IN THE EARLY DAYS of this blog seven or eight years ago, I noted the rising trend of films  about women, directed by women, and likely featuring strong women as protagonists or antagonists as the case may be. The trend has strengthened with the many new series out now.   Dune: Prophecy   IF YOU ARE PREDISPOSED to watch fantasy or Sci-Fi and already know of the Dune franchise, you should enjoy Dune: Prophecy, a prequel by ten-thousand years of the  two earlier segments. In the Dune universe of the first two, there is a powerful group of mystical robed and hooded women who have supernatural powers. These are the Bene Gesserit and while they at first  hint at  something akin to the witches of

[Author’s Note: I wrote this a little over two years ago.  Dec 14th, 2024 (today) will be the two-year anniversary of her passing.] In Memory of Mary Helen Duren Hecht In the earliest memory I have of you, I woke to the music of your voice; my eyes opened on your smiling face. A young mother, you roused me from sleep with the softest, sweetest lilt you could produce. You knew how children’s dreams, their souls still bright, are visited by cherubs—in whose presence there can be no fear or need. You eased the harsh stir from soft bliss to garish day. And so, as a child, my heavenly dreams ended gently, and earthly days began with your smile and the music of your heart.

She is Winter      by William Hecht Deep December night and she is spent. She is consumed–like the fields after a greedy harvest. She slumbers—as does the world. Only her essence is sentient, aware. It is a spell: cast in the light of the great moon, it will break with the first rays of the equinox sun. Her hair is black. It is a wave of boreal night that flowed through the glass, swept down her  cheek, and spilled on a pale shoulder.  Things made of night are smooth–and softer by far than anything made from day. She dreams—as does the world–of light and warmth, of aromas and twitching roots, the launch of dancing sprouts: calls to life. If I could dream with her, I would

[Author’s note: I wrote this over twenty-five years ago. It remains a favorite bit of writing–especially this time of year. Readers who wish to may share it for non-profit purposes with due attribution. ]   Dear Friend  (How Many Blessings Can You See in This Picture?) By William Hecht   Though I never suspected it (and usually don’t), I had been blessed when Paul asked me if I might join him on Christmas Eve. He intended to call the Salvation Army or Goodwill Industries and offer to help serve dinner that night to the needy and homeless. I told him that I had no other plans and would be glad to join him. That Paul would initiate such a plan was not the surprise that it

  AT THE AGE of 22, my life path was given a shake when a roommate spontaneously recited a few poignant passages of a book he was reading. The title was The Day on Fire and the author, James Ramsey Ullman, had fictionalized the life of a great poet. Arthur Rimbaud was the enfant terrible of French Poetry; he was only 17 when he arrived in Paris, and by the time he turned 21 he had shocked the literary world.  He shocked my world, too. He wrote things powered by vision and imagination–and their impact was not overly weakened by filter of translation: As soon as the idea of the Deluge had subsided, a hare stopped in the clover amid the swaying bluebells, and said

    [Author’s Note: I wrote this eleven or twelve years ago, before I moved back from the Southwest. Every time it snows during the night, I am reminded of this piece.]   I AM IN THE NORTH for a family visit. My elderly parents manage their simple life with a grace that humbles me. They could be threatened by the simplest acts. My minor setbacks would be their calamities: a fall, the flu, a minor accident driving to the store. Today they were mirthful and sweet and I could not decide if they were revisiting childhood or auditioning to become angels. Last month, I watched the movie “Amour,” an intense look at a couple managing change after half a century of life together (they