As I come upon blogs, I discover that some have entered into a profound process of self discovery. This becomes evident if you trace the evolution of their writing, at first very self-conscious, then growing into a reflective awareness, and finally entering a stage that is intensely challenging because consciousness has come upon a new interior domain, strange and foreign, crossing a frontier beyond discovery of identity, a terrain where the blog is creating identity, defining existence as experience in perpetual and dynamic disclosure.
Crossing this interior frontier is exciting and terrifying. Exciting, because we feel a renewed energy and see the world through new eyes, and hear the world with fresh ears. Terrifying because each new step maps uncharted territory. Moving through this new landscape of ourselves, we are a light entering the darkness, illuminating a new sense of ourselves and the world. Creating ourselves becomes a journey of extinguishing the darkness, of knowing with conviction that existence is not a static perfection, but a dynamic and chaotic presencing that now echoes back upon ourselves, the world, and those around us. We discover we are not as concerned with who we were and who we are but rather are vigorously engaged in the process of Becoming.
Becoming involves the deepening awareness of how we are connected in the world and with each other. Paradoxically, crossing the interior frontier actually does not remove us from the world. Instead, we find the deep connections to others and the boundaries of inner and outer worlds dissolve. Maybe there is something in this digital process that serves as a catalyst to this discovery and awareness of being. Maybe the act of creating ourselves from the nothingness of now and expressing it in published form so that it now exists apart from us so that we can experience it as a substantive presence, accelerates the pace of our journey, of our Becoming.
Friday, February 10, 2006
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Where Are The Songs?
I am a composer who has enjoyed the adventure of discovering new sounds and new structures. This has been true for most of my life, but as I grew older I moved away from the more traditional forms of so-called classical music and pursued what some might think of as experimental sounds, but continued to be based in an emotional, expressive context. Sound in time has been an exploration of feeling, texture and sonority.
From the early days of my music making, my endless improvisations at the piano, I realize that those were my musical "blogs" ---although the concept of blogs was still decades away. These musical outpourings were personal statements that helped shape and define me in an ongoing encounter. At times they would take the forms of "shows"---crystallized with book, lyrics, and music, a more public part of my "musicing."
But there was also a secret part of me that wrote songs. These were very private and I have not really shared them to any great extent. These are songs that are music from the heart, a celebration of love and feeling. The existence of these songs has been tenuous, mostly in my mind, some notated, a number of them lost, and still others forgotten.
I have been attempting to resurrect them into some tangible form, but there are a number of problems from a technical perspective. Some are stuck in a computer without the appropriate software to leap from binary code to be deciphered as music and text. Some are stuck in my head, fragments that need to be reborn and reassembled.
Many of these were my most personal and passionate musical expressions, but now they seem elusive, abandoned through neglect. Now I wonder. Where are the songs?
From the early days of my music making, my endless improvisations at the piano, I realize that those were my musical "blogs" ---although the concept of blogs was still decades away. These musical outpourings were personal statements that helped shape and define me in an ongoing encounter. At times they would take the forms of "shows"---crystallized with book, lyrics, and music, a more public part of my "musicing."
But there was also a secret part of me that wrote songs. These were very private and I have not really shared them to any great extent. These are songs that are music from the heart, a celebration of love and feeling. The existence of these songs has been tenuous, mostly in my mind, some notated, a number of them lost, and still others forgotten.
I have been attempting to resurrect them into some tangible form, but there are a number of problems from a technical perspective. Some are stuck in a computer without the appropriate software to leap from binary code to be deciphered as music and text. Some are stuck in my head, fragments that need to be reborn and reassembled.
Many of these were my most personal and passionate musical expressions, but now they seem elusive, abandoned through neglect. Now I wonder. Where are the songs?
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Living With Passion
Berlioz composed Symphony Fantastique as a young man deliriously in love. His loves never went smoothly, and the symphony reflected his fixation on his beloved (idee fixe) that is transformed so that she even becomes a witch in the Witches Sabbath movement who watches him lose his head at the guillotine, much to the acclaim of the crowd.
Later, in his eighties, he returns to the scene where he first fell in love with the love of his life and is so overcome with the passions of his youth that he flings his arms around the tree under which he first met her, and weeps uncontrollably. In his 80s Berlioz lived and felt intensely.
Nineteenth century artists possessed the gift of profound and passionate commitment. Passion was a way of knowing the world that penetrated facades and resonated in the depth of one's being. That may be why music was so revered by philosophers and artists of the nineteenth century: passion was somehow more genuine than intellectual discourse. Truth was revealed through passion, while the intellect would often practice deception. Contrary to popular misconceptions, passion is not blind. Passion is visionary, with a gaze that penetrates the polite and disengaged, disingenuous individuals often serve to block inspiration and action.
This intensity was an attempt to bridge the divide that was created by philosophy and science in the latter part of the eighteenth and beginnings of the nineteenth centuries. Scientific values and method demanded the deliberate divorce of feeling and reason, a state that Geoffrey Clive describes as the demonic in his book The Romantic Enlightenment.
Later, this became the a value of the twentieth century Western world and served as the foundation of all education. Thus we have been schooled to be "objective" because feelings are too subjective and personal to enter into decisions and plans for action. Yet, before this division of the human spirit, individuals were governed by a balance of mind and emotion that might have served our society well and prevented the hideous destruction of our fellow human beings during the wars of the twentieth century.
There is some evidence that passion is returning to inform our values. Our passionate engagement with the world brings us a new energy and a deep appreciation for our unique identity that shapes our sensibility and discloses truth as the ever evolving embrace of time and being and place.
Later, in his eighties, he returns to the scene where he first fell in love with the love of his life and is so overcome with the passions of his youth that he flings his arms around the tree under which he first met her, and weeps uncontrollably. In his 80s Berlioz lived and felt intensely.
