”
“Then maybe we’ll drive around.”

It did not escape me why she was going off with Steven. She had a habit of showing up somewhere with one person and leaving with another, never to return.

“Sharon, in your Jeep?” She didn’t have one of those big Jeeps with storage capacity and sturdy sides and such. She had a Suzuki Samurai, a two-seater with zip-up plastic sides. It was almost a golf cart.

“You’re leaving me here?” I said. “By myself?”

“We won’t be long.”

I knew there was no stopping Sharon when she wanted to … take a walk. There’s no way she was going to pass up the opportunity to get with a guy from Chippendales.

“I swear to God, you better come back,” I said. Although she lived right over the bridge, I didn’t. I lived at the outer edge of Queens, one of the very last numbered streets in the borough. 262nd Street in Floral Park. It was a distance no cab would travel from Manhattan. If you could even find one at that hour.

Half an hour, I promise,” she said. Shirtless Steven loomed in the background.

Then they were gone.

I downed another couple of drinks at our table and listened to the music. An hour went by, me looking rather pathetic at a table by myself, watching a bunch of screaming, jazzed-up women decimate the dance floor.

The line to take photos with the dancers started to wane. An MC announced they were closing. Sharon was still nowhere to be seen. In an era before cell phones, this was a problem.

Never has a woman felt so awkward as to find herself alone at a table in the middle of the Chippendales Club at 3:00 a.m. When almost everyone else in the place has cleared out. And you have no way home.

A couple of dancers paced by, giving me suspicious looks. Finally I flagged down one of the more sympathetic-looking guys, who had obviously been wondering what my problem was. He was not one of the headline dancers, but I recognized him from the show.

“I’m looking for a waiter named Steven,” I said. “He took off with my friend, and she’s my ride home. Does anybody know how to track him down?”

Close-up, the dancer guy seemed much older than I originally thought, maybe in his thirties, which when I was 22 seemed like a much more functional adult than I would ever be. Still, he was hardly wearing clothing.

“That’s so Steven,” he said. He sounded like any old Joe I might meet at work. I don’t know why I expected him to have some deep resounding voice, or a Mediterranean accent.

“Yeah, and that’s so Sharon,” I said. They were meant for each other. “I’m a little worried. I live practically on Long Island, so I don’t know what I’m gonna do if they don’t come back.”

“Wait here,” the guy said. “I’ll see if anyone knows how to find him.”

I thanked him profusely. He disappeared into some backstage area. Dancers and waiters had been milling in and out, some of them back into jeans and regular shirts. Once the guys determined I wasn’t a stalker, several of them stopped to say they were sorry to hear I got stranded at their club. By one of their waiters, yet.

The original guy—let’s call him Dan—came back out and sat with me. He had changed into street wear.

“Steven’s clothes and his keys are still in his locker, so he’ll probably be back here tonight,” said Dan.

“God, I hope so.”

“He’s going to get an earful when he does,” Dan said. “But don’t worry. We’ll stay here with you until those two show up. We don’t want you hanging around alone on the street at this hour.”

“You guys don’t know how much I appreciate this,” I said. “You’re much nicer than I would have guessed.”

“What were you expecting?” Dan laughed. “We’re pretty ordinary. Half these guys are a mess. See Charlie over there, with the long hair?”
“Yeah.” Charlie’s hair was rather lovely.
Plugs,” Dan said.

I laughed. “You’re kidding.”

“Not at all. He’s a huge drama boy.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. And Tom who did the routine with the fire hose?”

“Yeah?”

“He’s forty-six.”

“No way!”

“Yeah. Married with four kids.”

“Anything else I should know?”

“Can you keep your mouth shut?” He leaned in. “Did you see Mark, with the motorcycle?”

“You couldn’t miss Mark with the motorcycle,” I said.

“Did you notice that scar across his glute?”

“I don’t like to stare …” I said.

Dan whispered… “His girlfriend cut him.”

“Holy shit, really?”

“You better not breathe a word of this to anyone,” he said. “I’ll probably get fired if you do.”

