Lightning

Lightning is the universe energizing the earth, the dynamism of solar forces ripping through the fabric of the planet with dazzling vigor. It is more than just the discharge of negative and positive ions, and we are just now learning that although we have regarded the earth as self-contained eco-system, it is deeply and tangibly affected by the many forces in the solar system, the galaxies, and the universe. We simply have lacked the means to detect and measure such energy. My intuition is that lightning will be discovered as one way of capturing and renewing energies of the earth. Energy flows into the atmosphere from outer space and finally is released through turbulent storms of lightning. Yes, I know this is counter to conventional wisdom, but I have detected acknowledgements here and there of forces from outerspace impacting on the eco-system of the globe in ways not yet fully understood.

The other evening we were treated to a brilliant lightning storm. Looking north from the apartment, we could see the storm approaching, see the flashes of lighting in the distance, and hear the far away rumbling of thunder. The flashes created arcs across the sky and tumbled down to the earth in multiple jagged spears that disappeared behind the skyline.

As the storm approached, the thunder grew louder and the lightning spears more intense in electrifying incandescence. Don't say that lightning never strikes twice, as I watched the Empire State building absorb several bolts, so fierce that I thought I could feel the electricity coursing down through the wires to the ground.

What was so fascinating about this display? There is no question that the discharge of such power evokes our riveted attention. But equally attractive is the unpredictability of the moment. Anticipating the next strike, you hang on the quiet pauses in between (I call them pausations), and when the storm is upon us, we feel each crashing intrusion into the moment as an explosion, an invasion that crashes through us as a visceral blow. Somehow our environment has become an awesome bully, threatening us to take note of our place or face instant extinction.

I have noticed that as science and technology have attained greater influence on our thinking, a cult of extinction has emerged. The new priests look ahead to the death of planets, the death of stars, the death of the universe itself. Extinction is the natural order. It was time for the dinosaurs to die, and soon, we will lose the moon, or be destroyed by a random rolling stone from the asteroid belt, or the sun will spear us with a devastating flare.

Our fate is sealed, or so the new high priests of science and technology would have us believe. And yet, even as we think we know everything, we may have entered an enormous Dark Age in which too much information is more stifling than no information. We have always had the doomsdayer, who like Robert Herrick reminds us that the time for living is Now and only Now:

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.

Yet, I know that even now, our concepts of the universe, generated from shopworn equations in physics are giving way to perceptions of parallel universes and the existence of time before the big bang.

Maybe there is hope for us yet.

Beyond Borders

Although some favorite places for me are "used" bookstores such as Strands or the Mercer Street Bookstore, an even headier afternoon is spent at new bookstores. Borders is nearby, so is Barnes & Noble, and Shakespeare & Company Booksellers. Although Shakespeare's remains in the vein of a classical bookstore, Barnes & Noble and Borders are a new breed, a kind of comfortable library for browsing in the hopes that we will decide to buy. In many communities, these bookstores become cultural meeting places and have served to underscore the importance of books in our lives. If anything, digital technology has made the book format even more popular and readily available.

Walking into such a place, seeing the Starbucks-like atmosphere, people lounging in easy chairs and sofas with stacks of books, others in the coffee-shop area with stacks of books on tables and lattes in hand, makes me want to read everything at once. First the titles beckon, urging me to discover their hidden meanings, and artwork abounds with seductive shapes and colors. I grow drunk with expectation.

I attack the books randomly, going first to the tables filled with new fiction. I open a book to some random page and begin reading, after several paragraphs or pages, depending on how the prose grabs me, I go on to another book, and another book... a literal infusion of words, a transfusion of prose, an array of styles, all coming together with abrupt swiftness and opening my mind, expanding me to places beyond... Time is suspended and I am immersed in the miracle of writing... transported beyond the borders of my own confines into the minds and sensibilities of many authors.

There are so many new and good writers, all deserving to be read. Such great styles, and so many ways to invent new worlds. I carry out these maneuvers every Saturday in some unsuspecting frontier of literature. The words lay between covers, waiting to ignite the passions of browsers, to convert them to readers and advocates. Words and phrases are waiting to unleash the energy of the imagination in countless ways. And I am poisd on the brink of new adventures all erupting beyond the borders of my mind.

"I Don't Know": The Genius of Kim Myung Sook

I Do Not Know
Poem by Han Yong-un performed by Youngju Kang


I have commented on this beautiful poem in an earlier blog, "I Do Not Know." Now I will describe a work of art that has subsequently emerged from this poem, the creation of Kim Myung Sook, an inspired dance that relies on the poem as a point of departure and celebrates the Korean experience, identity, and the fabric of life as humans existing as elemental earth. Recently the Korean government gave a special award to Dr. Kim for the outstanding contrbution of this work to Korean culture.

This remarkable artist has painted a masterpiece of dance where movement unfolds like brushstrokes and choreographic calligraphy... her dance group is Nuhui, a dance troup that has served as the canvas for Kim's explorations of movement, color, space, and structure. Kim has fashioned a cultural icon in her realization of the poem, extracting profound elements of Zen Buddhism to explore the essence of the poem and the spirituality of the Korean Psyche.