Nineteenth century artists possessed the gift of profound and passionate commitment. Passion was a way of knowing the world that penetrated facades and resonated in the depth of one's being. That may be why music was so revered by philosophers and artists of the nineteenth century: passion was somehow more genuine than intellectual discourse. Truth was revealed through passion, while the intellect would often practice deception. Contrary to popular misconceptions, passion is not blind. Passion is visionary, with a gaze that penetrates the polite and disengaged, disingenuous individuals often serve to block inspiration and action.
This intensity was an attempt to bridge the divide that was created by philosophy and science in the latter part of the eighteenth and beginnings of the nineteenth centuries. Scientific values and method demanded the deliberate divorce of feeling and reason, a state that Geoffrey Clive describes as the demonic in his book The Romantic Enlightenment.
Later, this became the a value of the twentieth century Western world and served as the foundation of all education. Thus we have been schooled to be "objective" because feelings are too subjective and personal to enter into decisions and plans for action. Yet, before this division of the human spirit, individuals were governed by a balance of mind and emotion that might have served our society well and prevented the hideous destruction of our fellow human beings during the wars of the twentieth century.
There is some evidence that passion is returning to inform our values. Our passionate engagement with the world brings us a new energy and a deep appreciation for our unique identity that shapes our sensibility and discloses truth as the ever evolving embrace of time and being and place.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Groundhog Day
Today has taken on more significance for me than it should. February 2nd has become more than just a predictor of the future of winter, it has become a day of reflection and celebration, making a cameo appearance in the midst of the Chinese New Year. I realize that the film Groundhog Day has contributed to the weight of this day since that film depicts a cynical weatherman doomed to repeat this day over and over until he finally gets it right.
Groundhog Day was perhaps Bill Murray's finest film. It is a film that endures, despite many showings. Today, it seemed to emerge as a celebration that has hardly been foremost in the American Psyche of the past, as Showtime appeared to be showing it continuously throughout the day.
But for me, the added significance has been my memory of the first book I ever read: Pete, the Prairie Dog, a creature that looked surprisingly like Punxsutawney Phil. Today at around 7:30 a.m., Punxsutawney Phil emerged from his burrow and saw his shadow: six more weeks of winter! Pete, the Prairie Dog, was not a predictor of seasons, but he lived by the seasons on the prairies of the Midwest and encountered numerous threats to his survival. He had an indomitable spirit made you feel good about yourself somehow. If Pete coud do it, so could you.
Six more weeks of winter? In most of the Northeast, we have been waiting for winter to show up. Maybe the real winter is just around the corner. Even so, it has been nice to burrow in and look back on who I have become since I first encountered Pete the Prairie Dog, wondering if there will ever come a time when I finally get it right.
Groundhog Day was perhaps Bill Murray's finest film. It is a film that endures, despite many showings. Today, it seemed to emerge as a celebration that has hardly been foremost in the American Psyche of the past, as Showtime appeared to be showing it continuously throughout the day.
But for me, the added significance has been my memory of the first book I ever read: Pete, the Prairie Dog, a creature that looked surprisingly like Punxsutawney Phil. Today at around 7:30 a.m., Punxsutawney Phil emerged from his burrow and saw his shadow: six more weeks of winter! Pete, the Prairie Dog, was not a predictor of seasons, but he lived by the seasons on the prairies of the Midwest and encountered numerous threats to his survival. He had an indomitable spirit made you feel good about yourself somehow. If Pete coud do it, so could you.
Six more weeks of winter? In most of the Northeast, we have been waiting for winter to show up. Maybe the real winter is just around the corner. Even so, it has been nice to burrow in and look back on who I have become since I first encountered Pete the Prairie Dog, wondering if there will ever come a time when I finally get it right.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Baseball and Dancing: The Parades Pass Me By!
Years and years ago there was a marvelous lady in a Texas town who was a fixture and institution. She ran a dance studio that produced a yearly extravaganza seen by several thousand people. Her productions were in place of the traditional dance recitals that most dance studios do to show the development of students. But Dixie Dice was different. She was an institution, a cultural icon that transformed that Texas Town into Broadway Central at least once a year.
Every summer she would go to New York and see virtually every Broadway show, returning full of ideas for shows, borrowing a little from this and a little from that. She would write the scripts, cast the parts, and manage to involve every dance student in chorus lines, chorus scenes, and/or roles that moved the plot along.
I knew nothing of Dixie Dice when I began playing softball at the tender age of six. I went from position to position, playing third, and then finally settling in as a catcher because I had a strong and accurate arm and could throw runners out at second.
When I was about seven, a new kid joined the team. His name was Jimmy Hobbs, and Jimmy could pitch a softball so hard, it knocked me over when I first tried to catch him. Jim was strong, and I was impressed. I asked him about it.
"Dixie Dice," he said.
"What's that?" I blurted out, not sure I had heard him correctly.
"I take dance lessons with Dixie Dice."
"DANCE??!!??" I was flabbergasted. This is about the only time I have ever used that word, but it seemed to me at that moment Jimmy was possibly insane.
"Yeah, come along with me. I go every Saturday."
So I went with him to the Dixie Dice Dance Studio, and she loaned me some tap shoes. First we warmed up with exercises to make us more flexible and stronger. Then we started with flap-step routines up and down the studio, gradually increasing the tempo and adding music. Then we learned shuffle steps. I caught on fast. Dixie was impressed.
Now you should know that Dixie Dice was famous not only for her Broadway-style shows, but the local legend was that she had discovered Cyd Charisse who happened to be from our town. The legend was that Dixie Dice had taught her in ballet classes and recognized that she had star talent. All of the biographies seem to start when Cyd is about 12 or 14 and don't mention Dixie, but the legend goes so far as to claim that Dixie was responsible for getting her a start in Hollywood. It may or may not be true, but the point was that everyone in town subscribed to the local legend.
