Sudden Fiction: I Am Come to Create Order

She came into his presence almost magically, as though she had suddenly appeared from nowhere. Her eyes were gleaming, and she smiled to confirm her presence.



Surprised, he acted as though he had witnessed a miracle. Her arrival was a mystery. For hours he had wished to see her. He had fantasies of how she would materialize, but these dissolved in the premonition that she would not come.



She was curiously silent, but her smile leapt across at him, invaded him. She removed her coat and scarf. He turned from the computer.

“I’m surprised to see you.”

“I told you I would come.”


Outside, a winter storm was blustery and scolded the windows with cold, furious gusts. But inside, the moment seemed to glow with expectation.


Their conversation was an exploration, an unfolding discovery. He knew that her speaking created clarity. He had been trapped in the intellectual baggage that often cluttered his work. He found her smile engaging, and the sound of her voice was like music. He recalled Fellini's 8 1/2 where the woman in white looked at the intellectual debris that engulfed the director and murmured, "I am come to create order."



He had an intuition that he had known her before in another time and place... but the karma was the same as now.


She thought she recognized him, but could not be sure. He was older than she remembered. He spoke through silence, and seemed to be waiting to be acknowledged as though he expected her to linger there a while. But she was embarked on a journey. She was living her life, her destiny.

He remembered how they met. He saw her from a distance, but knew instantly who she was and where she was going. He longed to follow her, but was trapped by coordinates set long ago. Their paths were briefly crossing. He wanted to stop Time. He wished that somehow he could know her forever.

How could two people from two unique worlds, so clearly different, share the same space, even for a moment?

He turned back to the computer.

Startled by a blizzardly burst against the window, he looked for the beautiful muse who had created such order from all the clutter.

No one was there.

A dream, a wishful thought, vanishing in the winds of winter.

From Both Sides Now

This is a time for reflection as we begin a new year and a new decade.

I remember a time ago when I felt invincible. I had energy and a spiritual sense that sustained me through everything. Much of this had been attained through incredible experiences including the mentoring by my Father, and an inspiring spiritual presence who touched inside me and transformed my health and my life. Also a meditative inquiry has served to inspire my actions and my being.

As my father aged, his philosophical perspective deepened, but he shared with me the angst that all of us feel since although we are born of communion, we die alone. The genius of our psyche is that somewhere in the depth of us we believe we shall never die. He described his growing angst as though he were walking in the sun and there was no shadow for everything was in front of him, bright and buoyant. But as he grew older the sun had passed overhead and now he saw his shadow growing longer and longer, merging into the unknown darkness that loomed ahead. My last time with my father as he lay dying, he hugged me from where he was lying in bed with such immense power and whispered "Goodbye, John... we have had such a beautiful adventure together." There was a pause... "It's time for me to go." I knew he didn't want to leave us, but he also believed it was not the end of his journey.

So now I have passed from the bright sun to the other side. I feel the lengthening shadow, and I am still in the throes of denial about my mortality. Even though death is seemingly alone, we are sustained by the community that defines us. In the past several years I had rationally planned for my own demise--- I felt the inevitability of the process and even created a time-line that dictated that I start to wrap things up. I was, as the Gershwin song puts it, "Just Biding My Time." No more songs from me. No need. I fully understood the "Hemingway Solution," an existential statement that underscored that we do have power to make a decision about our mortal destiny. Yet, I don't think this is the path for me.

While living out my abbreviated time-line, I focused on working with my younger constituents, of taking joy in their journeys, hoping that I might challenge them to discover their dreams and help them come true...an exciting time for me. I guess I couldn't know that this new community sustaining me would grow... there would be those whose energy and triumphs would inspire me, and I would find myself engaged in a renaissance of creativity, not quite so willing to surrender my mortality to a time-line of two to three years. A few became so close as to perhaps unknowingly reach deep inside of me and awaken the skills and creative energy that had always sustained me until recently. Having resigned myself to the loss of huge chunks of my work and abilities, recent encounters have awakened this inner world that I left abandoned. I found I still have things to say.

I still have songs to sing ---

In spite of silences

So long imposed by emptiness;

Sweet melodies

Still echo and twist

Through corridors long boarded up

And left abandoned.

I still have songs to sing ---

In spite of noises

So intense and interrupting;

Brave harmonies

Still assemble and bound

Beyond the walls so awkwardly erected

And left decaying.

I still have songs to sing ---

Although the world is deafened

And songs must linger in fading tones

Like declining half-life radiation

Dwindling to the aural dimensions

Deciphered only by the inward ear.

So I struggle within myself, for I know that inevitably I must pay the piper for this lovely twilight dance, my winter solstice sarabande. I am nourished by the Spring and Summer creatures so abundant and so full of vision and inspiration, who still dare to dream. The difference from my earlier days is that I was a loner then, but now I feel the need to share a dialogue where utterly new ideas and sensibilities can be born. This collaborative process and possibility has emerged in such a way that I am refreshed by the prospect of dialectic exchange.

I had something of a scare tonight on this first day of a new era, and I was abruptly reminded of my mortality. For a moment I wondered if I would see my friends again, and now the attack has passed. But I realize how sad I will be if I must leave these dear companions before I complete this cycle of renewal. But the joy and the amazement is in this moment and in the doing, in the immediacy of spirit, and the rapport with those close to me who value the journey as much or more than I. Yet, we are now in the midst of winter, and those that know me know how enchanted I am by snow...