Kim has always had a sensitive eye, designing her own graphics and controlling every nuance of color and costume much as the great film director Antonioni. Her choreography frequently takes on the vocabulary of cinema, and Kim often creates video versions of the dances that employ cinematic effects such as cross dissolve and superimposed images.

This new work is closely related to the narrative structure of Han Yong-un's poem. As we listen to the performance of the poem, we can hear the textures and rhythms that find their way into movement and sound. Youngju Kang's eloquent rendering of Han's poem creates a sense of wonder and awe, and the sheer beauty of the language permeates our sensibiity in a profound awareness of mystery and revelation.

Here is a synopsis of the dance structure:
Prologue.
Dancers : Kim Yul Hee, Pak Koung Eun, Kim Whal Ran, Bea Jin Yl, Lee Jung Min, Lee Eun Jung, Lee Yoon Kyoung, O Ji Young, Kim Yuen Hee, Yoon Ji Yang. Musician : Son Bum Ju playing a reed instrument (sort of traditional pipe)
Act I. [Sae Oul] - green fountain from east / sound of water and rainfall...
Dancers : Yoon Jueng Min, Kim Yul Hee, Pak Koung Eun, Kim Whal Ran, Bea Jin Yl, Lee Jung Min, Lee Eun Jung
Act II. [Mu Ji Gae Sal] - over the rainbow / Gayageum
Act III. [Nat Dal] - moon rising in the afternoon / Voice
Act IV. [Mu Geoung Ji Hea] - everlasting being / Korean traditional fiddle (violin)

Prologue -- Kim draws upon an austere palette for sound, the sounds of an ancient windpipe, as though summoning the spirit of Korea to attend a celebration. Sun Bum Ju produces an inspired melody that penetrates and envelops the emptiness. The dancers awaken to discover themselves in the midst of antiquity merging with the present..not only awaken but seem to be created out of the mists and textures of the infinite moment. The sounds of the windpipe are evocative, as though Silence itself had discovered its own true voice. The music fades into darkness dissolved by a steady, refreshing rain.

Act I -- The rain brings new images of dancers around fountains flowing from some infinite wellspring... the dancers are vertical with an outstretched arms extending their reach as though gathering the rain. The way they surround the fountains evokes the image of a temple, the guardians of the flowing force of life...Sounds of distant thunder welcome the ritual, the quiet celebration of an undefined presence... the rain yields to the sound of water flowing...


Act II -- a cascade of sounds, the ancient harplike sounds of the Kayageum spill through the space while a lone traditional flute soars through the texture like a rainbow. Flowing water in fountains sustain us, the ebb and flow of life reach to the source of our identity in a cold and alien universe. The water welcomes us, nourishes us, delights in our delight. A swirl of sound encasing the flute...dancers swirling...lingering...in final gestures of celebration...a final touch of the fountain... withdrawing and fading into the clouds concealing a revelation...

Act III -- Wind and the sound of the surf rip through the terrain, the dancers run forward like the wind sweeping the ocean... and in the wind we hear the voice of I Don't Know, the text now transformed into a profound prayer in a most expressive and sustained performance, beautifully drawn out in a flowing musical line sustained by the wind and waves in lingering counterpoint.The dancers attend the poem in awe as worshippers of the source of wonder... reaching a sense of supreme ecstacy... above, butteflies hover in evocation of an endless sky...

Act IV -- A harbor bell sounds in the night... we see the ocean in the distance and the waves upon the beach, accompanied by the incessant sounds of the surf... almost imperceptibly we see the dawn slowly glowing and dancers emerging from the ocean like life itself...the dancers are part of the ocean... a Korean fiddle creates a soliloquy with the surf, a comment on the mystery and awe of the night, the endless ocean, and the slowly emerging enlightenment of the dawn... a light in the center of the stage flickers through the shadows and movements of the dancers and we sense this to be the source of ourselves, forever enclosed within our wonder and embrace... and yet, in the enveloping darkness our wonder continues and echoes... I Do Not Know... I Do Not Know... I Do Not Know...

The sculpture work of You, Young-kyo is inspired, the stone pools and butterflies add to the spiritual presence of the work. The composer and music director Hwang, Byoung-ki helps set the musical texture that melds with the layers of visual richness and structured movement.

Yuoul, the Kayageum ensemble, adds color and antiquity to the over all impression of sound. The sound design by Kim, Tae-gun establishes an ambience that envelops in the dance in the resonance of rain, wind, thunder, and silence. The baritone Sin Kyoung-ok provided one of the most remarkable performances in his singing of the poem, an inspired and inspiring performance. The poem was set to music by Hwang, Byoung-ki(he put the rhythm on the poem as lylic song). Jeung, Soo-nyun's Korean fiddle cuts through the surf and wind of the final movement like a spontaneous prayer. These artists and the dancers provided an extraordinary immediacy that transformed the many parts into an integral whole.

Kim Myung Sook has created a tour de force of movement, sound, and shape that provides a framework of introspection and revelation. The dancers combine with the musicians, the sculptor, the sound and light designers to weave an inspired tapestry of a work that fuses the past and present, the unique with the universal. The grace, agility, and sheer virtuosity of the dancers is tempered by the deep respect bestowed upon the work by these performing artists. Each dancer establishes a distinct individual quality while contributing to the whole.