I crossed my heart.  “Not a word. As long as you don’t toss me out on the street.”quarters 1

After another ten minutes with no Steven or Sharon, I had a whole table of Chippendales drinking a round of shift beers with me. The lights went up in the place, which then looked like a banal warehouse, with lunch tables and a railed-off wooden floor in the middle.

When Sharon finally strolled in, she found me and the guys in the middle of a rousing game of quarters, hooting and hollering. Just me and the Chippendales, 45 minutes after closing the place down.

I was so effing pissed at her.

 

 

 

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If 50 is the New 40, Is 25 the New 15?

Here’s my first blog appearing in the Huffington Post/Post50 Section.  Somebody had to say it!

Anyone who’d like to read it directly online, click here.

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Suzanne Grieco Mattaboni Blogger, fiction writer, PR professional and over-sharer on www.copywritelife.com, @suzmattaboni

Posted: 11/30/2015 8:00 am EST Updated: 11/30/2015 8:00 am EST

Years ago, I dreamed of a woman who stood at the end of a road. Low-dropping sun backlit her hair. She waved. She had pretty much knocked out all the hard stuff. When she smiled, a knot in the pit of my stomach dissolved.

She was me, after completing 20 years of life tasks.

At 51, I’ve finally caught up with that woman. Both my children have charged out the door to college, my husband and I still like each other, and my public relations consulting career is at a pinnacle.

Sure, I miss having accurate vision, a near-photographic memory and an unfairly rapid metabolism. I miss not having to dye-out my graylights every month. But more or less, I wonder what everyone has been crying about.

Being over 50 is a blast.

I’m just going to say it: Menopause is a blast.

I dare anyone to look back on their life and not have something — or if you’re myself, 10 somethings — you wish you could have done in an alternate life. Even we Wonder Women of the ’80s and ’90s, who coined the phrase “Have It All,” likely had to prioritize our outrageous ambitions to focus on the things that demanded our greater attention. Now we can do those other things.

And here’s the kicker, ladies: Not only do we get to pursue these secondary goals without our beloved offspring drooling on our shoulders, we can do so without tampons. Or cramps. We can do these things without ridiculous food cravings and handfuls of aspirin and heating pads and birth control pills. Best of all (cue impressive kettle drum-roll, building to a cymbal crash):

We can do them without PMS.

When I turned 21, my body evolved, like a mutant X-person. I thanked my Maker for finally bestowing me with boobs. But I noticed a strange, cyclical phenomenon akin to someone whispering a mantra in my ear all day: Everything is wrong, all the time! Everything!

I’d been lucky enough to live 20 years as a stable and consistent person, I thought, but that was over. And so it proceeded each month for 30 years. Those hormones were in force for decades, for the privilege of popping out two children.

When I turned 50 and the spigot began to toggle off, so to speak, I was sad. I had no further genetic material to offer the world, unless I chose to be cloned.

Then the happiness set in. And stayed.

It hit me: I AM FREE from hormonal bondage.

So here I am: not the skinny, laser-focused nymph I was, by far. But thanks to years of aerobics and substantial servings of vegetables, I’m strong. Thanks to decades of professional diligence, I have more money in my pocket than I imagined for myself. And I am no longer subject to bloating, mood swings, pharmaceutical side effects, or drug store products that I’m embarrassed to hand the cashier.

It’s like being a man.

I’ve thought about launching a platform on the topic. I’d call it Continuation Nation©. If I have to publicly admit I am in this age bracket, I might as well celebrate it and establish a brand.

Except I feel guilty about one thing: We tail-end baby boomers (including men) have better nutrition and moisturizers and work-out regimens, better cancer therapies and prevention programs and replacement joints than any generation before us. We’ve developed technologies that allow us to work from our cushy dens. Meanwhile, the Social Security system is wheezing to a halt, and the tradition of pensions is becoming a dim memory.

So we keep working.

