Sudden Fiction: The Ferry & Walt Whitman

He stood at the rear of the Staten Island Ferry, looking through the rain at the buildings of Manhattan. Hadn't Walt Whitman ridden the Ferry to Staten Island a hundred years earlier? What had Whitman seen? Somehow his words seemed to permeate the air around him --- each drop of rain measured itself to the irregular rhythms of his verse:  

What is then between us? What is the count of scores or hundreds of years between us? What ever it is, it avails not --- distance avails not, and place avails not, I too lived, Brooklyn of ample hills was mine, I too walk'd the streets of Manhattan Island and bathed in the waters around it, I too felt the curious abrupt questionings stir within me... Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged, Missing me one place search another, I stop somewhere waiting for you. 

 At last, he thought, I have found you. You ride these waters with me, as you always have. I was not silent before --- therefore I couldn't hear your songs in the air. When I looked at Manhattan, I strained to see myself, so I looked right through you. But you are here, Walt Whitman, your laughter and your tears comfort me. I feel you in the rain --- I hear you in the night. 

The ferry swung around Governor's Island. The Statue of Liberty could be seen through the rain, and the rain had provided him privacy on the deck. He roamed from side to side as if he was afraid he would miss something important that he should see. But there was little to see. The night and the rain were like huge curtains draped around him. 

The Statue of Liberty could be discerned as through a haze and looked more painted than real. He wondered how it could seem so beautiful from the front. When he had seen it from the New Jersey Turnpike, it looked as if you could wade out to it from the New Jersey Shore. He remembered also that you looked at it over the roofs of dirty old buildings and several junk yards. He thought this must demonstrate how all things beautiful have their ugly side, but he felt this reasoning was more a word game than the truth. 

Soon the Ferry was past the Statue and was suddenly suspended in time it seemed --- gliding on air --- for some unexplained reason the engines had been turned off and the ferry slid silently and smoothly through the darkness. To the side of the Ferry a barge floated with smoking garbage loaded on its surface. The rain had evidently extinguished the flames. 

The sound of a deep horn made him cast his glance on the other side of the Ferry. A large tanker moved by--- like a huge ghost ship --- ablaze with lights, the loading booms looked like ancient abandoned masts. 

The engines of the Ferry began to throb again abruptly, and the vibrations shook the frame of the ferry with a constant caress---as a mother gently shakes the cradle to coax her infant to sleep. He realized the engines must have been cut to permit the tanker to pass by the Ferry. 

As the Ferry cut an arc in the water in preparation to land at Staten Island, he looked into the sky. He couldn't be sure whether there were tears in his eyes or whether it was just the rain, but he felt an ineffable sadness, for he knew he would miss this. 

He looked at everything for the last time, and he was aware that there was too much to be seen at a single glance. He was sorry he had failed to look at everything with eyes that understood---until now. This final moment only impressed upon him how much he had missed, and how much more he would miss after he was gone. He stepped off the Ferry wondering if Walt Whitman had stopped, waiting for him somewhere up ahead.

The Bill of Rock

Having known Bill Rayner for many years, I had never heard him perform in his true setting of a rock band conceived in New Paltz in the 80s and still going strong. I had known him as a doctoral student who created inventive concoctions on the Fairlight, and composed contemporary music of all styles and genre. I knew of his background in Rock, but I didn't know it. At that time for me, he was the Bill of Composition and Contemporary Music. I knew he played a mean guitar, but I never really heard him play.

Recently he performed a gig at Wicked Willy's, and I had the good fortune to be there for a non-stop two-hour feast of music from the heart and soul of Last Generation with Billy Rayner (guitar, vocals), Dave Ostram (bass), and Mark Flynn (drums).

Billy has an immediacy and energy that infuses the space with electricity. His music is outstanding, much more insightful than the crowd at Wicked Willy's expects, but there were a number who realized that Last Generation is something special. Of course there are the others who don't care, as long as the music is loud and constant. His vocals are often lyrical and smooth or punching and driving. He slips in and out of voices in chimerical fashion, and his guitar provides raucous timbres or smooth and mellow vibes, more kinds of vibratos and right hand technique than one might hear in other bands, and it all is connected with the past while carving out a niche in the here and now.