If you have never seen Cyd Charisse then you should be aware that she has been described as the most beautiful dancer ever filmed in Hollywood, and she had legs that were legends unto themselves...
My skills as a dancer over the next few years were increasing literally by leaps and bounds. Dixie's model for me was Donald O'Conner, and it was one of those "anything you can do, I can do better" fantasies that fueled my efforts, along with encouragement from Dixie Dice. If you have seen any of Donald O'Conner's tap routines, then you have an idea of what I was doing at around age ten. Of course, I am sure my fantasies must be mixing with memories to the point that I can't be too responsible, but Dixie seemed to see it and began to plot my career as a child star in Hollywood. Of course, this was the fantasy of just about every mother with a child the age of Shirley Temple. Except that Dixie wasn't my mother...or my father.
Dixie had contacts in Hollywood, and they were willing to see me. So Dixie drives to my house and meets with my parents and tells them that she is 100% certain that I could become a sensational child star. She already had some auditions line up in Hollywood.
My Dad paused and then smiled. He said, "Dixie, we love you, but there isn't a chance in hell that my son is going to Hollywood."
That was that. A promising career nipped in the bud, or should I say toe? My mother was strangely silent. I had a feeling that if it had been up to her, I might have gone.
But as for baseball, I did get a lot stronger. I became a hardball pitcher with a winning record, throwing a devasting fastball and a slider that I could aim at behind the player's back and it would break across the plate for a strike. Even threw a few no-hitters. I played softball and baseball for about nine years, but that career slipped through my fingers, so to speak.
Thinking back, it was another era, another lifetime, but I am all the richer for the fantasies that framed my younger days in a past long ago and a place that no longer exists.
Every summer she would go to New York and see virtually every Broadway show, returning full of ideas for shows, borrowing a little from this and a little from that. She would write the scripts, cast the parts, and manage to involve every dance student in chorus lines, chorus scenes, and/or roles that moved the plot along.
I knew nothing of Dixie Dice when I began playing softball at the tender age of six. I went from position to position, playing third, and then finally settling in as a catcher because I had a strong and accurate arm and could throw runners out at second.
When I was about seven, a new kid joined the team. His name was Jimmy Hobbs, and Jimmy could pitch a softball so hard, it knocked me over when I first tried to catch him. Jim was strong, and I was impressed. I asked him about it.
"Dixie Dice," he said.
"What's that?" I blurted out, not sure I had heard him correctly.
"I take dance lessons with Dixie Dice."
"DANCE??!!??" I was flabbergasted. This is about the only time I have ever used that word, but it seemed to me at that moment Jimmy was possibly insane.
"Yeah, come along with me. I go every Saturday."
So I went with him to the Dixie Dice Dance Studio, and she loaned me some tap shoes. First we warmed up with exercises to make us more flexible and stronger. Then we started with flap-step routines up and down the studio, gradually increasing the tempo and adding music. Then we learned shuffle steps. I caught on fast. Dixie was impressed.
Now you should know that Dixie Dice was famous not only for her Broadway-style shows, but the local legend was that she had discovered Cyd Charisse who happened to be from our town. The legend was that Dixie Dice had taught her in ballet classes and recognized that she had star talent. All of the biographies seem to start when Cyd is about 12 or 14 and don't mention Dixie, but the legend goes so far as to claim that Dixie was responsible for getting her a start in Hollywood. It may or may not be true, but the point was that everyone in town subscribed to the local legend.
If you have never seen Cyd Charisse then you should be aware that she has been described as the most beautiful dancer ever filmed in Hollywood, and she had legs that were legends unto themselves...
My skills as a dancer over the next few years were increasing literally by leaps and bounds. Dixie's model for me was Donald O'Conner, and it was one of those "anything you can do, I can do better" fantasies that fueled my efforts, along with encouragement from Dixie Dice. If you have seen any of Donald O'Conner's tap routines, then you have an idea of what I was doing at around age ten. Of course, I am sure my fantasies must be mixing with memories to the point that I can't be too responsible, but Dixie seemed to see it and began to plot my career as a child star in Hollywood. Of course, this was the fantasy of just about every mother with a child the age of Shirley Temple. Except that Dixie wasn't my mother...or my father.
Dixie had contacts in Hollywood, and they were willing to see me. So Dixie drives to my house and meets with my parents and tells them that she is 100% certain that I could become a sensational child star. She already had some auditions line up in Hollywood.
My Dad paused and then smiled. He said, "Dixie, we love you, but there isn't a chance in hell that my son is going to Hollywood."
That was that. A promising career nipped in the bud, or should I say toe? My mother was strangely silent. I had a feeling that if it had been up to her, I might have gone.
But as for baseball, I did get a lot stronger. I became a hardball pitcher with a winning record, throwing a devasting fastball and a slider that I could aim at behind the player's back and it would break across the plate for a strike. Even threw a few no-hitters. I played softball and baseball for about nine years, but that career slipped through my fingers, so to speak.
Thinking back, it was another era, another lifetime, but I am all the richer for the fantasies that framed my younger days in a past long ago and a place that no longer exists.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Year 4073: The Year of the Dog
Happy New Year!
The human species has been measuring time long before we had sophisticated ways of marking time. Observatories like Stonehenge were erected for precise measurements of the sun's coming and going, and solstice (sun stands still) represented moments of change, significant and portentious. To be precise, the Chinese New Year is the second new moon after the winter solstice.
The Chinese have been keeping records of these measurements longer than anyone. Since the days of their first reckonings, they have charted 4072 years and now we enter 4073, the Year of the Dog. This year is a year of transition as we have been in a cycle of metal (Metal, Water, Wood, Fire and Earth), and 2006 is the turning point from Metal cycle to Water cycle. 2006 is the last year of the metal cycle. Next year is the year of the Pig and begins the water cycle.