And we wonder why our sons and daughters can’t find employment. We are a big reason why. We are the waning end of the largest population spike in modern history, and we refuse to step down, either in the marketplace or in the greater cultural consciousness. We early-50-somethings consider ourselves far too essential to pass the torch. And financially, we’re not even sure we can afford to, long-term.

Keep in mind: If 50 is the new 40, then 25 becomes the new 15.

This could be why our post-college kids continue to inhabit their childhood bedrooms.

Although I’m confronting middle age with verve, I worry if I’m doing so at the expense of the very peer group we post-primers birthed and raised.

All I can hope is that there will be room for all of us in the professional and culturrear viewal landscape going forward. And that by maintaining vital pursuits, I can transfer my expertise and connections to my children, to help further their own objectives. This is something the secretarial, mid-century generation before us did not have the opportunity to provide, no matter how giving they were otherwise.

There is yin and yang to everything. Even being fabulous at 50.

 

 

I’m Going Like This

I’m Going Like This

My husband does this thing. I tend to rush around my bedroom, jumping into clothes and multitasking, trying to accomplish some task and get clothed simultaneously. Sometimes I do this while conducting a business conversation via phone. As he sees me frenzying around, talking technology PR in a blouse and no pants, he invariably points and says, “You going like that?”

I drop what I’m doing and say, “Yes. I’m going like this.”

He and I will often conduct full conversations about our household as we change to go out somewhere, clothes flying. As I pull off a pair of jeans to transition to a different outfit, John stops mid-sentence and says, “You don’t have to get that excited.”

I do a happy dance about whatever ridiculously banal item we’re discussing.

After multiple years of this, I have gotten the hang of it. When his business line bounces to his cell phone too early in the morning and he hops out of bed to answer it, I mouth to him, “You goin’ like that?”

He silent-laughs at me.

Someday, he says, when we die, they should bury us together. Naked. And our headstones will read:

“THEY WENT LIKE THIS.”

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Winner:  First Place, Non-Fiction category in the Pennwriter’s Conference Flash Fiction “In Other Words” competition, 2016

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Sing It That Way, Suzanne

Sing It That Way, Suzanne

Thoughts on Creativity and the Broken Brain

 

I recently watched “Love and Mercy,” the biopic on Brian Wilson from The Beach Boys, and last week took a look at “The Imitation Game” with Benedict Cumberbatch.

I am reminded how torturous it is to watch people who are inherently genius, yet are so deeply troubled that they have to suffer for it their whole lives. I am also reminded of a conclusion that I’ve held for years:

Maybe this is an intrinsic part of being brilliant.

Maybe you have to have a few things missing from your brain in order to have quite enough flexibility day dreamfor all that cool stuff to happen as it does. Maybe authentic creativity requires a brain that does not function like a normal person’s. Creativity is in fact a side-effect of impairment.

Not to categorize myself as Miss Brilliant, but I’ve always had an affinity for the tortured artist type. I’ve felt my brain on occasion go to off-beat places because it had to, because of aberrant dyslexic flashes where I can’t put two and two together. The signals in my brain don’t make the jump from one synapse to another like a regular Joe’s. It skips over the traditional thought process and crafts a new way to interpret stimuli.

I’ve sometimes remarked that all my creative impulses may be one big, undiagnosed dyslexia symptom.

Scary thing is, my brain is so good at compensating that there have been times I have surreptitiously seen and heard and things that weren’t there. (Or sometimes didn’t see something that was there.) Usually I hear something musical, or narrative, where a story or a melody start running in my head.

There are scenes in Love and Mercy where Brian Wilson lies down and hears things… people talking, melodies and harmonies singing, sounds in the background. I’ve had instances of that. I’ve lain back, or dropped half-asleep, and heard songs playing or people speaking dialog that I’d never heard before. I hit a state where things start writing themselves, and I sit back and listen. It’s a weird and beautiful experience. It is magic. But sometimes it is spontaneous enough that it takes you by surprise and makes you wonder about your reality.

My husband insists I fabricate these kinds of things to position myself as special. It’s not true. I’ve walked through my life seeing certain things backwards or further away or closer than they are. Or sometimes I don’t see an object in front of me at all—it blanks-out and fades into the background. Yet my brain bridges the gap.