His bassist, Dave Ostrom, is, as Rayner referred to him, awesome. He bass lines are pure liquid, original, with such shape and range that I was constantly amazed at his inventiveness. He creates a driving energy that Billy and the drummer, Mark Flynn, assimilate and fuse with their own work so that the ensemble is tight and yet incredibly open and versatile. Every moment is incandescent, vibrant, and even amidst the clamor of a come-and-go style bar like Willy's, thoughtful and perceptive. Standing in the middle of the band, his work took on a fusional role, constantly responding and commenting, and adding to and transforming the mix.

Mark Flynn is another musician that I knew of but had never heard his professional work. His contribution was integral, obviously attuned to the mood and ambiance of each work. He was often a catalyst to get things started, or to establish the song. His performance captured and propelled every moment. He also did backup vocals. Some believe that the driving force of a rock band is the drummer, and Flynn's perceptive empathic sense of what is going on and his anticipation of texture and expression might reinforce that perception. His work was very musical, at times, even lyrical.

Last Generation has gone through many iterations and generations. Billy has evolved over time and his work has no doubt deepened. His inspiration comes from his life and his connection with the past, his friends and family. It is work that I wished I had known earlier. It is of the past and present, and searching for a vision for the future. If you check out Last Generation, you will get a taste of the group, but only the spontaneity of the live moment can really give you a sense of the dynamism and charisma of the man that I have come to know now as the Bill of Rock.

Imagine a Saturday Musicale on the Lower East Side: The Artistry of Soyoung Min

Imagine a bright mid spring Saturday in New York on the Lower East Side. The sun is bright, but inviting, friendly and the air is fresh. Along East Broadway people are enjoying the day, walking, smiling, and waving to each other. Imagine coming upon a building reminiscent of Greek revival and entering into a friendly lobby, sitting with others who are waiting to go up to a private apartment where a concert of keyboard music awaits you in the splendor of a quiet afternoon with shafts of sunlight peaking through the shaded windows. Imagine a gracious host who is the husband of the artist, whose name is Jim, comes to the lobby to greet you and serve as your escort.

You are lifted up to this apartment for the afternoon musicale with large elevators on each side of the lobby, and you enter a room that has been prepared for this event, a spacious high ceiling living room with seats aligned along the north wall and to the side along the west wall that looks out over East Broadway. In the alcove created, lay the instruments that will soon speak to the occasion, a seven-and-a-half-foot harpsichord, green with gold trim, and a seven-foot concert Steinway grand with the lid fully extended. Both seemed poised for musicing.

You remove your shoes, and find your place to listen. As you settle into your seat, imagine that the artist Soyoung Min emerges from the bedroom, which almost seems as though it was planned to function as the offstage area. She is greeted with applause as she walks from the hallway into the livingroom and takes her place at the harpsichord.

She pauses. Then she touches the dual keyboard, and the strains of Frecobaldi's Toccata Settima seem to float from the instrument, tentative at first, almost as though the piece were being created on the spot in an improvised manner. The sound has an intimate though pervasive quality, extremely focused and resonant. Soyoung Min hovers on the brink of discovery and recognition, threading the exquisite linear textures with care and affection. One could imagine an inner vocalizing threading the musical line of the plucked notes as a metaphysical legato transcending the limitations of the instrument. This continues in the eloquent Tombeau fair a Paris sur la mort de Monsieur Blancheroche by Johann Jakob Froberger written in memory of his friend who died in his arms. This sensitive, polyphonic lament infuses a profound sensibility in Min's performance, spontaneous and immediate. Min concludes the harpsichord set with Rameau's Gavotte avec 6 Doubles, a fanciful romp over the keyboards that is no longer contrapuntal in the strict sense of the style, but musical lines flowing with harmonic function in imaginative permutations. There is an air of seriousness in Min's demeanor, but underneath there is a spirit of play, mischievous and spirited.

Min departs briefly while the space is transformed from an intimate drawing room to a concert stage. Even so, during this transformation, in which the lid of the harpsichord is lowered, the room resonates with the residual material of three remarkable harpsichord works brought to life for a moment on this Saturday afternoon.

Now the concert grand takes center stage. Soyoung Min is greeted with warm applause as she enters and takes her place at the piano. She begins with Chopin Impromptus, Op. 29 in A-flat, Op. 36 in F-sharp, and Op.51 in G-flat, all major keys. The works take us through an arc of development for Chopin, all have an air of improvised impetuosity, lyrical fantasies with shifting moods and endless melodic imagination that lingers in the air, overlapping with a wondrous presence. Min plays all three in a seamless connection revealing a magical affinity of the works.

