The Thing About Dreams

It’s late September; last day of September actually. The summer is still hanging around, although the wind has been trying its best to push it away. The summer was something this year. Blue skies, trips to the beach, baseball, no homework, and cuts and bruises all around. When I was younger, summer meant no school and the sounds of baseball on my transistor radio. Each spring I would eagerly count down to the first week in April for opening day and the start of a six-month journey where dreams are encouraged and the daylight lasts straight into the evening. I remember playing softball in the schoolyard down the block from our home. We would begin early in the morning and defend our field until the sun just couldn't stay up any longer. We would play and we would become our heroes; I would be Tom Seaver pitching and then I would be Dave Kingman hitting. The dreams I held tightly in my heart were encouraged by the success I had between the lines; I was a fast runner and I would plow my way around from home plate to home plate. Bruises, scrapes and cuts leading to scars on my body. The journey around the bases was exciting as I dared each player to try and catch me; the dream of success encouraged. I didn't always get the hit and strike out the hitter; in fact I was not the best player on the field. But I had more fun then anyone else. How can you go wrong when you are living your dreams? The summer evenings were always hot. Air conditioners were not the norm back then and the windows would be wide open all night. I would keep my transistor radio underneath my pillow and listen to the sounds of baseball being played somewhere. Dreams encouraged; dreams being celebrated as the summer months peaked. I remember the summer of 1977: blackouts, heat, killer on the loose, dirty streets and death that seemed to follow us wherever we turned. Charlie Chaplin, Groucho Marx, Elvis Presley and so many others. The daughter of the owners of the diner across the street on Kings Highway, killed by the media's ‘Son of Sam.’ Of course there were also the dreams that died that year for me; the dream that loyalty meant something. On June 15th 1977, the Mets traded my heroes Tom Seaver and Dave Kingman and just like that, all in one night, they were gone. Loyalty seemed nowhere to be found on or off the field. The summer went slowly that year and I waited for it to end. Dreams seemed to be turning into nightmares and I felt out of control. The thing about dreams is that they are rarely encouraged; they are looked upon as if they’re a curse and when something goes wrong we’re told to wake up and deal with reality. The thing about dreams that brings feelings of unease is the way they are discarded, forgotten and replaced—just like Seaver and Kingman. The summer is finishing now and I can tell you that I've had my share of ‘dreams’ gone wrong. Dreams of loyalty, support and courage. It’s not how the dream ends; it’s how much heart and soul you put into it to make it the best journey possible. The baseball season ended for me this September. With the Mets losing, all the success of the months before had been negated. The heart and soul of the team was lost somewhere in the dog days of August. Now the cool winds will blow more consistent, the chatter on the streets will grow faint and days will last only for several hours at a time. The comfort of the daily games are gone and the sounds of the ball hitting the bat muted. Life is too short to let go of all your dreams; our dreams can be part of our reality. In dreams there are no failures; the only failures are the dreams no one dares to take a chance on. There’s no such thing as failure, because without failure, who are we? I’d rather speak with a man with scars than one with a clear complexion. Who are we if we have not yet fallen on our face and stood up to try once again and again and again? I have my scars. Most people are sympathetic; I equate my scars with trophies—inspiration to stand up again, walk onto the field, hit the ball and run around the bases. Although these days I am much slower, I know that I will find my way back home via the base paths. Each base is its own goal and reward— integrity, respect, love and responsibility. That responsibility in knowing I am not the only one on the field and that there are others who are running ahead and behind me. It is my responsibility to clear the way for them to find their way back home. _________________ Freddy S. Zalta lives in Brooklyn, living the impossible dreams

July 10th 2007

Hot summer day; 4th of July passed; love conquers all...it does. Money is unimportant when you have a lot of it. Money is important. Health and Happiness go hand in hand...God bless you. I didnt sneeze... No i meant...ok. Keep your chin up and keep on passing those open windows. you dont have to entertain to be loved but you can love to entertain. Do unto others as you'd like done to you...the rest is all commentary. Good night, Irene. (who is Irene?) Dont stop dreaming...ever!

In Memory of Ezra Abraham

Jacobo Hassan

This past week we lost someone who lived and loved to the fullest. Newly married and so in love he died knowing he saved his wife from his own fate. His body has been found, but his soul and smile is everlasting. Tsunami is a word that will never be forgotten. In memory of Jacobo Hassan, please do a good deed today!!! Give charity, visit a sick person, respect your parents a little bit more then usual, kiss your kids and spend some time with them without the TV on and with your cell phone shut off. Smile to a stranger and hold the door open for the person behind you. Give your seat to someone because they seem to need it more then you. Cook a meal for a family that really could use one... Get involved! We all have the ability to change this world; let us change it for the better. Get involved with a local group that helps the poor, the unemployed, the sick and the lonely. Dedicate ten hours a year towards doing this in memory of all those who died too soon. Make up with your friends and your family; stop hating...start understanding. We are all individuals with our own individual faults...forgive each other...life is too short. To everyone who have stopped talking to each other because of money...start talking and stop arguing. it doesn't matter who each of you think was wrong or right; in the end it doesn't matter. In memory of my cousin who died living...let us all do our part to make this world a better place. Thank you, Freddy S. Zalta
fzalta@gmail.com