Kim does not attempt to answer the questions of the poem. She goes beneath the answers to the essence of the questions themselves and provides insights into the fundamental resonance of ourselves within the world that is our dwelling place.

159 Years of Liederkranz

Liederkranz of the City of New York presented its 159th annual concert and gala evening on Saturday, May 20th. This is a venerable cultural club of the kind that began to emerge in the United States during the middle and late 19th century. Liederkranz was founded in 1847 as a male choral society. Now it has spanned the 19th and 20th centuries, and emerges in the 21st century as a full society of men and women with male and female choruses that also combine as a mixed choir. The purpose continues to celebrate German culture, but also promotes musical talent through competitions, scholarships, recitals, and concerts involving musicians from around the world.

The concert featured the combined chorus and the men's and women's groups, along with the New York Concert Opera Chamber Orchestra, led by their talented and resourceful music director, Dr. Ulrich Hartung. Not only did he direct the chorus, but he was also responsible for a number of the orchestral settings and choral arrangements.

The chorus has approximately fifty members, and Dr. Hartung was masterful in leading them through an ambitious and delightful program. Although the chorus is no longer the dominant choral organization in the city, the performances were sensitive and musical. One highlight of the evening was the winner of the Liederkranz vocal competition, Mari Moriya, who is joining the MET in several roles including Queen of the Night in Die Zauberflöte. Her performance of Der Hölle Rache was simply stunning for its clarity, range, and power. The chamber orchestra led by Hartung provided a spirited performance of Die Zauberflöte's overture.

This was a mix of works such as Beethoven's Die Ehre Gottes in der Natur, Mendelssohn's Auf Flügeln des Gesanges to a medley of Broadway hits, and a finale of works from Strauss's Zigeunerbaron that brought the guest artists together with the chorus and orchestra for a memorable and rousing close. The baritone Laszlo Fogel and soprano Mari Moriya added to the rich Strauss texture and the gypsy spirit as they performed excerpts with the chorus in an inspired abbreviated version of the work as selected by Maestro Hartung.

Liederkranz has played an important role in the musical life of New York and the nation through its close association with the Metropolitan Opera. The chorus once was so select that it performed with the New York Philharmonic, and performed with the Metropolitan Opera in New York, Boston, and Philadelphia. The organization has hosted guest artists such as Jenny Lind, Frederuccio Busoni, Victor Herbert, Lilli Lehmann, and Helen Traubel, to name a few.

Liederkranz has had an impressive and illustrious history, and one hopes this cultural society has the imagination and energy to endure another 150 years. The Liederkranz building is a treasure, but it looks as though it is in need of an overhaul and a creative touch to align its facilities with its expanded cultural role. Formerly the organization was located in a much larger building on 58th street that included a full stage. The society moved to its current quarters on 87th street in 1948. Up until about that time, the organization continued to be a male chorus, but around 1949 women joined Liederkranz as was the practice of many cultural clubs throughout the country.

The challenge for the organization is whether its greatest days are in the past or whether it can rise to the demands of modern musical practice and establish a new dynasty in a multicultural world. There is clearly a need for cultural societies such as Liederkranz to maintain ties with a rich past and an important cultural tradition while forging new standards through imaginative concerts, recitals, and staged performances. Currently, it is but an echo of its past, but Liederkranz could be poised for a new era of excellence. Certainly the musical guidance of Ulrich Hartung inspires a new level of achievement, but serious recruitment from the younger generation of music lovers is greatly needed. Whether the organization has the will and dedication to renew itself remains an open question.

One notable feature of the concert was the elaborate printed program which served as a souvenir for the occasion. The person to be credited for this expanded version is Trudy Sczesny, and the quality of this brochure-like program added to ambiance of this gala event.

Many Happy Returns

Thanks to all my friends who have commented on my absence from the cyber world. It was a sobering experience to face the prospect of not being able to work in this medium that I have come to love.

Even though there appears to be an physical explanation of the difficulties I have faced, I can't help but note that my difficulty occurred in the context of learning of Wyatt's death. The loss of such a good friend underscored my own mortality and whispered of the tentative and tenuous existence that frames each passing day. In these days I have discovered how the presence of all those I know defines my experience and illuminates who I am. The context of my life has been essentially one of aloneness, and I haved counted being "alone" as a virtue of being "all one."

Yet, now I see that all those who define my space and time constitute my awareness of being, and my aloneness includes the interpenetration of each of you. The reality of what we are to one another continues to unfold in this mysterious medium of Time. I have always regarded the notion of Time and Being as redundant, as Being is the expression of Time. My electronic presence extends my reach and reflects my growing awareness. Yet, I am involved with your journey which is continually defining my own. The intervention of this new medium has created new opportunities of discovery, and somehow we are all moving to a new place in which the boundaries that have served to define us are yielding to new horizons that invoke the emerging reality of our continual and constant becoming.

To this sensibility I now return in the climate of new awareness and commitment.

Wyatt Back Deep in the Heart

My copy of Wyatt's Deep in The Heart contains an inscription by the author:

for Elizabeth---
who will surely go to Texas before long. It's terrible and beautiful -- as I hope this book shows. I also hope you enjoy the people here, who, troubled as they are, are close to me.