The Impromptus serve as the gateway to Chopin's epic Sonata No. 2 in B-Flat Minor, Op.35, an almost iconic work that forms the centerpiece of this afternoon's performance. Soyoung has a commanding presence in this work, a conviction that articulates each texture and shift in mood with resolute purpose and abandon, entering regions of repose and risking everything in a passionate plunge into the maelstrom of textures and emotions. This is a work that requires extraordinary strength and control while rushing to the precipice and holding back just in time to avoid calamity. At the same time the piece calls for a lyrical intrusion that alternates and lifts us to a new awareness. Soyoung understands this perfectly, and she crafts every note with such care and expressive power that we are swept along with her. This is an extraordinary performance, melding with the remoteness of this spring afternoon in which we are transported to a different time and place. The funeral march of the third movement is hypnotic, but also couched in a grandeur that we no longer understand or comprehend today. The sheer strength of touch and tone in the final iteration shakes us to the core.

Throughout the performance, Soyoung Min is captivated by the sound of the music. Her expression is fixed as though not to betray her emotions or give in to them, which is a luxury that we as listeners can afford. She is transported by the flow of a seamless moment to moment. Chopin's music is an emotional terrain that is challenging and poignant. Throughout his work is the ebb and flow of sexual energy that connects with the moment, and Soyoung builds on this forcefulness with vigorous intensity. One final word about the structure of the concert, it is organically conceived, moving the audience through various levels, beginning almost casually and building to the climax of the Chopin sonata, occurring almost precisely at the Golden Mean. The Sonata's climactic movement unfolds in the same ratio.

Soyoung bring us down gently with three Chopin Mazurkas that are playfully brilliant and the essence of Chopin's compositional achievemments. She concludes with Elliott Carter's, Caténaires, a pointilistic toccata-like piece that requires stamina from the performer and listener alike.


For an encore, Soyoung shares a new found love in Schubert which she celebrates with child-like wonder. Schubert's G-Flat Impromptu is liquidly eloquent, with moments of rapture connected by such lyrical lines that require exquisite shading and understanding. Soyoung Min ultimately enchants us with her persuasive love for this work, and as she remarked she could play this piece endlessly over and over, and we could also listen without end, for there is no repetition but continuous discovery.

Imagine sitting in this magical temporary concert hall on this Saturday afternoon that is dipping into evening. Imagine that the sounds still linger in the room, reluctant to leave. Imagine that for a moment you have been transformed by a deep musical experience that touches the essence of who and what we are as a species. Imagine that such moments are rare and are to be celebrated and treasured.

The Real Massacre of Valentine's Day

Long before I was born, Al Capone of the Chicago South Side Italian Gang slaughtered seven members of Bugs Moran's North Side Irish Gang on February 14, 1929, which became known as The St. Valentine's Day Massacre. This was truly a brutal act. Even though it does not involve murder, the personal toll of Valentine's Day has left its mark on me.

Every year since I was about six years old, I have had a knot of fear that starts to develop about a week before February 14th because I have come to associate it with rejection, rejection of gigantic proportions over years and years. Yes, I know this is just my imagination, but the knot in the pit of my stomach seems real enough, and on February 14th I usually feel like staying in bed with the covers up over my head.

It all started in preschool. On the night before Valentine's Day, we had to punch out pre-cut Valentines from a Valentine booklet of cards for our classmates. Even then we were targeting the ones we especially idolized. Everyone else was doing the same. On the morning of Valentine's day we would exchange our Valentines, but it was clear from our choices who we really wanted to be our Valentine. I never connected with any of my first loves. In fact, I would get messages that were the equivalent of "get lost" ...

The worst part of this was that this Valentine ritual was so ingrained as part of the school culture that there was no escape. Every year I dreaded making those Valentines, creating messages with hidden meanings, and putting names on envelopes. Of course as we got older, it became more sophisticated with chocolates, flowers, and fancy gifts, and the stakes were even higher. The distress and defeat was even greater. As we approached junior high school, I tried being sick on that day, but that was even worse as I became a pariah and was generally ostracized. I guess these defeats could be traced to bad timing and poor choices, but in general, Valentine's day came to be anticipated as supreme, unequivocal disappointment.