Black Holes and The Hole in My Head

So the year is passing.

I can see it spinning and disappearing down a Black Hole which might be exactly how time renews itself, or how the years slip into parallel universes. Maybe it is just Alice and White Rabbit disappearing down the rabbit hole, life pursuing impossible adventures.

It wasn't long ago that it was suggested that Black Holes eventually evaporate into nothingness, which turned the world of physics upside down. There he sat in his wheel chair among his colleagues with that perpetual half-smile and said the math confirms it, prove me wrong. Hawking later declared that both views of physics were correct because of parallel universes. Tell me the emperor wears no clothes.

Of course, physicists had been content with a zero sum game. Ever since Einstein overturned Newton (or did he?), we knew that energy was converted into mass and mass into energy. But the universe could be dissipating into...well...nothing. Where's the fun in that?

Yet, although I'm no physicist, I think someone may eventually proclaim that the universe is multiplying... and it will be true, somewhere ...at least in a parallel universe. (Actually I am a closet physicist. When I was 9, I won a prize for a paper submitted to an international astronomy contest and I have been hooked ever since.) It seems plausible that mass and energy (all the same thing, just as space and time are the same phenomenon) are continuously and incessantly becoming and cycled through parallel universes which are also endlessly cloned. It is rather like wave forms generated from nothingness into somethingness.

I have a hole in my head. I got careless and ended up with the destruction of some grey matter. Physicians said it was minor. I accepted that for a very long time. That was well over a decade ago. I recently saw a picture of this hole in my head. It looked exactly like a Black Hole sitting there a little off center of the galaxy that is my brain. For doctors it is just a matter of brain cells, but I am not convinced.

The problem with the destruction of brain cells is that you can't be sure what you lost, because you just don't know. Now the doctors are great about rehab, but there all those subtle things that have disappeared: memories, names, faces, songs, lyrics, very fine muscle memory, and on and on. Not even the doctors really know how vast and subtle this loss really is... (they seem OK if you can touch your nose with both hands with your eyes closed), and I am thinking maybe that part of me has slipped down a Black Hole into a parallel universe somewhere.

Recently I met someone who had an effect of energizing me about facing my perceived loss. It is a little like the Big Bang all over again inside my head. So I started to try to find my way back to myself. What is really strange is when I encounter some artifact or document that obviously emanated from me, I don't recognize it except to know that somehow it is collected under my ownership.

Occasionally there are some breakthroughs where I recognize a filament on the edge of my past and begin to follow it, or rather it starts to pull me irresistibly to a new place. I feel like I am being pulled into that hole in my head and slipping through it into a parallel universe, familiar, but also very strange...and there they are...there are those lost moments, memories, and musics dancing along with me... Nothing may have been lost after all.

Don't get excited. No neurologist would ever give credence to what I am describing, but I would say don't knock a Black Hole until you've gone down one. Now I know why the White Rabbit was in such a hurry!

Looking in the Windows

Something has inspired me to return to a part of myself that I had shut out after a stroke more than ten years ago, feeling that I had closed the book on that part of my life. In meeting some friends and starting to share something of that remote time, I tentatively have tried to rebuild some vacant parts of myself.

It was rather like looking into windows of the past, except that most were covered and obscure. I wasn't sure what was there. It was a weird experience. I pulled out some scores and tried to read through them... it was very painful to look at music I once knew by heart, and now had to learn from scratch all over again... and not too well at that. My fingers had no memory. However, slowly I started to play a few songs, very haltingly with lots of errors. Frustrating! Then I lapsed into improvising, something that was once spontaneous, but now was halting and insecure.

The improvising started to flow and I felt something kindled and ignited. As I left my space and went out into the city, I found myself improvising a rhythm in my head...some lyrics...Walking by the windows of restaurants and coffee houses, I looked into the windows hoping to see someone I recognised. I have been thinking about composing a new theatre piece, and suddenly looking in the windows became an extended metaphor and a text emerged:

Looking in the window…
Looking for you there
Looking at the people
You're not anywhere.

Looking in the window
Looking for your face
Looking at the strangers
You're not any place…

Looking through the window
Trying hard to see...
Looking at the people
Looking back at me.

Through the glass, I see them
Laughing as they talk…
Wish that I could be them
Instead I have to walk
Searching in the windows
Looking for your smile...
All those endless windows
Detain me for a while...

Maybe you are somewhere
Waiting for my eyes
Sitting with the strangers
In your best disguise.

Looking in the window
Hoping I will find
You inside with people,
Smiling in your mind,
As though we shared a secret...
Knowing I must see
You, inside with people...
That's how it has to be,
Me, outside the window
No where else to go...
What at last I've found
You might never know...

Defeated by the window,
Touching through the pane,
Meeting you as always
In a far domain...
Parted by the window,
By the fate of Time's debris,
The magic of your presence
Somehow has set me free.