There are fifteen days of celebration for 4073. Each day or group of days have special cultural and personal significance.
Thus culture emerges and stakes its survival on how it notes the passing of time and the coincidence of recurring cycles. The fabric of the cosmos stretches time through the endless rotations of swirling galaxies and solar systems, ("wheels within wheels" as Ezekiel claimed in his famous revelation) the universe spinning in an infinite sarabande stretching and revolving in majestic, cataclysmic gyrations beyond our comprehension, evading all atempts to measure the immeasurable reality of being.
Renewal. Time to rethink things before the next revolution. Time to get it right this time.
The human species has been measuring time long before we had sophisticated ways of marking time. Observatories like Stonehenge were erected for precise measurements of the sun's coming and going, and solstice (sun stands still) represented moments of change, significant and portentious. To be precise, the Chinese New Year is the second new moon after the winter solstice.
The Chinese have been keeping records of these measurements longer than anyone. Since the days of their first reckonings, they have charted 4072 years and now we enter 4073, the Year of the Dog. This year is a year of transition as we have been in a cycle of metal (Metal, Water, Wood, Fire and Earth), and 2006 is the turning point from Metal cycle to Water cycle. 2006 is the last year of the metal cycle. Next year is the year of the Pig and begins the water cycle.
There are fifteen days of celebration for 4073. Each day or group of days have special cultural and personal significance.
Thus culture emerges and stakes its survival on how it notes the passing of time and the coincidence of recurring cycles. The fabric of the cosmos stretches time through the endless rotations of swirling galaxies and solar systems, ("wheels within wheels" as Ezekiel claimed in his famous revelation) the universe spinning in an infinite sarabande stretching and revolving in majestic, cataclysmic gyrations beyond our comprehension, evading all atempts to measure the immeasurable reality of being.
Renewal. Time to rethink things before the next revolution. Time to get it right this time.
Friday, January 27, 2006
A Decade Later: A Remarkable Choe Sang Cheul
I remember him as an intense young Asian who was a dancer and choreographer. I remember him as a young man engaged in research, already an artist on a journey, the first man in Korea to earn a Ph.D. in dance, blazing a trail just as the subject of his research Sung-Hee Choi pioneered Korean modern dance, in spite of the Japanese Occupation. In 1946 she defected to North Korea with her husband who was a writer and lived in exile after her husband lost power in that regime. The division of Korea into two forces polarized by political ideologies is perhaps the greatest unresolved political and cultural tragedy and travesty of modern times. All of this brought to my awareness through my work with Sang C
huel as I served to mentor him through this research and writing.I remember the momentous occasion of his oral defense in 1996 and his return to Korea and then to Arizona... losing touch, but keeping track of him through others. His presence as a memory began fading like worn pages of a classic book or the vanishing image of a photograph as the emulsion surrenders to time and ultimately dissipates into nothingness.
Then after all these years Sang Chuel calls and says he will be in New York on Friday.
Fast flash forward ten years to 2006 as I sit across from a distinctive and elegant individual whose demeanor embodies his remarkable journey as an artist. Impressive. He has fought through difficulties and persevered. He has collaborated with major artists, film directors, musicians, and composers to create major contemporary multimedia works such as Red Swan and Black Angel. Despite his artistic success, it isn't hasn't been an easy entry into Korean Academia. In some ways, his artistic vision and success, along with his Ph.D. in dance, have made him seem something of a threat to others on the faculty and administration. He has had greater success teaching in the United States, but his heart and his mission is with dance in Korea which has a rich tradition and enormous promise for the future. He is determined to have a voice in that future.
What makes my experience of his return so extraordinary is the many layers of development that accompany him, that cling to him like an artistic aura. We did not talk that much about his work, but it was resonating in every word and gesture. I could see that he had transformed his proclivities as a researcher into an inner inquiry, an inner searching out of values and ideas that would inform his creative work. There is a burning energy that uncovers the ideas as poetic revelations translated into movement, gesture, music, and image.
He is in New York to discuss showing his work at White Wave, a showcase for contemporary dance, located in DUMBO (Down Under Manhattan Bridge Overpass) at the John Ryan Theatre, which has been responsible for introducing more than 2000 dance companies from all over the world to New York City. It creates a new challenge for him since the works that would be practical to bring may need to be much smaller in scale, compared to the monumental multimedia works he has choreographed and produced in Korea. Whatever materializes as the dance works for White Wave will be distinctive. They will bear the imprint of a mature artist entering a new and important phase of his work. They will be remarkable.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
A Classic for Our Time: Viola Enluarada
A dear friend gave me an extraordinary album of Brazilian musicians, Bossa Entre Amigos, that features Bossa Nova artists Roberto Menescal, Wanda Sa, Marcos Valle, and other guests in a live concert in 2002, which tells us that 2002 was a very good year. What I didn't expect was to encounter a life-changing idea and become deeply engrossed in the beauty and depth of the text and music of a song "Viola enluarada" composed by Marcos Valle and his brother Paulo Sérgio Valle.
My friend tells me that in Brazil viola refers to the acoustic guitar. Violas are used for serenades, to accompany songs at parties, and other musical occasions. It is part of the soul of Brazil and contributes in unique ways to the musical culture. Viola enluarada was composed in the 60s in the context of Bossa Nova but transcends the genre to become a classic statement of the human spirit. Enluarada has no real English equivalent but means "moonlightened."
Bathed in moonlight we can see the world differently, intuiting that the challenges of life are not as sharply etched as we might think. Love, music, liberty, life and death embrace us in the breath of a single moment. Listening to this recording brings a rebirth and renaissance as we realize that no matter what we face, the freedom of the human spirit triumphs over all the claims of power and destruction. This has been the experience of the Brazilians, and the rise of Capoeira (martial art, dance, and music) as a response to slavery and brutality, attests to the resiliency of a people who have suffered much adversity and yet remain full of hope, as well as being among the most innately musical beings of our species.