Even though now, it shouldn't matter, I still get that feeling and a general malaise sets in as I realize Valentine's day is approaching. I envy all those happy lovers and wish them well. Wish I could be them, but I have other triumphs and destinations, so I guess this once a year trauma is something I can endure. It is something like an old war wound that acts up whenever the weather is about to turn bad.

This year, I have an out that can lessen the pain. The Asian New Year begins on February 14th this year. I can tell myself it isn't Valentine's Day, it is the Year of the Tiger.

A Spiritual Awakening

Some of you that know me may have been aware that I have been in the midst of an identity and professional crisis in which I could not find my way through the maze of doubt and frustration.

Imagine that you have fallen asleep and in your sleep you succumb to a nightmare that is very real. You are struggling in the water, slipping down, gasping for air and flailing your arms. There is no rescue in sight and you writhe in futile contortions striving to survive, but with each passing moment you are losing the battle.

Your life flashes by in front of you, the lingering disappointments, the brief successes, the loves, all that you have tried to create remapping your journey one last time as you sink toward oblivion. The friends that made up your world seem to surround you, but you cannot reach them. They seem almost indifferent. All seems lost and irrelevant as you grapple with fistfuls of water slipping through your fingers just as you are dwindling and lingering with one final attempt to break free.

Then, suddenly and quite unexpectedly you feel someone touching you, reaching inside of you, rousing you. You awake to find that you were caught in a nightmare, sleeping on the pier and not in the water. The reality is that you were never in danger despite the appearances and the terrifying feelings you were undergoing in the midst of your drowning.

I awoke to a spiritual awareness that is deeper and sharper than ever before. I can never forget that I felt my soul touched by a deeply etched reality through someone with vision and clarity. It is Soul that sings, and I find myself singing.

In the midst of this Spiritual awareness, I exist in a new context of this journey. It is Spirit that sustains and inspires. Spirit is the substance that underlies everything. Spirit sustains a revived vision and purpose, inspiring me to recognize and add to the beauty that I am discovering from moment to moment.

The Emptiness of Anguish

There is nothing I can do about this inner pain that plagues me except to recognize that it at least reminds me that I am still alive. Not that being alive is necessarily so great, but then I have never known "not being alive."

I have a friend who defines each moment as "This is my life." This seems to persuade my friend that things are unfolding as they inevitably should, and is beyond control. I agree that any notion that we have control over the moments and events in our lives is pure illusion.

So I have tried using "This is my life, my destiny," but it doesn't work for me. There is such power in love and desire that we can be shredded in our encounters with disappointment. Love and friendship unrequited and unreturned still makes the world go round. It is the stuff that inspires great art (or so we are led to believe).

Today's generations have other ways of dealing with anguish, and may be less disabled by disappointment. I don't know. But somehow they seem more casual, less intense, and more able to cope when obstacles block all possible routes. Beethoven found a way to cope with his disappointment, to be resigned to admiring his distant beloved from afar. Or maybe he didn't. Maybe the pain was always there.

I think that somehow I must withdraw, but there seems to be no way to think beyond that. As I withdraw, the pain becomes more intense, but if I remain in the midst of it all, I almost collapse from the force of my emotion.

I try to find some mechanism to cope. I try to appreciate that which I admire. One thing about me that I understand: I have the capacity to deeply appreciate. I savor and enjoy all that I encounter. Time, moments, people, and events invade the core of my Being. I notice these things with a depth of awareness that can transform them and myself as I translate this response through inquiry and dialogic process.

I also understand that a negative force can undermine the positive vision that I have of those around me with the beguiling innuendo that they have become distracted and ineffective, or that I have burdened them by placing too much hope and confidence in their potential. I recognize these temptations as negative energy that seeks to destroy the good, the beautiful, and the true. Ultimately, it is self destruction.

But there is something that gnaws at my core... a fear of being alone. Being alone, "All One," was once my standard. Now I face some sense of emptiness and wish someone would or could answer me without reservation.

So this is a solitary act. I write this for myself. No one else really reads this.