Views from the Bridges: Pioneer Internet Artists

A collaborative Internet Production produced in a classroom studio as an Internet experiment proved to be a highly creative project undertaken by Steinhardt graduate students in performing arts at NYU. The event was produced "world-wide" to a limited audience on December 15, 2009, and is a testament to the increasing effectiveness of self-contained user-friendly codecs for interactive creative work. Huddled around the equipment and launching their ideas into cyberspace, these creators seemed more like pioneers forging a path into the future of global collaborations. In the past, such activity required extensive technical support by an institution and an army of Internet2 ITS specialists. Instead, these artists were empowered to establish their own avenues of creative exchange via the Internet.

The artists began by discussing themes that might enable them to work independently while developing their ideas around a common thread of creative work. Their study had involved collaborative work throughout the semester with emphasis on technology and multimedia production, including the technical skills that enabled them to transform almost any space into a multimedia broadcast studio.

The artists consisted of Scott Berenson, Jane Blackstone, Sunmin Kim, JoEllen Livick, Laura Montanaro, Andrew Struck-Marcell, and Julie Song, with Dr. Chianan Yen serving as a technical consultant. Their chief technical Guru was composer and audio/video engineer Professor Tom Beyer. In attendance as an Internet audience was Synthia Payne, an educator, composer, and performer. Other collaborators participated via the Internet using iChat or Skype to join the scenes in the studios. These artists were Mariangeles Fernandez Rajoy, a producer and conceptual/visual artist from Buenes Aires; Ernesto Localle, architect and animator from Buenos Aires; N'seeka MacPherson choreographer and dancer, from Connecticut College in New London; and Ocarina performer SunYoung Mun and Technical Coordinator, SungHoe Ku from South Korea; Musicians Alex Nossa, electric bass, and Michael Scheideman, electric guitar connecting from Harlem; The School of Rock in Charlotte, NC and a graphic artist from Brooklyn.


The group developed a theme around the concept of bridges. There are physical bridges that connect people and land masses, but the Internet itself becomes a bridge that dissolves boundaries and connects people. This metaphor seemed to stimulate a number of ideas. The collaborateurs (this term was coined by JoEllen Livick and seems to serve as a descriptor very well) devised a working title of Views from the Bridges. Some discussion emerged about Arthur Miller's A View From the Bridge, and whether it might have any relevance to this Internet experiment. As it turns out, some of Miller's content was appropriated for Montanaro's work. With Scott Berenson serving as producer, each callaborateur then set about developing a multimedia scene with a target date to mount this creative work (without prior rehearsal) on the Internet December 15th.

Perhaps the most challenging aspect was to develop a schematic of how the Internet Broadcast would be set up, what equipment would be needed, what configuration would be used, and how collaborateurs would function during the set up, for the production as a whole, and for their specific scenes. Ultimately, these kinds of decisions set the criteria for the range of possibilities and improvisational alternatives during the production.

An effort was made to reduce the amount of stress by designing this event as a work in progress and to accept whatever challenges or impediments might arise, but to work through any problems as part of the creative process. Given the time frame, there was no time to rehearse with the distant collaborateurs, although a few quick connections were made as tests.

Six Scenes were developed with transitions between each scene improvised on the Tabla by Andrew Struck-Marcell. The scenes were:

Blocking the Box (Scott Berenson)
A View Beneath the Bridge (Laura Montanaro)
What's Up With Talking? (Jane Blackstone)
EtherSketch (JoEllen Livick)
Bridge of the Moments (Sunmin Kim)
Dreaming of Going to Korea (Julie Song)

During the performance, Jane Blackstone took on the role of moderator and M.C. Other collaborateurs worked at cameras, mixers, computers, or helping to manage scenes, as well as perform in scenes. All the artists were serving as videographers, musicians, composers, technologists, cable and adapter specialists, critics, and whatever. They managed to transform the room into a serviceable studio, despite the limited space.

Although the production has the trappings of a live-television studio production, the impact of the Internet participants transformed the space, making an interactive medium dramatically different than the more traditional media of theatres or concert halls. All of the connections with iChat and Skype worked remarkably well, and what was even more impressive, the connections were established within the time frame as needed without exception.

Julie Song improvised an additional connection by using her Air laptop to independently connect with her friends in Korea so they could view the production through her computer camera lens. The production computers were connected by Ethernet, but her laptop successfully connected with Korea with a wireless connection. This suggests a possibility for multiple simultaneous connections using many laptops with one-to-one connections that could be merged as a cohesive, unfolding, and spontaneous event.

An important component, although more silent than we would have wished (we lost the iChat connection at the end were not able to have a final group discussion) was "Synthia" Cynthia Payne aka Synthany, Artist and Educator, adept at audio and video production, editing, coordination, networked music improvisation, recording and event installation. She agreed to be our audience of one (although the other Skype/iChat connections added additional ambience). In discussing this idea with Synthia, we observed that when we have conducted these kind of on-line experiments before, the presence of even one person on the Internet expanded our sense of space and established a sense of a new and different medium. She understood this right away and remarked that the cyber connection seems to create extended space and time, altering our fundamental experience. Synthia appeared in our production as audience, sometimes on the main screem, the side screen, and most often as a perpetual resident on the ceiling.



The theme of bridges was quite successful. "Bridges" as a way of connecting, of crossing borders, of providing access, proved to serve as a prolific source of ideas and images. Also impressive was how these young artists produced everything from scratch in six weeks, including filming, editing, composing, and arranging for counterparts at distant locations and designing and setting up a multimedia environment that successfully worked as an Internet Broadcast Studio. There were lots of glitches, of course, but not really as many as might be expected. It was an experiment that tested the range of artistic expression in the context of engaging technology to enhance the expressive capacity of human activity.