My friend very kindly provided a literal translation of the Portuguese. The texture and resonance of the words are inseparable from the music, and Marcos Valle's phrasing will astonish you with its subtlety and sensitive stretching of time that lives in counterpoint to a simple but eloquent harmonic commentary.
Na mão que toca o violão
In the hand that plays the guitar
Se for preciso faz a guerra
if needed [(it) notes the war
Mata o mundo, fere a terra
kills the world, hurts the earth
Na voz que canta uma canção
In the voice that sings a song,
Se for preciso canta o hino
if needed, (it) sings the anthem,
Louva à morte
praises death
No sertão é como espada
in the countryside, it's like a sword,
Viola e noite enluarada
moonlight viola, moonlight night
Esperança de vingança
hope of revenge.
No mesmo pé que dança o samba
In the same foot that dances the samba
Se preciso vai à luta
if needed, (it) goes to fight
Capoeira
Capoeira
Quem tem de noite a companheira
(the one) who lies, at night, his companion (fem.)
Sabe que a paz é passageira
knows that peace is transitory
Prá defendê-la se levanta
To defend her (peace/companion)
E grita: Eu vou!
(it) stands up and shouts: I go (I will)
Mão, violão, canção, espada
Hand, Guitar, Song, Sword
E viola enluarada
and Moonlight Viola
Pelo campo, e cidade
through the country-side and the city
Porta bandeira, capoeira
Porta bandeira, capoeira
Desfilando vão cantando
in the parade (refers to carnival) they sing
Liberdade
Freedom
Liberdade, liberdade...
Freedom, Freedom
My friend tells me that in Brazil viola refers to the acoustic guitar. Violas are used for serenades, to accompany songs at parties, and other musical occasions. It is part of the soul of Brazil and contributes in unique ways to the musical culture. Viola enluarada was composed in the 60s in the context of Bossa Nova but transcends the genre to become a classic statement of the human spirit. Enluarada has no real English equivalent but means "moonlightened."
Bathed in moonlight we can see the world differently, intuiting that the challenges of life are not as sharply etched as we might think. Love, music, liberty, life and death embrace us in the breath of a single moment. Listening to this recording brings a rebirth and renaissance as we realize that no matter what we face, the freedom of the human spirit triumphs over all the claims of power and destruction. This has been the experience of the Brazilians, and the rise of Capoeira (martial art, dance, and music) as a response to slavery and brutality, attests to the resiliency of a people who have suffered much adversity and yet remain full of hope, as well as being among the most innately musical beings of our species.
My friend very kindly provided a literal translation of the Portuguese. The texture and resonance of the words are inseparable from the music, and Marcos Valle's phrasing will astonish you with its subtlety and sensitive stretching of time that lives in counterpoint to a simple but eloquent harmonic commentary.
Na mão que toca o violão
In the hand that plays the guitar
Se for preciso faz a guerra
if needed [(it) notes the war
Mata o mundo, fere a terra
kills the world, hurts the earth
Na voz que canta uma canção
In the voice that sings a song,
Se for preciso canta o hino
if needed, (it) sings the anthem,
Louva à morte
praises death
No sertão é como espada
in the countryside, it's like a sword,
Viola e noite enluarada
moonlight viola, moonlight night
Esperança de vingança
hope of revenge.
No mesmo pé que dança o samba
In the same foot that dances the samba
Se preciso vai à luta
if needed, (it) goes to fight
Capoeira
Capoeira
Quem tem de noite a companheira
(the one) who lies, at night, his companion (fem.)
Sabe que a paz é passageira
knows that peace is transitory
Prá defendê-la se levanta
To defend her (peace/companion)
E grita: Eu vou!
(it) stands up and shouts: I go (I will)
Mão, violão, canção, espada
Hand, Guitar, Song, Sword
E viola enluarada
and Moonlight Viola
Pelo campo, e cidade
through the country-side and the city
Porta bandeira, capoeira
Porta bandeira, capoeira
Desfilando vão cantando
in the parade (refers to carnival) they sing
Liberdade
Freedom
Liberdade, liberdade...
Freedom, Freedom
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Sand Beneath My Feet
growing up on the plains of texas, i was afforded brilliant sunsets that dominated the sky at the horizon which was framed by a flat praire as vast as the ocean. i never saw the ocean until i was about 20 years of age, when i saw the gulf of mexico from the shores of galveston...
it was an inspiring sight, and when i went to new york for graduate study, i made friends with the atlantic ocean from maine to florida, always finding ways to spend some time at beaches in maine, provincetown, new york city and the outer shores of the carolinas (which may gave been my favorite place to connect with the ocean...)
the ocean provided a sense of source, a relentless presence that whispered and roared, and the message seemed to be that of pure existence, unfolding in a ceaseless dialogue of wind and sea...
the thrill of the sand beneath my feet, my feet pressing into the sand with footprints shaping a journey that would soon vanish with the tide... connected with the primary force of being, as though the shore was a pathway to the cosmos... time, rather than an inevitable thrusting forward. was more like the back and forth pulsing of the ocean, an ebb and flow that made an elastic texture of the past and the future...
it was an inspiring sight, and when i went to new york for graduate study, i made friends with the atlantic ocean from maine to florida, always finding ways to spend some time at beaches in maine, provincetown, new york city and the outer shores of the carolinas (which may gave been my favorite place to connect with the ocean...)
the ocean provided a sense of source, a relentless presence that whispered and roared, and the message seemed to be that of pure existence, unfolding in a ceaseless dialogue of wind and sea...
the thrill of the sand beneath my feet, my feet pressing into the sand with footprints shaping a journey that would soon vanish with the tide... connected with the primary force of being, as though the shore was a pathway to the cosmos... time, rather than an inevitable thrusting forward. was more like the back and forth pulsing of the ocean, an ebb and flow that made an elastic texture of the past and the future...