Wyatt Wyatt
20 March 1981

I had been thrilled to learn that he had written a second novel, and was struck by the title because it seemed to indicate that he was at last returning to a part of himself he had disowned when he went to New York and became enthralled with Perle and the romance of becoming an author.

The setting is the town that Wyatt and I grew up in, during an intense drought in summer:

It was the beginning of the dog days. Amarillo was bone dry. In the throat of the afternoon the temperature stuck at a hundred and eleven degrees Fahrenheit -- in the shade --if you could find shade. Between noon and six, you couldn't touch the door handle of your car without a glove or a handkerchief, and the ground had slowly cooked into a friable crust that flaked off and rose in the wind and tinted it. People said there was blood in the sky. On restless days -- nearly every day -- the wind beat at the town with the hack hack of a great rusty blade, flinging out a spray of dust that settled like a dry red mist down over everything whether it was alive or still.

This review can be found on Amazon.com:

Wyatt Wyatt (author of "Catching Fire") scores big in his second novel "Deep in the Heart"--- a well-crafted tale of sex, love, and violence in the heart of the Texas Panhandle, Amarillo. His prose is rich and imaginative and deserves a wider audience. Boone Randolf is the central character who struggles with his emotions and his friends in a personal quest for sanity in the midst of irrational and tormented characters. His people ring true, and yet, loom larger than life: Grady Hornsby, a legend of fiery wildness, a volcano always on the verge of eruption; Rowena, Grady's love, a sultry goddess tormented by a desire to control, Sue Pam, a 19-year-old sexual feast eager to live life fully; Dennis, Sue Pam's husband, protected and sheltered by wealth; and Lloyd Hollister, a cynic corrupted by power. Full of surprises, Wyatt Wyatt mixes these ingredients with abandon and shrewd observations that will stay with you long after you finish the book. But the real star is Texas itself, and Wyatt spins us through a devastating summer drought and welcomed respite of September rain. His descriptions weave an unforgettable texture of torrid temperatures and temperaments.

Wyatt Wyatt was a Texan who ran from his heritage most of his life and returned to himself in this wonderful tribute to a vanishing frontier of the freedom to be wild. Reading this book makes you wish for more, but sadly Wyatt Wyatt passed away in 2002, which makes this book all the more poignant and precious.

It really is a wonderful second novel, full of promise for a third, which was not to be. If there are flaws, they might be traceable to a tendency to be too driven by the plot, keeping the characters encased in the narrative. As though he was aware of this trap, Wyatt wrote "Already, I've been tempted to explain more than is necessary, to justify or ameliorate." He always ties up the loose ends, and life is never quite that orderly.

Wyatt writes of an Amarillo of the 1970s, and it is a city full of contradictions and wild living. The people are struggling to find an identity in a Texas that cannot come to grips with its heroic past and estrangement from modern life. It is a Texas that yearns to be the wild west, but is caught in the throes of a betrayal of itself. This treachery is manifest in Boone's deception of his best friend Grady, and through this deceit the extraordinary becomes merely ordinary. "The wild, reckless, best part of him had dried up, it had split off and blown tumbling across the plains in the wind until it vanished."

United 93 and American 11

The recent showing of the film United 93 has brought back the morning of 9/11 with startling clarity.

September 11, 2001 was a beautiful Tuesday morning, possessing a splendor and elegance that only September can distill as an idyllic memory --- the kind of day that poems are made of.

On that morning, I walked out of the market on La Guardia Place across from my apartment and looked up to see an airplane flying south so low that I could see it was an American Airlines commercial flight. The plane was flying full-throttle, and the engines sounded loud and laboring, an eerie, sinister whine that knifed through the September stillness with alarming swiftness and in a matter of seconds disappeared into the north tower of the World Trade Center some 30 blocks away in a flash of smoke and flames. The world changed in that instant, and I was stunned by the smoke pouring out of the north tower and the solemnity that cloaked the collision's aftermath in the semblance of silence. I was too far away to hear the screams of death and horror.

Minutes later, the world watched in terror as a second commercial airline approached from the southwest and erupted through the southern tower in a cataclysmic explosion magnified by telephoto lenses and television coverage. Throughout the day there would be repeated airings of this brutal attack, and when the towers collapsed, frequent relentless showings indelibly etched this catastrophe on our collective consciousness, including the ghastly images of people leaping to their deaths to avoid being burned alive. We also were intensely aware that when the planes struck the towers, countless numbers of people were instantly incinerated, including those ill-fated inhabitants aboard the hi-jacked airliners. Yet, minutes later, another commercial jet crashed into the Pentagon, and to my amazement, the media still seemed to be wondering if these events were related.

As these events were unfolding, passengers of United 93 discovered through their cell phones that they were destined to die as the others in the three flights that had been commandeered as volatile missiles by terrorists. This knowledge empowered them to act, in an attempt to take the plane from control of the terrorists, but their awareness of their situation had materialized too late for them to do anything but cause a premature crash, diverting the plane from its likely target in Washington D.C.: The White House. It crashed in an "empty" field in Pennsylvania.