A Collective Experience: Aytia/Matia: Sleep Cycles

At 155 Water Street on Friday night, at the foot of the Manhattan Bridge, in the heart of DUMBO (Down Under Manhattan Bridge Overpass), Aytia/Matia and PAVE presented Sleep Cycles, described as a work of the Collective Unconscious. If anything, it was a wake up call to the 21st Century that an emerging generation is shaping a new consciousness of artistic expression. In many ways the names of the works are not important. This new artist collective, made up visual artists, painters, performers, composers, videographers, audio technicians, light designers, created a space transforming Time into an ongoing, engaging, and commanding experience awash with mixed media and innovative ideas.

Imagine walking into a space of people immersed in visual arts and sound collages that do not compete for attention but contribute to the energy and immediacy of the moment. In the midst of the greetings and anticipation, a young man asleep on a bed appears engaged even though unconscious, and we wonder if perhaps we may be merely the contents of his dreaming. From the beginning, the event is performed as a multi-sensory experience; there are h'orderves in abundance and an open bar, and surrounding us are extraordinary paintings silently embracing us while sound collages fill the room with a subtle presence. We are not waiting for the performance to begin... it has begun and we are enveloped. A reverence for the union of artists and audience permeates our encounter as a palpable presence.

The sleeper awakens and moves from the space, we follow at the urging of an unembodied voice that invites us into a new space. The space is a little primitive, as though hastily contrived... three screens are around us ,and we face a performance space populated on the right and left by what seems to be a spectacular speaker system. Behind us are an array of tech tables fortified with special equipment for sound enhancement, video projection, and lighting. To the left is an enormous space masked by a fabric wall... through the fabric we can see lights that seem like distant stars ... a curtain dividing the space, adding to the mystery of the evening.

Gradually the performance emerges, a video projection of an abstract landscape submerged somewhere in our sleep cycles, ...the soundscape a swirling collage of sounds radiating energy and moments of repose... solo musicians and small ensembles populate the space with musical iterations that suggest that music is undergoing a radical transformation and we are in the midst of a revolution...

There are virtuoso performers such as trombonist William Lang playing Dillon Kondor's Sleep Spindles derived from a melody in the second movement of Webern's Symphony, and deconstructed through fragments that are as gestural as they are sonic. Conrad Winslow's Getting There was a powerful display of interaction, energetic and playful, compelling, performed by a trio composed of Gregory Chudzik, bass, Matt Donello, percussion, and Joshua Modney, violin. Bean Lear's Sea of Monsters, a work adapted from his folk musical Lillian, depicting Lear's on-going romance with the sea, portrays a panorama of underwater creatures in a mischievous and provocative work hauntingly performed by the ai ensemble comprised of Isabel Castellvi, cello, Matt Donello, percussion, Joshua Modney, violin, Alejandro Acierto, clarinet, and Vicky Chow, piano.

There is a break, a clearing... not the usual intermission but an extension of the experience... food and drink in abundance, and The Harry Belafonte Band that conjures and appropriates the past as a part of now...

We are invited back to the space and wear sleeping masks as part of a sensory deprivation experiment, where we listen to the music as it unfolds... the illusion is that it plays inside our heads while each of us create our own images and "lighting" in the enormous caverns of personal consciousness. I am caught up in the sounds of an orchestra that seems invented for the moment. The sounds are vividly present... and I realize as I listen that this is not a recording... the energy in the space is vivid... and as I remove the mask I see that the curtain to our left has been removed, and we are connected to a live orchestral performance that is positively incandescent under the baton of Conrad Winslow. The orchestra is performing Pyramid Scheme, four movements by Grayson Sanders that flow through three axis (X=4 aspects of natural sound, Y=arc of energy for each movement, Z=timbre):

I. Space/Wood
II. Fluid Motion/Water
III. Patterns/Air
IV. Clusters/Metal.

Here is a brief excerpt...which of course cannot do justice to the whole... but it is included here to underscore the ephemeral presence of the experience... even the shakiness of the image suggests an ambience of a fleeting moment, the orchestra is filtered through the audience but has an immediacy that evokes the power and energy of these intense musicians in concert... a sounding presence... spontaneous, amplified by human energy as well as the enhancement of technology.

There are touches of Webern, Schoenberg, minimalism, Stravinsky, Pop, Rock, film scores...but the work is not eclectic. Rather Grayson Sanders fuses these elements and others into a personal voice that is compelling and authentic. The orchestra performs with passion and conviction. I have the sense that the incredible, combustible energy permeating the space must have been similar to the early part of the 20th century when a young George Gershwin burst upon the New York Scene infusing the practices of Tin Pan Alley, Jazz, folk, symphonic and European music into a new distinct post-modern style that would revolutionize every cryptic corner of the musical establishment.

A word must be said about the musicians who were outstanding. The concertmaster, Amanda Lo, is to be commended for assembling a first rate ensemble with absolutely no redundancy. In addition, the producers of this evening should be acknowledged for the originality of their approach and what they managed to achieve. In the space of a day they converted a raw space into an artistic, mixed media collage that played out as a holistic experience for everyone. One suspects that this emerges from the shared vision of the collective's founders, composers Ben Lear and Grayson Sanders. Their achievement is almost epic and demonstrates the persuasiveness of their artistic vision.