No one has ever really asked me, but this is my life:

Have you ever had that moment when you pick up a glass, and you think it’s full but you’re mistaken?

You lift it, and the glass goes flying and you spill water because your muscles were bracing for a different level of heaviness. You were fooled. Your brain misperceived it.color leaves

That’s my existence. I walk past a door jamb or a coffee table, and my brain tells me it is twelve inches from my body when it is actually only three inches away. I smack my shin on the table or bang my shoulder against the molding. I have dealt with unjustifiable bumps, bruises and scrapes my whole life. I am a grown woman who walks into things.

One day when my brother and I were in a band together, we were practicing in his room. He played the bass line to The Police’s “Roxanne.” I said, No, Jim, wait—you’re missing a couple of cool notes here, that’s not how it goes. Where are those two other notes?

“What two other notes?”

I mouthed the bass line. “You know, DAT DAT – dat dat… DAT DAT – dat dat… Loved you since I knew ya’…”

He said, No, what are you talking about? That’s not how it goes.

I said, oh please, I’ve listened to this song a thousand times.

I sang it again, and he argued. Finally he sat me down with my ear next to an enormous speaker and played the record. He turned up the bass on the equalizer. He said, “I want you to take a deep breath and listen.”

Wait, I said, where did those other bass notes go? I swear they’ve been there all this time.

He said, “YOU WROTE THEM.”splat guitar

“What?”

You wrote them, Sue. You hear them in your head because you wrote them into the song.”

And then there was the day I sang in my high school talent show. A fellow theater student played piano behind me … and then he just stopped. I kept singing, because that’s what they teach you to do when something screws up on stage. You keep going. The piano kicked back in.

After the number I went to the accompanist and said, What happened?

He said, “What do you mean?”

“You stopped playing. In the middle of the song.”

He gave me the face. The expression people deliver when I inadvertently admit I’m not experiencing quite the same world as they are.

“I never stopped playing,” he said.

I asked another friend in the show, What did you hear? Did he stop playing?

There was the look again. The tilted head and squinty eyes. “Of course he didn’t stop playing,” she said. “He was fine.”

I thought to myself, Jesus, it’s me. My brain stops perceiving things sometimes. Yet I always push on.

Flash-forward to the few weeks I tried to learn piano. A friend in a band gifted me his cast-off Moog keyboard. I commandeered some rocker guy with long, carbon-black curls to give me keyboard lessons at Focus II Guitars in Babylon, NY. He made me practice scales, and sent me home with a few measures to learn.

Next lesson, I swung open my workbook and banged out the piece. It was a lovely bit of music.

Rocker guy scratched his head. “That was nice,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“What was it?” he said.

???!!

I pointed to the sheet music. “It was this.”

He tried not to do the face, because he otherwise kind of liked me. “No,” he said. “It was pretty and all. But that wasn’t the music I gave you.”

He stood behind the keyboard and played the measures as they were written.

A whole different piece. I had developed my own version.

I never did learn to play keyboard.

There was also a rehearsal for “Godspell,” the first show I ever did outside a school production. I was eighteen. The cast sat around a table so Eddie the director, who also played Jesus, could teach us the harmonies to “Prepare Ye.”

“Do you know how they go?” he asked.

Oh, yeah.” I had in fact had been listening to the original Broadway soundtrack on vinyl since fourth grade.

He said, “Okay, Kerry, please sing the melody and Suzanne, you sing the harmony.” I sang it the way I’d been doing since I was 10 years-old.

“Cool,” Eddie said to me. “Where is that from?”

“What do you mean?”

“Who taught you that part? Is that from the movie soundtrack?”

I shrugged my shoulders. No one taught it to me. “I just thought it was pretty. Isn’t that what’s on the album?”

“No,” he said. “This is what’s on the album.” He and Kerry sang the harmony that was written for the show. Which completely diverged from what I’d been singing half my life.