Saturday, January 21, 2006
When I Grow Too Old To Dream
In 1934 Sigmund Romberg and Oscar Hammerstein II teamed up in Hollywood to provide music for the film The Night is Young and penned a beautiful ballad waltz "When I Grow Too Old to Dream," which became a standard with a life of its own.
When I grow too old to dream
I'll have you to remember.
When I grow too old to dream
Your love will live in my heart.
So kiss me, my sweet,
And so let us part,
And when I grow too old to dream
That kiss will live in my heart.
I remember thinking when I first heard this song in the 50s that I was puzzled as to when such a time would arrive as a desperate state of the human condition. Is there really a time when we cease to dream, when the imagination dies, and we are totally resigned to some sort of emptiness and despair?
The song is about parting, and the melody is is beautifully crafted and elegantly inspired, and yet I feel that if anything, the lyrics are a testament to the power of the human spirit...how does that kiss continue to "live in my heart" except as a dream-like presence, and consciousness of remembrance, for dreams are born as much of memories as they are of hope.
My father in his advancing years confided to me that inside he felt exactly as he did when he was a young man. He didn't recognize "that old man" that people were addressing as himself. His dreams and aspirations were as vibrant as ever. He never grew too old to dream and neither have I. Dreams are the stuff that have been the substance and driving force of my life. Sorry, Oscar!
When I grow too old to dream
I'll have you to remember.
When I grow too old to dream
Your love will live in my heart.
So kiss me, my sweet,
And so let us part,
And when I grow too old to dream
That kiss will live in my heart.
I remember thinking when I first heard this song in the 50s that I was puzzled as to when such a time would arrive as a desperate state of the human condition. Is there really a time when we cease to dream, when the imagination dies, and we are totally resigned to some sort of emptiness and despair?
The song is about parting, and the melody is is beautifully crafted and elegantly inspired, and yet I feel that if anything, the lyrics are a testament to the power of the human spirit...how does that kiss continue to "live in my heart" except as a dream-like presence, and consciousness of remembrance, for dreams are born as much of memories as they are of hope.
My father in his advancing years confided to me that inside he felt exactly as he did when he was a young man. He didn't recognize "that old man" that people were addressing as himself. His dreams and aspirations were as vibrant as ever. He never grew too old to dream and neither have I. Dreams are the stuff that have been the substance and driving force of my life. Sorry, Oscar!
Friday, January 20, 2006
A Night in Koreatown
what could be more fun than a nght out with two kindred artistic souls in the heart of koreatown, nyc...koreatown (or k-town, as it is often called) clusters around the 34th street area between fifth and park avenues with the "main" streets being 32nd, 33rd, and 35th. we met at a country style korean restaurant known as Cho Dang Gol inhabited by a lively and animated korean clientele, beautiful people, and i felt like an extra in a glamorous korean soap opera...
to quote one of the reviews:
Elegant and Earthy Korean foodinside the restaurant, you feel as though you have been transported to korea through some magical spacewarp. the countryside atmosphere dominates, and the walls are decorated with ancient traditional korean musical instruments. all around korean words are bouncing around in music-like bursts, passionate and engaged in the moment of friday nightlife...
Cho Dang Gol is not your typical new york korean restaurant. There is an elegance and artfulness to the food. It is "country style" food. Their tofu dishes are wonderful, and you can really taste that their tofu is superior. They have the best rice, which doesn't sound like a big deal, but you notice it, and it comes in a hot stone pot, which you can request them to pour hot tea in and you have a nice treat waiting at the end of your meal. This restaurant puts care into their food. Highly recommeded. They have soul.
my two korean companions, a painter and a composer, were introducing me to this restaurant, and in fact i was a guest of the painter who had recently opened a new exhibition at the june taylor gallery in soho. the two had been friends for several years and i was introduced to the painter by the composer...
our conversation was wide-ranging: seoul (the new city and old city), the difficulties of maintaining a career in the arts... i was interested in pursuing the elements of the painter's spiritual qualities as manifest in her work, and her approach to painting. i was not surprised to discover that that she actually painted her works quickly, but that each work goes through considerable gestation of the idea and the means to implement the images and texture, to discover the painting through a deep personal questioning...
the meal was a feast of indigineous tastes with assorted kimchi, and small fried korean pancakes each with a special texture and taste as appetizers, and then a special caserole cooked at the table that included pork, squid, tofu, scallions, and assorted vegetables, simmered with care and served with fresh leaves of lettuce, sesame, and steamed cabbage. you picked small portions from the cassarole dish and wrapped them in the various leaves, including bits of sauce and kimchi seasoning... no need to hurry...creatively indulge yourself in so many variations, like etudes for the taste buds...
i learned that koreans like to engage in a moveable feast as we left Cho Dang Gol for a popular k-town dessert and beverage place on 32nd street, walking along 6th avenue, i was energized by the cosmopolitan atmosphere of new york city and this burgeoning area of little korea...
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Darwin, Capitalism, and Survival of the Fittest
No matter what your position might be about Charles Darwin and Evolution, you can't escape the fact that Darwin "theory" has been promoted with such a vengeance that if you are critical of the science and the theory you are branded and ostracized from the "legitimate" community of thinkers and scholars.
Many are not aware that Charles Darwin was among the wealthiest men in the world and had the audience and commitment of royalty and the wealthiest financiers. "Natural selection" and "survival of the fittest" became the rallying point for fierce and often brutal displays of competition.