This was an extraordinary evening, an inspired confluence of thinkers, dreamers, musicians, technicians, and artists providing a path for future work. We applaud the deep conviction of the artists to merge the performance and audience as a unified entity coalescing as the essence of the artistic experience.

Across the Ether

When the new work of Varèse spilled across the conventional musical scene of the early twentieth century, he found himself stumbling among the ruins of the 19th Century. He was a pioneer, inventing genres, exploring new sounds, and is acknowledged as the "Father of Electronic Music." His music established a new ethos, so that including Varèse's Ionisation as the finale of Across the Ether provides a metaphor of this work reaching across Time to make a sounding presence for a new and growing artistic awareness, a new manifesto.

Across the Ether was an Internet2 multimedia performance on November 1 among distant sites including New York University, University of California Santa Cruz, Stony Brook University, and Bergen Community College. The NYU portion of the performance was in Loewe Theatre at 35 West Fourth Street, but the presence of California, New Jersey, and Long Island permeated the space, transforming it into a new artistic medium that would have made McLuhan proud.

The performance, based on interaction, spontaneity, and improvisation, unfolded with the air of a happening of the 70s, but through connections that dissolved the borders separating the collaborators as they merged in mutual and simultaneous spaces at each location, parallel universes of artistic activity. The NYU space projected to three screens that merged live and processed images and mixed images and sound from the distant sites as part of the artistic presence of the event. Ionisation provided the finale as performed by the NYU Percussion Ensemble under the inspired conducting of its director, Jonathan Haas. To hear this work performed live is a sonic treat, and this masterwork sounded as fresh and innovative as it did more than half a century ago. After the curtain call, performers combined in an improvisation of music and movement that celebrated the idea of pioneers in a journey through a new medium. Even now Across the Ether serves as a permanent web archive of the event, where collaborators continue to post the various media and interactions that comprise the event.

To be sure there were technical difficulties. Connections were lost and regained, much like travelers on a journey to remote regions separated from their origins by vast distances. In this production space stretched across the continental United States and the performers learned firsthand that indeed, Space IS Time. The imaginations of musicians, actors, filmmakers, dancers, and creative technical collaborators formed a medium of exchange that produced extraordinary moments of chemistry, a fragile chimeric collage reaching across the ether in a project of discovery.

The Beauty of Control

Two National Treasures of Korea, Byung Ki Hwang and Myung Sook Kim, combined creative forces and visions in a performance at the Asia Society on Saturday that was an extraordinary expression of beauty and control. Both come from deep traditions of Korean artistry that are deeply embedded in cultural practices centuries old. Byung Ki Hwang's composition for the Gayageum is based on sanjo, a Korean practice that is never scored, while Myung Sook Kim's choreography and dance is grounded in Korean traditional dance which she infuses with contemporary overtones. Consequently each artist, firmly rooted in their traditions, create a work, Taintless Spring, that seems uniquely 21st century.

Central to the music and the dance is the extreme control present that allows the work to gradually emerge as a masterwork for these artists. Supported by Hyun Sook Park at the Gayageum (Byung Ki Hwang controlled the whole with the jang gu) and additional dancers Kyung Eun Park, Jin Il Bae, Jung Lee, Jung Rae Kim, and Ji Hye Chung, Taintless Spring explores the subtle depths of the four seasons, beginning with Spring which unfolds as slowly as ice melting on an early spring day, the shade of bamboo in the stillness of a summer day, the autumnal change that brings a sense of joy, and the winds of winter subdued by the descending snow.

The work seems predicated on the control of the dancers which mirror the finesse and control of the Gayageum with its exacting structure and subtle "after-tone" ornaments that which seem even more exquisitely varied than the human voice. Movement reflects stasis, where movement slowly sculpts space as though each moment is sublimely rich with meaning and meant to be savored.

Festival of the Autumn Moon

Chuseok is a celebration of the full moon in Korea and other Asian countries (in China it is Zhongqiujie (traditional Chinese: 中秋節) calculated by the lunar calendar and is sometimes called the mid-autumn festival. It is a time for giving thanks and being with family, not unlike the Thanksgiving that is celebrated in the U.S.

On October 3, it was such a pleasure to return to Donghwa, a Korean Cultural Center in New Jersey, to celebrate this wonderful holiday, where I was introduced to the idea in the first place. The occasion was intimate and meaningful as the participants sat on the floor making rice cakes (songpyeon (송편), a crescent-shaped rice cake which is steamed upon pine needles. In this case, the pine needles were harvested by Young Cho earlier that day as he was hiking somewhere in New York, and the pine-scented aroma was especially fragrant. The moon festival celebrants created many moon-shaped rice cakes which were gathered up and steamed. The celebration concluded with a tea ceremony hosted by Mr. Cho while the center's director, Dr. Youngmi Ha explained the tea ceremony and its significance. The ceremony consisted of three pourings of the green tea. The ritual of pourings is always with odd numbers (not two or four), and the richness of the tea continues past the original pouring. The celebration is in the energy and spirit of the tea which in its most vital state, is the essence of Zen. The celebration which began in the late afternoon concluded as the sun was setting and the full moon was in ascendancy.

