Unless something extraordinary happens, I'm taking a break from blogging for the holidays. See you next year.
I thought I had gotten comfortable with public speaking and then last night I participated in Pecha Kucha in Miami. Pecha Kucha (which means “chit-chat” in Japanese) is a kind of Ted talk on speed. As you speak, 20 photographs appear on the screen behind you, for 20 seconds each. So your six minute and 40 second talk needs to be tightly coordinated with the images. If you pause, or hesitate briefly, your timing goes off.
At home I timed myself, whittling what I had originally written down to 20, 20-second bits of monologue. But it was not the same as standing in front of an audience, as I did last night, and seeing an image suddenly replaced by another while I still had more to say. I felt extremely rushed and under the gun. Later I thought of George Plimpton, who said that the most terrifying thing he had ever done - worse than playing quarterback for the Detroit Lions or entering a boxing ring with Archie Moore - was playing the triangle with the New York Philharmonic. The reason being that in music, unlike in sports, there are no timeouts; time moves inexorably and there is no stopping it.
I realized last night how much, when speaking to groups, I like to use pauses for effect (not to mention digressions). Adding to my discomfort were the stage lights, which made it impossible for me to see the audience. Normally, I like to establish eye contact with two or three listeners, and of course gauge their reactions to what I’m saying. Last night that was impossible.
I got a little flustered at the fourth image, but recovered well and made it to the end and a round of applause. I felt like a figure skater who stumbles early in her program but makes up for it later, earning a 9.5 instead of a 10.
I’ve discovered that as you get older you tend to get ignored; people look right past you as you walk down the street.
And I’ve found a cure for it. Saturday Hania and I were in Delray Beach. After lunch we went to Two Fat Cookies, where we bought three cookies. The man behind the counter handed the bag of cookies to me and a white rose to Hania.
A short while later, Hania gave me the flower and went into a restaurant to use the ladies room. Standing on the sidewalk, holding a white rose, I suddenly become the center of attention. “Is that for me?” the hostess said as she headed back from an outdoor table. People walking on the street – men as well as women – also commented. I tried to think of something witty to say in response. But it was an extremely strange and not unpleasant feeling to have people noticing me. When Hania returned, and took the rose back, we walked down the street without comment. There must be something about a man standing alone with a rose that gets people’s attention.
I joined a friend at a trivia night in Boca last night and one of the questions included a quote from an Italian philosopher whose name we were asked to supply.
It had never occurred to me before how few philosophers are Italian. All we could come up with was Marcus Aurelius, that rare philosopher who was also an emperor.
A few minutes later the host said, "Voltar," mispronouncing the name of a philosopher who was decidedly French.
It's doubtful that anyone living 100 years ago realized it, but 1922 was a stellar year for the English language, for it saw not only the publication of James Joyce's Ulysses and T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land, but also the creation of the BBC.
After I voted on Monday a woman asked me if I wanted a sticker saying I’d voted. “That’s the best part,” said the woman coming up behind me.
Really? It reminds me of grammar school and getting gold stars. And what are you supposed to do with it? Wear it to show people that you fulfilled your most basic civic duty? Or keep it in a prominent place at home in case you forget that you already voted?
I declined it.