Author: abendelow
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Memoir: The seasons of my life (1961- present)
From ages 0-20, the springtime of my life, I spring into being, growing from a puling, helpless babe over two decades into a brash, sensitive young man. Early spring’s violent emotional storms batter my tender shoots. I grow as best I can. In the rocky soil of my family garden, my eyes scan the sky for…
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Memoir: The hard card (1982)
I am 20 years and eleven months old, alone in an empty dorm the Thursday of Spring break. I have no girlfriend, nowhere to go, no interest in driving home (no home at all, just a room in mom’s condo), and no tolerance for extended periods of regular consciousness. I consider myself worldly and “with…
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Music: Daytrippin’ in the Kali Yuga (2025)
Life is wondrous, even–especially– when we aren’t in control of and accept what arises.
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Music: Primal Tribal time (2025)
Here’s my first use of an instrument I’m only beginning to learn: the violin. The lyrics reflect an apprehension about growing uncertainty and diminishing safeguards going forward. The images of the beautiful “primitive” people of Papua New Guinea, responsibly sourced from Wikimedia Commons, are meant to symbolize basic aggressive energies that all humans share.
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Memoir: A summer job (1981)
So much great culture was happening for me in 1981. My high points: Starting Gravity’s Rainbow (1973)–this book challenged my powers of attention and my notions of what a novel could do. I took a year to finish it. Seeing My Dinner With André–a film that both of my parents (divorced) enjoyed with me. Great…
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Reflection: Oh, no. Not again (2025)
In desperation and anger, people were willing to try something new–like Mussolini’s Blackshirts, who marched into Rome in October of that year.
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Reflection: Moving on
“Everybody’s moving, if they’re not already there. Everybody’s got to move somewhere.” –Bob Dylan The leaves are leaving. The army of leaves that have fed the tree all summer now deserts, one by one, floating down in their dried uniforms to the ground. Soon whole regiments will be abandoning their posts, borne away by late…
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Memoir: One day in 1975
When South Oak Park’s David Bowie passes us on the school playground, my friends smile and shake their heads in judgment. “Would you get a look at that fag? He’s wearing his mom’s makeup!”