He said, “Now you sing your part with us,” and I chimed in. It was gorgeous. Suddenly, we had three different parts going, one of which had never appeared in any other production.

Eddie said, “Sing it that way in the show, Suzanne.”

Way to make dysfunction work.

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In Mysterious Ways…

My Entry in Mysterious Ways Today:

The editor of Mysterious Ways read my online comment in response to the Green Angel newsletter sent by Guideposts (see previous post, “A Message From Jason”). It described the incidence of my opening the newsletter to find it was about my family members. She wrote more about it, which is on the Mysterious Ways Facebook Site TODAY.  (Look quick; I’m not sure how long it will be there, front and center…)

I’ll keep watch for this to appear in the print/online version as well and will literally keep everyone posted. I’ve got plenty else to say about what happened regarding this little phenomenon.

If nothing else, an editor I’ve been following for years personally called me to discuss my work.

(BTW, a big THANK YOU to Jason!)

Click to read online.

(Scroll to 10/17 entry)

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Read the “Message of Comfort Newsletter” as per above

While we’re at it, this self-same editor, Diana Aydin, had posted one of the most exceptional stories I’ve ever read on Guideposts, so it was an honor to get to speak with her and somehow be included in this community.

Here’s that story:

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A Message from Jason, 9/11

A MESSAGE FROM JASON, ALL RIGHT

I am a huge fan of Guideposts. Yet I’m not a huge fan of eNewsletters.  You’d never know this, because I receive an electronic heap of them per day. SmartBriefs, trade newsletters, Chicken Soup newsletters since I am a former contributor, spam eNewsletters … up the wazoo.  So many go unopened that a majority now end up in my spam file. I’ve been too distracted to go into them and unsubscribe.

A Guideposts eNewsletter appeared in my spam file yesterday.

Eh, I thought. Maybe I’ll read one today.

I clicked on “This is not spam.” The newsletter moved to my inbox.

THE STORY WAS ABOUT MY COUSIN.

My cousin Jason DeFazio worked on the 104th floor of the World Trade Center. On September 11, 2001, he was 29 years-old.  He had gotten married three months before. Much of mjason micheley mother’s family was at his wedding, laughing and celebrating with him. On September 11th, his wedding pictures hadn’t even come back from the photographer yet.

The last his mother (my mom’s first cousin Roseann) heard from him, he was in a stairwell.

That was all.

His family held a service for him in October.  Around the room, his wedding photos were displayed in frames on bakers racks. “This is all I have of him now,” Roseann said to me as she walked me through the sets of portraits. She had nothing to bury. She didn’t receive a physical scrap of him back. This is difficult for an Italian family. We want visceral closure, backed with physicality. We want something and somewhere to visit, to pay our respects.

I held Roseann’s hand. I wanted to repay her. I hadn’t spent a lot of time with her family in Staten Island, but almost 15 years before, my aunt had died of Lupus. Still a teenager, and one who identified fiercely with my Aunt Joanne, I was devastated enough to develop allergy symptoms that mimicked her disease, which continued for months to come.  Roseann came out to Long Island for the funeral and held my hand. She told me stories about when she, Joanne and my mother were girls. She stood in my grandmother’s basement and took my mother’s hand and tap danced on the concrete floor like they did when they were kids in dance class, and made my mother laugh. It made me feel like my beautiful aunt would not be forgotten, did not go into the ether. Note, that “Chicken Soup for the Soul” contribution I mentioned was about my aunt.

Right now, I don’t feel like being eloquent. I feel like figuring out what this is supposed to mean. I Google Jason’s name and see a plethora of photographs of him that make me cry, even though he was not a cousin that I spent time with. It still makes me want to repay Roseann more. Like the world owes her more.

The crux of the newsletter was that Roseann was receiving messages from Jason. I can’t help but wonder what message I was meant to discern when I randomly rescued an item from a spam file that turned out to be a posting about my own relative. Except that maybe I should write about him.

This is the story Guideposts sent around:

A Message of Comfort from a Loved One Lost on 9/11Marquee_GreenAngel