An excellent writer of The American Digest, Vanderleun, places United 93 in context (Of a Fire in a Field). Fires continued to burn for many days in the subterannean aftermath of the collapse of the towers:

Inside the wire under the hole in the sky was, in time, a growing hole in the ground as the rubble was cleared away and, after many months, the last fire was put out. Often at first, but with slowly diminishing frequency, all the work to clear out the rubble and the wreckage would come to a halt... Far away on that day, far from the pillar of flame and plume of ash at the foot of the island, there was another fire in a field in Pennsylvania. Those nearby felt the shudder in the earth and saw the smoke, but it would be some days before we understood what it was, and longer still until we began to know what it meant.

...The film I saw by myself tonight expands that meaning and brings a human face to the acts by the passengers of United 93 that endure only in that rare atmosphere that heroes inhabit. What I know in my heart, but what always escapes my understanding until something like this film renews it, is that heroism is a virtue that most often appears among us not descending from some mythic pantheon, but rising up out of the ordinary earth and ordinary hearts when the moment calls for actions extraordinary.

In the days that followed the collapse of the twin towers, those of us who lived below 14th street, found ourselves in a war zone. Hordes of people wandered about this war zone. They collected in parks and along streets, stunned by the sudden and swift calamity that had befallen the nation. Strangers met and talked, and support groups and vigils met in parks and other public areas. Along walls and fences, pictures of people were posted in a desperate attempt to account for those missing who were thought to be in the vicinity of the attack. As time passed, these were transformed into walls of rememberance for those who were believed to have persihed, and were strewn with flowers and candles. As these postings were ripped from the walls by wind or passersby, the authors would repost and add to the text and images (including laminating them), a ritual that clung to the hope that some miracle might restore everything.

In the meantime, the war zone had been clearly mapped. The air still retained the smell of death, and the dust of pulverized remains were still sifting, drifting, and settling on the terrain. Residents had to be identified before they could enter the area, and shipments of goods such as groceries, magazines, and newspapers were curtailed. I had to go above 14th street to get a newspaper. There were shortages of bread and milk. None were permitted into this downtown zone unless they could demonstrate that they had legitimate business and had acceptable ID. Vehicular travel was limited to emergency vehicles, and troops were stationed throughout the area with deployment of heavy armament on strategic streets such as Houston, Broadway, and the entire downtown Wall street area.

As the time of this vicious attack has grown more distant, many seem oblivious to opposing worlds on the verge of collision and collapse. We have insulated ourselves from the impending violence and danger. Yet, we know that in the blink of an eye, at any moment, our fragile world may disappear in an act of hatred and devastation, as it did on that idyllic September morn of 2001.

Etude

Morning...
quickening sounds...
fleeting glimpses...
A breeze slips
through fresh-leaved trees...

Spring dances
to a counterpoint
of birds bickering,
laughter leaping,
and conversations cavorting
in the early shadows of May.

Filtering the Past

I received Wyatt's Deep in the Heart today. He wrote an inscription in the book, and somehow I feel his presence. This book marks a return for Wyatt, back to the matters of the heart in the land that he once fled with a vengeance.

We filter the past in many ways, and Wyatt turned his back on his past for a time, and now returns to reconstruct a world, to give it a new birth and dedication. I am happy to travel along with him.

Although for a while we were cohorts in that Texas terrain, I come to his story telling as a stranger who has travelled similar paths, but now follow them through his eyes and ears. It is all strangely familiar as though I have been there before, but also wildly strange since there is a new luster, a patina that masks the moment in a new awareness.

The journey for him is so different from the ones I have been pursuing in this blog. I often am writing of the same place, but of quite different times, a kind of pre-Wyatt and sans-Wyatt sensibility. However, this filtering of the past also recounts the special nature of our friendship. We maintained separate spheres even though we were the closest of friends. Our connection was fundamental and intense, but our worlds were also separate and remote.

The Eyes Have It---Not

You never know just how precious something is until it is taken away. Suddenly I am unable to read at the computer, and have started keeping drafts on paper to enter later. The main problem seems to be multiple images and flickering. It is really quite disturbing. I am writing this to post later, and for the moment I seem somewhat blind to the cyberworld. The flickering makes it difficult to look at any screen, although the effect seems less pronounced with a television set.

I am scheduled for an exam, and then perhaps I will find the cause and hopefully, a solution. In the world of computers I am eyeless for the moment. I wish I could say that such blindness leads to wisdom, but instead, I find myself powerless and inept. Writing now calls for a new rhythm. Paper and pen, old media, but now unfamiliar terrain. My efforts falter, and these few sentences are all I can muster for now, as though the affliction of one medium is somehow transferred to another.

Celebration

Having gone through deep encounters with the past, I find myself looking to the celebration of who we are in the streaming presence of Now. This is a compelling and urgent activity, one that reminds us that we are the leading edge of creative momentum, making meaning as we become the newness of ourselves in each successive moment. If you can imagine that you are space or time itself, and that you carve reality from the brink of nothingness, you will understand that your being is the essence of the universe. Your very existence is creation, and creation is the act of moments unfolding.

I often refer to this process as becoming, and that is an apt metaphor. We have only metaphors to penetrate this simple reality, which is beyond words. Language cannot penetrate the nothingness. The words, the letters, the sounds dissolve in the blackhole of negative space and time. Language is mute and ineloquent. Part of the dilemma is that language must have something to represent nothing, and thus we miss the phenomenal essence of something that simply is not there.