I drove with friends through the hills of New Jersey, leaving Englewood and weaving through the night terrain to Broad Avenue which took us to Palisades Park and the site of many Korean businesses and restaurants. One of our companions had recently moved to this charming little town. We parked and as we left the automobile we looked up into the night sky and saw the full moon that was the object of our festival celebration. A thin trail of clouds momentarily masked the moon. The picture here is of the Palisades Park moon in its full mystery and glory. We celebrated the moon and searched along Broad Avenue for a place to continue our feast of this beautiful full moon and the beginning of Autumn in the East.

We found Park Jang Kum, a restaurant for feasting and drinking right in the heart of Palisades Park. The menu seemed fashioned for celebrating Autumn, and we ordered more food than is legal for such a small group. Consequently the evening stretched into night with taste delight after taste delight. I was fortunate to be in the presence of such enchanting appreciators of the autumnal moon. As we were leaving, we wondered about the name of the restaurant and to our surprise Park Jang Kum came out and introduced herself... certainly we bonded that autumn evening of the full moon as a family away from families.

Something "Gut"

For me August is the end of a period... the end of the year, the end of a cycle... a time to reflect on the past and the future. September begins the new cycle.

It was in an August that I happened to be in Korea and learned about the Shaman, a cornerstone to Korean culture, even in these contemporary times. As I was about to leave Korea, I came upon a magnificent photograph, so striking that it seemed more like a painting than a photograph. The photograph was of a group of Shamans who were on the ocean between the Korean peninsula and Jeju Island, celebrating a end of the year ritual (a gut) of towing a small boat out to sea filled with debris and painful relics of the past year. Once out to sea, the boat full of the painful and destructive past is cut loose and sunk to the bottom, a symbol of clearing past transgressions to start fresh, with a clean slate.

The gut (pronounced goot) is a shamanistic rite. Through singing, dancing, and chanting, the Shaman intercedes with the forces of life to negotiate the present and the future. Shamans are most often women, wear a variety of very colorful costumes, and often speak in trance. During a gut a shaman changes costumes many times, fitting the attire to the needs of the occasions. Of special interest are the musicians who serve to interact with the Shaman. Using Korean traditional instruments, Shamans and musicians interact setting the mood and the tone for each gut. There are twenty four guts that have specific structure in ritualistic practice. At a service only three or four gut are performed at a particular time.

Three elements structure the gut: spirits, believers, and the shaman mediating between the two. The Shaman served as the core of the community, and the practice predates the arrival of Buddhism in Korea. Shamans assimilated Buddhism into their philosophy and practice. Consequently the Shaman remains an important facet of Korean Culture, although less than it was in ancient days of the dynasties.

So there is something of this end of year gut that resonates with me as September draws near. There is something cleansing about exorcising past demons through the hope of a new tomorrow. So even now, I am looking at the transgressions of this past year, the grudges and procrastinations, the neglect, jealousies, misunderstandings, and ill-fated motives. These I pile onto this barren and broken barge and use my music as a perfomative act of relegating these ruins to the irretrievable reaches of a dissolving cosmos.

An Incandescent Synchronicity

Sometimes the past lingers in the background waiting for a moment to emerge that erupts through the crust of routine in a sudden vortex of clarity. Our existence as sentient Beings connected through mutual awareness often is buried in mundane tedium that encourages us to forget who we really are.

So it was on a Wednesday in July as I went for routine exams at the Medical Center that the past serendipitously slapped me, reminding me that there is something that connects us to those that have touched us deeply as we go through life. No matter how remote we may become from each other, there is some binding medium that keeps us linked.

I had met with one person in particular working on a research and writing project where I was serving as a mentor because the project was of real interest to me. This person would come into the city several times a year, and we would meet as the idea of the research and writing gradually emerged. Suffice it say that this project was an original application of rhetoric to performance practice and interpretation. What was emerging was an exciting creation of a new research domain that provided new tools for investigating music performance. The researcher in question was a consummate pianist whose experience over the years had provided a context for understanding issues of performance and interpretation that transcended more conventional approaches.

These meetings went on for several years, including times when this person would stay with relatives in the city and I was invited to take part in holiday celebrations with the family on several occasions. This person's professional life was extremely rich and demanding, but there were difficulties serving as the primary caretaker for the performer's mother that exacted its toll on many facets of private and public life. There were many interruptions in the performer's life, and the ongoing work was lost in a maelstrom of personal difficulties.

Consequently, the visits for the purpose of pursuing this original and promising research project ceased, and we lost touch. Life continued, and as I came across other people who were involved in their own projects of creation and research, I would remember our many visits and discussions that were linked by many mutual resources and regretted that nothing came of those discussions, of that unfinished business. I never did quite understand why our collegial connection was lost.

Yet on that particular Wednesday, having completed my medical exams, I passed through the lobby of the Center. I usually exit the complex quickly, but for some reason I decided to sit in a waiting area on the main floor. Such moments are always special for me, as I am confirmed people watcher, and the lobby of a medical complex provides an array of interesting subjects. Curiously, I thought of my pianist/researcher friend for no reason at all...wondering what could be going on at that time.