Certainly, I think most of us resonate with Darwin's theory of evolution because we perceive in our own growth and development our personal adaptation to difficulties encountered. We see our own spiritual journey in terms of a personal evolution, a romanticization of the tale told by Darwin.
It is indeed "a brave new world." But can we survive ourselves, or is this best strategy to create the best of all possible societies? It would seem to me that this notion of "survival of the fittest" has become the driving principle behind the greatest and smallest conflicts confronting us today.
Many are not aware that Charles Darwin was among the wealthiest men in the world and had the audience and commitment of royalty and the wealthiest financiers. "Natural selection" and "survival of the fittest" became the rallying point for fierce and often brutal displays of competition.
A review of the writings of several leading "robber baron" capitalists shows that many of them were influenced by the Darwinian view that the strong eventually will overcome the weak. Their faith in Darwinism helped them to justify this view as morally right and completely natural. As a result, they thought that their ruthless (and often unethical or even illegal) business practices were justified by science, and that Darwinist concepts and conclusions were an inevitable part of the "unfolding of history," and for this reason were justified.What has disturbed me is that the emergence of "winning at all costs" has become the prevailing value pushed by the media, and the notion of caring for and protecting the unfortunate has become more of an obligation for those fortunate celebrities to do some fund-raising in order to justify their own exploitation of modern values. Underlying this is our embracing of Darwin's theory as science, as an expression of the reality of existence and an inevitable, irresistible force that moves toward "perfection of the species."Darwin's Influence on Ruthless Laissez-Faire Capitalism
by Jerry Bergman, Ph.D.
After Darwin's 1859 Origin of Species, he twelve years later wrote a second book that was read and gasped at in the drawing rooms of Boston and New York and, really, all over the world. What Darwin said in Descent of Man was simply this: that if the good breeding stock, which was really a small fraction of everybody, crossbred with the common breeding stock – 'the evolutionary dead ends' – what would happen is evolution would march backwards into the swirling mists of the dawnless past. ...when I hear the term '‘social Darwinism'’ ...I know that I'm in the presence of a whitewash created by a number of powerful academic voices who wish to leave Darwin off the hook. The greatest and first of all the social Darwinists was Darwin himself. Rather than being a ‘scientist', Darwin was one of a handful of the wealthiest men on planet Earth. How come not a single book bothers to mention it? Darwin was supremely wealthy, and he associated with kings and princes and people of substance. So when Darwin spoke, it wasn't like a professor raising his squeaky voice at an ed. conference. He was talking to people who had control of societies under their hands. And Darwin was the one who said it would be immoral to allow this evolutionary dead end stock to crossbreed with the good stuff.Seeing this new value emerge in the media with "survivor" and other so-called reality shows and underscored by the media's obsession with sports and the glorfication of champion athletes as the emergence of a new superior species has been disconcerting, especially since there seems to be no cultural awareness or concern of this fundamental shift in human values.An Interview With John Taylor Gatto on The Weekend Interview Show with Philip Dru, Administrator September 6, 2003
Certainly, I think most of us resonate with Darwin's theory of evolution because we perceive in our own growth and development our personal adaptation to difficulties encountered. We see our own spiritual journey in terms of a personal evolution, a romanticization of the tale told by Darwin.
It is indeed "a brave new world." But can we survive ourselves, or is this best strategy to create the best of all possible societies? It would seem to me that this notion of "survival of the fittest" has become the driving principle behind the greatest and smallest conflicts confronting us today.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Shelling Corn
somehow, almost mysteriously, i started improvising at the piano when i was about 9 years old. i had a sharp musical memory and could remember anything i played, even if i had been playing for hours. my early "compositions" were drawn from this memory and given a name which i would play on music participation days, or i would just improvise a new piece on the spot. it never occuurred to me that i might not be able to do this, and so i was fearless in front of small audiences when at the piano...
my father had grown up on a farm in oklahoma. he was among the youngest in a large family, and consequently when he was given chores to do, he was by-passed for some of the more responsible tasks, and usually given the most time-consuming and boring jobs on the farm: shelling corn. You would sit for hours taking ears of corn, stripping off the husks, and shredding the kernels of corn into bushel baskets, ear after ear... for my dad, this was the most meaningless way of biding time...
many times i would come home from school and sit at the piano, improvising well into the late evening. on weekends, i often spent four or five hours at the piano. what was a source of amazement was that new musical ideas were born in each session, and i could remember them indefinitely...
i am not sure what was actually taking place during these years which stretched from elementary days until my last year in junior high. undoubtedly a process that was stretching my capacity for abstract thinking was deepening and maturing... i have often thought that music is a form of abstract thinking, yet really deeper than what we usually associate with "thinking." It is more than "problem-solving" which is where much of the literature has developed in an attempt to objectify and "research" the creative process... it is venturing into nothingness and pulling from the silence an entity...bringing something into being for the first time and in the profound pause of that moment....
improvising for long periods at the piano was almost a ritual. my father was absolutely mystified by this activity which seemed to him to be an extraordinary waste of time...
consequently, when my friends were looking for me and would see my dad working in the yard, they would ask "where's your son?" he would pause and then reply, oh he's inside, shelling corn..."
my father had grown up on a farm in oklahoma. he was among the youngest in a large family, and consequently when he was given chores to do, he was by-passed for some of the more responsible tasks, and usually given the most time-consuming and boring jobs on the farm: shelling corn. You would sit for hours taking ears of corn, stripping off the husks, and shredding the kernels of corn into bushel baskets, ear after ear... for my dad, this was the most meaningless way of biding time...
many times i would come home from school and sit at the piano, improvising well into the late evening. on weekends, i often spent four or five hours at the piano. what was a source of amazement was that new musical ideas were born in each session, and i could remember them indefinitely...
i am not sure what was actually taking place during these years which stretched from elementary days until my last year in junior high. undoubtedly a process that was stretching my capacity for abstract thinking was deepening and maturing... i have often thought that music is a form of abstract thinking, yet really deeper than what we usually associate with "thinking." It is more than "problem-solving" which is where much of the literature has developed in an attempt to objectify and "research" the creative process... it is venturing into nothingness and pulling from the silence an entity...bringing something into being for the first time and in the profound pause of that moment....
improvising for long periods at the piano was almost a ritual. my father was absolutely mystified by this activity which seemed to him to be an extraordinary waste of time...
consequently, when my friends were looking for me and would see my dad working in the yard, they would ask "where's your son?" he would pause and then reply, oh he's inside, shelling corn..."