Yet, we are here at the boundary of that not-thereness which is yet another dimension, and we perpetually enter that dimension in our becoming. All becoming is from the zero-point, the repose of energy in its unarticulated state. The future is in the zero. Existence is in the zero. Our isness is the reality of infinite disclosure. Our infinite becoming is cause for celebration!

Wyatt Wyatt

For some reason Wyatt has sprung to life in my memory. Once he was Lawrence Wyatt, who became my closest friend around the fifth grade when he entered Lee Bivens School and was assigned to my class. We instantly bonded as friends walking home from school.

This bond continued throughout school with our admiration for each other deepening and continuing even after we went to different colleges and pursued very different paths. Larry was a literature major at the University of Texas, and when he graduated he headed for New York to pursue an M.A. at Columbia University, arriving there slightly ahead of me.

Even though we were often separated for long intervals, we would resume conversations as though it were the next day. Wyatt became an ardent pursuer and writer of fiction. The catalyst intensifying his passion was Perle, the wife of a psychoanalyst who fancied himself the reincarnation of Freud, and who , of course, understood Perle's obsession with Larry. She had a deep knowledge of literature, was sexy as hell, and gave Larry his real education in writing and sexual intensity. Their affair was stormy and passionate, and was fully condoned by her husband. We often dined out together or went to Perle's place for drinks. It was all very urban and civilized.

Abruptly Larry left for Paris, as all good American writers should. This was an extension of a process that had begun with Perle, which could be best understood as abandoning his Texas past as being irrelevant. If nothing else, he was tracing the pathways of American writers, and he wore a beret (which he actually began wearing while in New York). In addition to a real commitment and passion for writing, he was also caught up in the drama and theatrics of his adventure.

He returned to New York and resumed a turbulent relationship with Perle. He urged her to flee with him to Alaska. He bought a motorcycle so they could experience traveling the countryside through a visceral immersion in the windblown senses. Perle took off with Larry, the epitome of an impetuous impulse to live like true romantics in the passion of the moment. However, after several days of travel, Perle returned to New York, and Larry continued alone to Alaska where he taught creative writing at the University of Alaska.

While in Alaska he fell into a relationship with a student who deeply admired Larry and always addressed him in third person. She was from Seattle, and immediately latched onto Larry who was ready for something different than a tempestuous relationship. There was an element of hero worship which fanned Larry's ego as she continued to call him Wyatt even in intimate moments. Thus Larry dropped his first name and became officially and legally Wyatt Wyatt, hoping somehow that this name would bring him fame as a writer. They went to Spain and to the tiny island of Ibiza, which at the time was relatively undiscovered, and they could live on pennies a day. This was an intense time of reading and writing. When they returned, Wyatt was appointed to run a program in creative writing in Florida. Eventually the student left Wyatt, and he was finally faced with the reality of himself and his writing.

Under that name, which was now his only name, Wyatt Wyatt brought forth Catching Fire and Deep in the Heart. Wyatt and I were in touch during the time he published Catching Fire with Random House in 1977. He spoke of selling rights for a film version, but apparently that never materialized. He gave me a copy of the book when he paid an impromptu visit to New York. There was something about that visit that altered the orbits of our universe. On his arrival, we resumed our intimate connection and conversation as before, but by the time he left New York, we were somehow strangers. I never heard from him again.

I found this lone review of Catching Fire on Amazon.com. It had been posted on my birthday, in 1999.

As southern as grits and beer for breakfast, this entertaining book is filled with odd-ball characters that grab and hold you. Very well written. Wyatt Wyatt uses humor and pathos to explore the human condition and he uses it well. If you can find this book, check it out.

I never had a copy of Deep in the Heart. It came out in 1980, and since our paths had swung in different directions, I never knew anything about the book or that it existed. There is no Amazon.com review. I feel compelled to search it out, because maybe Wyatt decided to write about a past that he had abandoned when he became involved with Perle and felt the need to be more urban, more cosmopolitan. There is no doubt that his New York experience with Perle was so momentous and potent that he must have felt that his real existence virtually began in the ethos of that time.

I am not sure what has brought Wyatt back into my memory after 25 years. Perhaps, somehow, my links with this particular past are active once more. I don't know if Wyatt is still alive as web searches only yield minor references to him as author of these two volumes composed at the zenith of his journey more than 25 years ago. In this same period, Perle published work on the Kabbalah and Malcolm Lowry, but was even more prolific publishing under her maiden name. Perle's husband was also a highly productive author, publishing many books, including a book about healing through visual imagery and establishing a foundation and website devoted to healing yourself through visual imagery. I hadn't thought much about Wyatt until today, when suddenly he seemed to be in the room, an old friend intimately bridging the abyss of time.
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Addendum: After writing the above, I did a rigorous search and finally tracked down the following obituary:

Wyatt Wyatt was born in Shawnee, Oklahoma and has lived in Oklahoma, Texas, New York, Paris, Alaska, Spain, the Yukon Territory, and Florida. Wyatt has held jobs as a bag-worm picker, popcorn popper, tractor driver, window washer, library janitor, traffic counter, street sweeper, cat skinner, goldminer, woodcutter, teacher, and writer. Wyatt previously taught literature at the University of Central Florida before his early retirement in 1998. Including two novels, Wyatt has published short stories, drama, poetry, television scripts, book reviews, criticism, articles, and political speeches. Wyatt passed away August 8th, 2002, after a lengthy battle with cancer.