Gradually, I became aware of a man and a woman sitting across from me in the lobby. They looked familiar, but I dismissed this at first because they were some distance across from me and my eyesight currently is not exactly eagle-eyed. Of course one of them was on a cell phone. The voice seemed familiar, but also was filtered from a distance. Then I heard the name of my pianist friend. Just coincidence?

I arose from my chair and walked toward them... "please excuse me," I said, and I asked them if they were related to my friend. Indeed they were, as they were the family members I had met a number of years ago at the holiday gatherings. As it turned out, my friend was on the other end of the line, and we again made contact after so many years.

All of us were astonished at the incandescence of the moment, as though Time and Space had suddenly been torn, and we stepped into a clearing to meet again.

Through the Rain

Rain was falling in torrents on the summer pavement outside the restaurant. Because the restaurant was slightly below street level, the man at the table gazed at water rapids that had quickly formed exactly at his eye-level. So far it was a curious summer. Curious, because somehow summer was missing, and in its place came this mysterious month of monsoons that was June. Now July seemed to be punctuating the June onslaught with extremely heavy rainstorms so thick and powerful that the rain and wind shattered umbrellas like fragile toothpicks.

As he watched the storm, he felt oddly comfortable with the violence outside the window at eye-level. It was as though he was in the midst of the storm but protected in some sort of time-shift that left him immune to the elements. It was as though he was traveling through time, and observing transformations of space through the mutation of time, somehow embedded in the intimacy of Time while remaining aloof.

He realized that part of this surreal scene was in the afternoon that encapsulated the past in a strange calling forth of time remembered through meeting a friend and colleague that he had not seen for about 25 years. Yet lately he had chance encounters with him on the street, by the library, or at a restaurant, in a tapestry of crossing paths that finally had led to this meeting in a restaurant across from the park. North Square had gone through many incarnations, yet it continued to dwell cozily ensconced in a New York scene that could have easily been in another century, for there was nothing to suggest that we had turned the corner into a new century that was already tempestuous and teetering on the verge of being out of control.

Their conversation wove together the past and the present, each coming from realities and perceptions that existed like parallel universes suddenly colliding in a moment of mutual recognition. Now the rain came like a veil to conceal and seal the moment into an altered awareness that might continue to grow. As violently as the torrential downpour transformed the streets into rivers, it now dwindled into a quiet moment of punctuating this summer afternoon as a past remembered and a promise of discovery.

Fathers' Day

After many, many sleepless nights that began as a siege against my psyche some months ago, I finally slept on the eve of Summer Solstice and coincidentally, Father's Day. I have remembered my father more than a few times lately as I recognize that the demons I struggle with in these recent days are the same forces he battled in his final years. I find myself often nodding in moments of insights, recognition, and understanding.

So it is no surprise that I dreamed of my father last night. What was surprising was that my son also played a major role in this somnolent production.

My father, my son, and I were living together in some strange yet familiar building in a community that is my frequent destination whenever I dream. It is a place both urban and rural, with a row of buildings on a tree-lined street. Behind our building on the corner of the street directly in back of us is an old magnificent church with a steeple that defines the sky and the horizon.

My son was in his teens and struggling to understand himself in the context of the world, a world he never made but now demanded his allegiance and compliance. I saw this same bewilderment in his face the moment he was born, as though he had been plucked from another universe and thrust into this new existence without warning or explanation.

I found myself in a large shopping mall, and came across my son roaming through the mall and ending in a game room where he was playing various games with his friends. I asked him about the car and he threw me the keys. Somehow I knew where the car was and I noticed there was damage to the cars next to us. Then it became evident that our car was totaled and suddenly I was with my Dad and the car in front of our building. My Dad was laughing and I was distressed.

"I don't know if it is worth rebuilding," I said as we assessed the damage.

"Of course we"ll rebuild it," my Dad replied, "it's a great car."

This was the essence of my Dad's philosophy. Everything was always within our control and despair was pointless. Quietly he shaped the circumstances of our lives so we always were creating our future from the circumstances of the present.

My son came home and saw the car, and we were already were reclaiming the parts and sorting them for renewal. He attempted to say something about the damage, but my Dad held up his hand and said that it would take my son many years to surpass the wrecks he had with more cars than he could remember. "The odds are always against you, " he observed, "but in the end, you can beat 'em." He continued to my son, "When you surpass my record, then you can be sorry... but not too much or too long..."

The only time the three of us were actually together were a few summers in Arkansas when my son was around nine years old. It was an idyllic time where we drove around the mountains finding swimming holes, caves, and caverns. At night we cooked out and my son regaled us with descriptions of the universe, fueled only by his imagination and the magnificent summer sky that served as a canopy, a movable tent that was somehow an assurance that all was right with the world despite the relentless onslaught of reality that seemed always lurking in background with sinister intentions.

This dream resonates even now, as though celebrating the joys of fathers and sons connected through real and remembered fantasies of the heart.

Dr. Peter Lefkow: A Practice of Caring

When I met Peter Alan Lefkow some 28 years ago, I knew then that he was not only a doctor, he was my friend. He had a special gift of connecting with his patients on a deeply personal level. Somehow what he had to give was so genuine and powerful that it broke through to your deepest level of acceptance and awareness. We were both associated with the same university, and even though we traveled in different professional circles, his deep respect for me as a colleague inspired and invited me to a higher level of excellence.  I had been referred to him by the mother of my son, who was always very diligent about researching such things. She insisted that he should become my doctor because even at that time in the earlier part of his career he was known as "the Doctors' Doctor."