Superman

One night in the early 80's I was walking with my friends on the upper west side of Manhattan when I suddenly saw a familiar face walking quickly and carrying the Sunday New York Times. I double took the way you do when you think you saw someone you know and then I noticed it was someone I knew. Although, much to my naive teenage feelings of owning the world, the person I saw didnt know who the hell I was and I think I actually scared him. "Hey, thats Superman." I blurted out to my friends loud enough for him to hear. "And your a jerk." Scowled the man of steel. At first I was in shock; he looked more like Clark Kent then Superman; then I was angry; who is he to call me a jerk! then, a couple of hours later, I understood. Here was a man walking with a newspaper on a saturday night; clearly trying to disappear into the New York City life where no one bothers you if your famous, (they ussually just smile or nod) and here I was speaking loudly and annoucing his presence. Throughout the years I have told the story of how Superman saw right through me and called me a jerk. he was right; I was a jerk. many years later I heard the bulletin on 1010 WINS in New York. Superman was hurt in a horse accident and was not expected to survive. Later it was reported he would survive but would be a quadripolegic. It was unbelievable; superman...unable to be super...it was a quick reminder to all of us, "jerks" of just how vulnerable we all are. But Christopher Reeve was a bigger and better man then Superman. Superman did his good deeds and then turned away and hid behind glasses and a nerdy haircut. Christopher Reeve was quickly surrounded by friends...friends who took it upon themselves to be there for him. Not just when he was super, but when he was the best of all his characters...Human Being. His wife is every mans dream of a wife; there for you through thick and thin; holding you when you cant stop shaking and giving you the will to live when all you want to do is die. Superman had nothing on Christopher Reeve. Christopher Reeve swore that he would walk again. Christopher Reeve swore that he would stay in shape and breath on his own. He did. Imagine, a star the magnitude of Mr. Reeve, totally unable to move; going to capital hill; using a tube to help him breath and then speaking in a voice louder then Pavarotti's; "I represent nearly 400,000 spinal cord-injured Americans and millions more around the world who now have a legitimate reason to believe that the day will come when they will rise out of these wheelchairs. Scientists are successfully exploring one of the last great mysteries of medicine, the frontier of inner space, the diseases of the brain and the central nervous system." His voice was stronger then a speeding bullet, stronger then a racing train...today when we are all in a postion where we feel weakened and unable to even take our next step...we will look up into the sky and not see a bird, a plane or superman...we will see a man standing up from his chair and walking home.

Another preview "That Old 66 Chevy"

That Old 66 Chevy

Preview from "Collection of Words" by Freddy S. Zalta

There is no beauty that is equal to the beauty of a woman. The smile that can heal you; the sun glistening off of her as she throws her hair back; the heart she surrenders to you…her lips… one night as you wander the house unable to sleep; thinking about the morning and what it will bring you...more bills, less money... you hear a cry coming from upstairs. You walk quickly and you come to you baby’s room. You look down into the crib and she smiles…you smile and you return to your bed; you lay awake and you listen to the rain falling outside and you smile. Your wife turns towards you and smiles; you lay there hypnotized by the turn of her lips and the light that emanates from her mouth… You smile…you sleep. All is Ok. When She Smiles. The earliest memory I have is of being a child of around 5 or 6 years old. I was running around our apartment and I fell and got hurt. I began to cry and cry, my brothers tried to console me by promising me lots of things that I liked at the time. My sister promised me a yodel. Nothing worked; nothing stopped me from crying, until I saw her smile. My mother came into the room and smiled at me, hugged me and suddenly everything was all right. When she smiles, my wounds suddenly heal. When I was ten years old my parents sent me to summer camp. At first I was nervous because I did not know anyone who was going to that camp. On the first day, I swear I remember this as if it were yesterday; I saw her smile. Danielle was her name and she was my first love. She was standing with her group and she was laughing and talking. She had dark blonde hair, a crooked smile and soft brown eyes. From that day on I was inspired to come to camp everyday. I never did work up the nerve to speak to her, although I did offer her a piece of gum once, which she took and quickly walked away. But I still remember her smile, some twenty years later. I was fourteen years old and she loved Bob Dylan. Brown hair, brown eyes and dark skin. I carried her books home from school more then once and I loved to watch her smile. Sixteen years old and many smiles later, I found myself on stage in front of a crowd. So many people staring right at me, but I can only see one pair of eyes. I was scared up there at first until I saw her smiling that smile. Sometimes even now, when I’m on stage in real life, I see her smile and I’m at ease. There have been a lot of tears fallen from my face and I’ve tasted her tear drops as well; but there comes a time when even a smile cant stop the pain and that’s when you know that its time to move on. They say the sun always comes out after the rain and that the long winter will always come to an end. Just like a lonely man finds a new friend to help him smile. One night while walking along the river searching for some answers and a reason to smile. I caught a glimpse of a shooting star and I knew it was time to live again. Phone calls and long dinners lead to a lifetime of smiles and a woman I can call my best friend. When I saw her smile, my heart began to beat again. One night, after the type of day at work where you question everything, I walked into my daughter’s room. I stood above her as she slept in her crib. I put my finger in her hand and I saw her smile… And the answers I’d been searching for came to me in the shape of a smile.