So Wyatt is gone... irretrievably, sadly, and so final that I feel a great radiance has flickered and failed... This sudden knowledge penetrates to the core of my being ... painfully... permanently...

Yet, today he has been vividly present.

Perhaps he has been looking over my shoulder, nudging me to remember. Now I realize the impediment that his memory has breached was far greater than I knew. From other sources I discovered that he had brain cancer in 1988, but he fought it off and returned to teach a course on death and dying. From the above notice, he continued to teach until 1998 when he took "early retirement." Wyatt confronted his ultimate demons. While in high school, his stepfather underwent a tortuous, fatal siege of cancer that was very painful for Wyatt. Wyatt also harbored deep forboding that he would one day face his own battle. Yet, his best trait was to summon courage to confront his deepest fears and carry on with dignity and resolute resolve.

Writing of his adventures today brought me such pleasure, and I remember his great affection and sense of humor. I know he must have had a hand in his own obituary...as nothing to him was ever trivial.

My deep regret is that we lost touch in those final years. I still have a date with Deep in the Heart, as I realize that Wyatt has returned to a place deep in my heart... in fact, he never left.

The Little House

For his livelihood, my father served as one of the early efficiency experts emerging in 1930s, for a large multistate electrical power company, and in fact, saved the company from bankruptcy by reorganizing different practices and structures so that the company was able to cut costs dramatically.

But for his well-being, Dad pursued carpentry and philosophy. Having grown up on a farm, he had learned that we are empowered to improve our physical world by using our minds and hands to effect change. Consequently, when I was entering my teens, he decided to redesign and reconstruct the house and the garage.

Before this extravagant undertaking, he had built a small house in the backyard that served as a laundry room, a workbench for woodworking, a printshop for my newspaper ventures, and a small library of books on history, science, and philosophy, which my Dad avidly pursued. To put this in perspective, this was during the Korean War, and my news source was the Associated Press via the old radio we kept in "The Little House." As an aside, that radio gave me the shock of my life (and one of my first lessons in physics when I grabbed the metal stump of the tuner [the wooden knob had fallen off] while in my bare feet on a wet floor).

For Dad, The Little House. was a retreat for his pursuit of history and philosophy (he would include science as a part of philosophy). He would buy books from estates for his library in the Little House, and began to amass a distinctive collection. He had never gone to college, but had completed studies by correspondence school in accounting, history, and philosophy from LaSalle, a prominent pioneer in distance education.

Now, as I was in middle school, he began his significant project of expanding our dwellings, enlisting my help as an extra hand where I learned how to build things. Briefly, he completely changed the front entrance of the house, combined the dining and living rooms into an enormous room for formal entertaining with a prominent place for the Knabe Piano, remodeled the kitchen to include a counter for eating and food preparation, and constructed a large dining/recreation room as a multipurpose space, including a new invention that was becoming popular: television.

Rather than attach the garage to this new home, he built a creative open port that could be used as a garage or a rehearsal and dance space with a side that could open to the backyard where an audience could gather. At the back of this space he build a new "Little House" which could double as a guest room, with its own bathroom. and library-like shelving to house his growing collection of books. Even after he tore down the original "Little House" we referred to this new room as The Little House, which in the spirit of Darwin's theory had evolved to a new species. On many an evening and well into the night, my Father would disappear to this sanctuary in pursuit of knowledge, but ultimately, I believe, he found wisdom.

Of course, it wasn't until later years when I read Hemingway's "A Clean Well-Lighted Place" that I fully understood my Father's urgent need for this clean, well-lighted room. Like Hemingway and all of us, he felt confronted by the looming nothingness.

What did he fear? It was not a fear or dread, It was a nothing that he knew too well. It was all a nothing and a man was a nothing too. It was only that and light was all it needed and a certain cleanness and order. Some lived in it and never felt it but he knew it all was nada y pues nada y nada y pues nada.

In history, science, and philosophy, Dad was seeking an answer to the void, to nada. Somehow, in the quietness of The Little House, he found brief glimpses of answers, moments of conscious awareness that gleam in the darkness like distant galaxies.

Washington Square Park

Washington Square Park has been the heart of Greenwich Village for more than a century. It sits at the south end of Fifth Avenue, a timeless jewel in the bosom of the city. It is still a gathering place for people with causes and people who are interested only in people watching. It is a place for musicians to bring out their instruments for a trial run, for joggers who trace paths around the perimeter (always counter clockwise), for politicians and birthday parties, for chess players and kibitzers, for dogs and dog lovers, for strollers and sun bathers, for entertainers and outdoor concerts, for hotdog stands and water fountains, for onlookers content to watch the world go by. The list could go on and on.