As busy and rushed as he was, he always gave the best of what defined him as special and committed. For the most part, my basic treatment was for high blood pressure, until I had been with him for almost 17 years. I was not a very good patient. I practiced denial, and was slow to make appointments. Then after years of denial, while driving my son from a hockey game, I suffered a severe stroke. Somehow we managed to drive directly to the medical center and I was rushed into the emergency room. The attendants contacted Dr. Lefkow, and managed to stop the stroke. It seemed almost in a flash that Dr. Lefkow arrived. He was angry with me because of my neglect. He admonished me. "You are so lucky. What happened to you is usually fatal." Then he said, "You are going to see me a lot. From now on, you and I are going to be the best of buddies." He remained true to this promise. and I have enjoyed my life and my career partly because of his steadfast insistance, presence, and support. I always remembered this moment when I reflected on his initials while sitting in the examination room surrounded by his degrees on the wall. PAL formed the perfect acronym for what he was to all of us.

He helped my son through rough times of depression and personal struggles. Dr. Lefkow always remained a source that has been a comfort and a joy.

Above all, Peter Lefkow was a gentleman. He cared deeply about us and about all of his patients. But we were distinct individuals in the context of a large and highly successful practice. A few years ago at a routine checkup, the cardiogram indicated that I had developed atrial fibrillation. He came into the room and embraced me. "I am so sorry that this has developed, but you are going to be all right. Not to worry."

This past summer when I met with him during a major checkup, I sat across from him after I came out of the examination room into his office. His manner was calm and confident. He was upbeat and talked about the future management of my condition. He set certain goals and landmarks for the Fall. I was scheduled for a stress test in August, but it was later cancelled. "We'll re-schedule in September," his nurse assured me.

Now, Dr. Lefkow has suddenly passed out of our lives. Sudden for those of us who did not realize that he was gravely ill with cancer. That Dr. Lefkow, despite his own ongoing struggle, remained such a remarkable physician to his patients speaks to the inner strength and commitment of this remarkable man.

I went to his office to see his nurse Nuria to pick up my charts. Nuria was the extension of Peter Lefkow. Together they formed a perfect caring practice, and she was always the connection that kept us going. The phone rang while I was there and I overheard Nuria saying, "You know how strong he was. He remained in control of himself." She went on to say that on Sunday evening when it became clear that nothing else could be done, he acknowledged this and quietly went to sleep and was gone.

Yet, even now I feel his presence and his quiet assurance. So many lives were enriched by his being in the world. We are all deeply saddened by our loss, the emptiness of his absence in our lives.

In the Land of Carlisle

Katie Workum Dance Theatre premiered Carlisle at Dance New Amsterdam (DNA) in New York City, October 10. Katie Workum describes this fantastical place:

Carlisle is a place where women warp and swarm, goats trot on ancient mountain switchbacks, ghosts shimmer quietly and wolves tear away at fences. Limbs and ideas intermingle with our animal instincts, our sadness and our gladness. The inhabitants live in a both abstract and familiar world of impulses, camaraderie and antlers that make up all our everyday lives.

(Program Note by Katie Workum)

The arena is DNA where the raw space seems stripped down to the equipment of theatre, lights in abundance, a mirrored wall to the side, which for some performances must serve as "offstage". But nothing in Carlisle seems offstage, even when its inhabitants roam in and out of doors on the left that might be caves or homes or openings to another world. Structural columns define the space like limbless trees on a landscape that ultimately rests in the imagination.

A quartet of dancers, Samantha Allen, Ivy Baldwin, Kennis Hawkins and Hannah Heller, are creatures of Carlisle. Their movement is personal, primal, and poetic. Each seems distinctly defined but in flux, changing on a continuum that morphs from women to creatures and back again. Perhaps more importantly these women have voices and their language is choreographed as carefully as their bodies. Moreover, these voices sing spontaneously, almost as though the music emanates from the land of Carlisle like an atmospheric vapor or at times raucous and raw. Carlisle is strangely a land absent of men. Women form the full reality, and there are conflicts and issues among the four that emerge through gesture and utterances.

Then suddenly, on the side, a silent procession of Korean women glide across the floor at the right, their shimmering forms echoed in the mirror. They are curiously detached, in another world, beautiful, mysterious, transient, disappearing as quietly as they emerged. They form a serene ensemble (danced by Ahreum Chung, Jae Im Chung, Jee Yeon Jang, Ah Rong Kim, Eunkung Kim, Ji Yeun Lee, and Soo Hyun Park).

But in Carlisle, the panorama and struggles continue, oblivious to the gliding phantoms that linger on the outskirts of reality. The dichotomy is rich with possibilities, but the work cannot fully engage in the potential of choreographic ideas, musical awareness, and narrative ambiguity. There just isn't time.

At the end there is a fusion of the forces as though somehow the musical penetration has created an equilibrium where everything is resolved. There are brilliant uses of silence as a presence, electronics by Jenny Seastone Stern, and the rich tapestry of Katie Workum's imagination. We are coaxed into believing that the bizarre is routine, and that after all, in a Pirandellian twist, this is just a show.