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Cassandra Before Blogs
the internet is scarcely a decade old in terms of popular use.personal computing started to become a strong factor around 1995, and up until that time the internet was largely a text-based means for sharing research and information. images (gif and jpg) were added in the late 80s and sound soon followed, although it took a number of years before mp3 compression made sound the catalyst that spurred intense internet development and demands for massive downloading. it seems fitting that music was such a driving force for the explosive expansion of the world-wide-web...
now the internet could be read, seen, and heard --- a virtual world was emerging. becoming even more visually sophisticated, browsers can now display video with several popular players like quicktime, windows media player, and realplayer (realmedia).
this was of enormous interest to me since i was involved in creating multimedia theatre, and the internet offered a new and effective platform for assimilating the media and long-distance sharing and exchange...
i was one of the principal participants and leaders of a multimedia creative interactive research experiment based on cassandra, the ill-fated prophetess of ancient troy who was doomed to suffer because apollo granted her the ability to see the future and then put a curse on her that no one would believe her prophesies after she rejected apollo's love...
our research media experiment that took place december, 1996 involved a choreographer and dancers in vancouver, a director and actors in a small theatre classroom at a university in new york, and composers and musicians at a loft in greenwich village. all were connected to the internet. each site created improvisations of 30 seconds to a minute which were posted on the internet and then each site created improvisations utilizing the materials posted by each site in response to the improvisations of each site. such were the limitations of bandwidth at the time. this media improvisation continued over a span of two hours. later a live stage production was created using these materials, and a version of this multimedia production toured europe...
cassandra continued to be the focus of our multimedia exchanges and development for about four years. the theme deeped and cassandra became the prototype feminist, the first of modern women, a strong figure of great intellect and passion. we were influenced by the east german writer christa wolf who discloses cassandra's passion and thoughts in her Cassandra: A Novel and Four Essays. the author reveals cassandra's secret love and husband, aeneas, who becomes the only male survivor of the destruction of troy. this material not only fueled our creation of works around the theme of cassandra, but started a new set of productions exploring the end of the ancient world (troy) and the founding of the modern world (rome) through the adventures of aeneas.
christa wolf's extraordinary publication could serve as a model for creative inquiry and research. it provides the novel and the experiences and research that the author encountered in her writing of cassandra...
Monday, January 16, 2006
An Odyssey
about a decade ago i was engaged in a project that was a theatrical retelling of the odyssey in words and music through a workshop production...
yes, i know that this has been done, but in some ways all of us have to come to grips with our own personal journeys. the odyssey is a perfect touchstone for this adventure. each of us must come home, if we only knew where home was or what home actually is...
the project culminated in a first act in which ulysses arrived home safely...this first act was about two hours...
we never got to the second act. mostly because i was discovering that the ulysses story had been rewritten from an earlier version based on a matriarchal society... this had come to my attention through the performer who was playing the lead role of ulysses and had been researching the background of homer's work...
even though transformed into a patriarcal model by homer, the odyssey is all about strong women, women in control, and men at the mercy of women whether they be sexy, scary, beguiling, wise, intellectual, or powerful. homer slips up in the end, because although ulysses father, king laertes, is still alive, penelope is the real power, which is why she has so many suitors vying to replace the absent ulysses... why would this be so since the king is still alive? the emergence of homer's odyssey appears to take place during the transition from pelasgian matriarchy to greek-aryan patriarchy, and even scholars today acknowledge that there must be antecedents to the homeric epic....
consequently, i could no longer adhere to a more traditional interpretation and dramatization of this classic...
i would rather have explored the odyssey in its matriarchal context, especially since i believe we might be on the verge of a new world order based on the values of a matriarchal society... there is substantial research that describes the matriarchal origins of societies living around the black sea, as well as their african connections (which provides an additional layer of meaning for fresh interpretation)...
yes, i know that this has been done, but in some ways all of us have to come to grips with our own personal journeys. the odyssey is a perfect touchstone for this adventure. each of us must come home, if we only knew where home was or what home actually is...
the project culminated in a first act in which ulysses arrived home safely...this first act was about two hours...
we never got to the second act. mostly because i was discovering that the ulysses story had been rewritten from an earlier version based on a matriarchal society... this had come to my attention through the performer who was playing the lead role of ulysses and had been researching the background of homer's work...
even though transformed into a patriarcal model by homer, the odyssey is all about strong women, women in control, and men at the mercy of women whether they be sexy, scary, beguiling, wise, intellectual, or powerful. homer slips up in the end, because although ulysses father, king laertes, is still alive, penelope is the real power, which is why she has so many suitors vying to replace the absent ulysses... why would this be so since the king is still alive? the emergence of homer's odyssey appears to take place during the transition from pelasgian matriarchy to greek-aryan patriarchy, and even scholars today acknowledge that there must be antecedents to the homeric epic....
consequently, i could no longer adhere to a more traditional interpretation and dramatization of this classic...
i would rather have explored the odyssey in its matriarchal context, especially since i believe we might be on the verge of a new world order based on the values of a matriarchal society... there is substantial research that describes the matriarchal origins of societies living around the black sea, as well as their african connections (which provides an additional layer of meaning for fresh interpretation)...
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