It is a Damon-Runyon/O'Henry paradise, where stories abound in volumes not yet written. Surprises happen every day, every moment. At the turn of the 19th into the 20th century, O' Henry started romancing New York through his imaginative short stories with surprise endings. A little later, Damon Runyon made his way to New York City to work for Hearst as a reporter. His favorite hangout was Broadway, and his story "The Idylls of Miss Sarah Brown" appeared in his 1932 book Guys and Dolls, written in the Broadway slang of the time, which caught the ear and imagination of Abe Burrows and Frank Loesser who transformed it into one of the all-time great classic Broadway musicals.

Henry James (1843-1916) wrote Washington Square, a novel depicting the 1840s when the brownstones across from the park were a fashionable haven for the wealthy. Henry James was born in Washington Square. James strips the glamour from Washington Square in his story of disappointment and unfulfillment. He wrote the novel from a distance, while in London and later, Paris. It has been made into an opera and a film. Composed by Thomas Pasatieri, the opera Washington Square premiered in Detroit in 1976. The opera was revised. In 1977, the New York Lyric Opera, in residence at New York University, gave the new premiere of Pasatieri's opera in what is now Loewe Theatre on West 4th, about 50 yards from Washington Square Park.

While Henry James wrote of a fading aristocratic class in Washington Square in the 19th Century, O.Henry and Damon Runyon were the chroniclers of New York's coming of age in the 20th century, of the colorful characters that made up the city with their millions of stories erupting every minute.

Washington Square Park is a miniature, a mircrocosm of the great engine that is New York City. It has gone through many transformations. There were once luxury hotels that lined several sides of the park. I have roamed through the underground catacombs of these old hotels that the university had commandeered to use as offices and classrooms. There was a labyrinth of tunnels connecting the buildings, and I came upon the underground quarters of the valets and maids. I found kitchens and ironing boards, and the remnants of laundries. Entering these quarters was like descending into the past. These rooms had not been touched for more than half a century. There were clothes left on the floor, and old bottles and glasses on counters. I felt as though any moment someone might walk through the door from this past, this lost civilization of a vanishing aristocracy and its servant class. I wondered how these rooms had come to be abandoned. Why were they left in such disarray?

Sadly, I think we have lost our taste for short stories, for those prose portraits of vibrant people in the throes of life. The 20th century was an age of innocence, a coming of age. 9/11 2001 ushered in a new era, tough, impervious, and so brittle we appear always on the verge of shattering into incoherent fragments.

Mercer Street Bookstore

No matter how great the technological incursion into our lives, one prediction that has not proven true for me has been that books, as such, would begin to disappear and become obsolete as electronic text became universally available for all such "books." It has also been suggested that electronic media would become so pervasive that ultimately less and less paper would be needed. We would eventually emerge as a paperless society.

Well, not for me.

While I admit that most of my research and inquiry utilizes acquiring and reading text on the internet, and benefiting from the recent advances in instant translation of documents in foreign languages, I had almost forgotten the romance of the printed word and books as a physical presence. Then I wandered into the Mercer Street Bookstore, a place for second-hand books and old vinyl LP recordings.

There is a certain majesty in the variety of paper and bindings you encounter with books. There is a special smell of paper, and the tactile experience of leafing through pages of volumes of books you never knew even existed can be intoxicating. And the textures of paper are so rich and varied! I am always drawn to the poetry section of such stores. Poetry passes into the "second-hand" status more rapidly than most books. Calling them "used" books is often misleading, because most of the books have been rarely touched, although there are notable exceptions.

My imagination is ignited by such encounters. Titles are leaping out at me with such explosiveness. "Incredible," I think, "Why didn't I think of that!" There are authors I have never heard of, and books have such variety of sizes and styles! I think of my experience with electronic print media and suddenly realize that text is reduced to a certain monotonous sameness, with occasional deviation of fonts and backgrounds. And there is no equivalent tactile sense of how books feel as I sort randomly through a volume.

After poetry, I head for philosophy, then to arts and humanities, then to fiction, then history, and science. I replace Internet Explorer and Firefox with myself as browser with a certain built-in intelligence (I hope) as I search, although what actually alerts me is some sensibility not immediately understood, an awareness that grows as I leaf through pages... words and phrases grab me and awaken some dark mysterious recess of myself that was waiting for some such signal.

Mercer Street Bookstore... Not a bookstore at all but a place where ideas occupy three dimensional space, slumbering on shelves until some intelligence stumbles upon them and discovers new constellations, new galaxies of thoughts formed and flung to the wilderness waiting to be deciphered and filtered through the mind.

Walking into the bookstore I enter a universe that is dazzling, an underlying order that structures knowledge. Bookshelves line the walls to the ceiling around the perimeter, with smaller shelves and bins in the front. It is a cozy, comfortable space, with an open central area that contains recent arrivals, LPs, odd-sized art books, books of poetry, with little anarchic pockets here and there inviting scrutiny. At the back of this open space, the room narrows to the right and continues back, a literary gravity pulling you to the furthermost wall. There is just enough chaos, scattered blackholes that connect to the vortex of my imagination and drag me irresistibly into the increasing density of inspiration and human achievement.

Time is suspended. Books beckon me with silent and persuasive seductiveness as I discover that this realm of mental activity emerges as a kingdom, a landscape where I can wander among the volumes like an adventurer from another planet... exploring alien terrain with such abundant awareness that I abandon my routine digital domain for an idle Saturday afternoon among the ancient tomes and printed manuscripts of Mercer Street.