C J at The Bitter End

On the last day of January, an historic event took place at The Bitter End: Korean songs were premiered for a New York Crowd. CJ Jeon, who has been in this country for about three months, premiered four of his songs in the Sunday night session, two in Korean and two in English. The two songs sung in Korean were "La La" and "Lie on My Bed". The two songs in English were "Street Man" and "In My Side."

CJ has a comfortable style, intimate and thoughtful, accompanying himself on the guitar. His voice is private, personal, with a wide range of nuances. Clearly the text is the controlling element, and he is faithful to each moment of the narrative or mood. The effect is that of spontaneity and immediacy. The Bitter End is not conducive to this quiet kind of musical reflection, but CJ was poised and in control. His vocal style connects with the text, and he shapes the phrase with slight shifts in timbre, not as a conscious gesture but in response to the text and the moment.

The fourth song "In My Side" reveals an extraordinary talent, a song that unfolds in a quiet envelop of contemplation, a simple melody, but definitely the substance of today, almost reminiscent at moments of ballads by Radio Head. I believe Koreans are instinctually poets, as their language possesses a beautiful ambiguity that connects with the world in strikingly original ways. CJ's lyrics are beautifully concrete and full of amiguity. He draws upon the images of nature, but they expand as they exist inside of his awareness, of his dreams. The image "breathe, through my tongue" cuts through the moment in anguish before relinquishing to the calm.

Here are the final verses of the lyrics, couched in a stark, but elegant melody delivered in a lyrical flow, with an underlying concern that touches our hearts.

I thought it`s up in the air, in the end
But I saw a light, light where it is
And I see the sun
I see the sky
I see the wind
In my world

I thought I throw everything in my side
But I didn`t get rid of my dream
It takes my way and
It takes my dreams
It takes my love
Breathe, through my tongue...
Breathe, through my tongue...
Words of calm.

(Copyright 2010 CJ Jeon All Rights Reserved)

Fiesta 2.0: More Adventures of the Trio

It was a bitter cold January evening when the trio came together to celebrate Fiesta 2.0 on the return of one of our members to this country. The wind was strong and the moon was full.

Our original plan was to go to the Palisadium Restaurant DaeWon as part of an ongoing playful project of making a movie, and the great food. I had been to Daewon several years ago, a magnificent Korean restaurant overlooking the Hudson. Spectacular! We had talked about this adventure for several weeks. When we called for reservations, we learned that it had closed about a year ago! Not to be dissuaded, we thought we would go to Wonju II restaurant in Edgewater, in a ferry sitting on the Hudson River with a glamorous view of New York City. A review had described this Korean Restaurant as a good experience and the tables might sway a little, not from too much Soju, but from the ferryboat swaying gently with the river currents. This seemed the perfect answer to our dashed hopes of Daewon, even more romantic and a perfect place for our Fiesta. We call it Fiesta 2.0 because we had our first Fiesta more than a month ago when a different member returned from being out of the continental United States. After we had agreed upon this new destination, one in our trio learned from a Korean Cab driver that Wonju II had been out of business for a couple of years. This was beginning to seem like a conspiracy. Two prime Korean restaurants with outstanding food, locations and views were no longer in business!

Since our trio consists of aficionados who relish good Korean food, we are always on the lookout for Korean places that are excellent and unusual. Our criterion for the Fiesta is that we should try some place new. We felt there had to be something worthy of a Fiesta in New Jersey, so we decided to try Dong Bang Grill. What a great find! Located not far from the George Washington Bridge, this restaurant provides an elegant setting with etched glass panels and several dining rooms, along with a beautiful sushi bar. At first it was hard to appreciate the elegance we had stumbled upon, because there was no parking anywhere near the restaurant, and being from Texas, I have trouble with the concept of valet parking. Finally my friends persuaded me that this was the only alternative, but we were still faced with fierce winter gusts that cut to the bone as we left the car and headed for the entrance.

Every table is well appointed and arranged to create an open friendly atmosphere. There are windows that look to the East, including the bridge and upper NYC. After gaining entrance, we went up the stairs and were immediately ushered to a beautiful table near the wall with etched glass panels.

We were ready for a special feast, and the ambiance of the space welcomed us. With the barbecue grill in front of us, we were soon warming up to the prospects of the evening. My companions are much more knowledgeable than I about the nature of the menu, and soon they were conspiring to orchestrate the evening with an array of foods calculated to create an unforgettable sequence.

The first barbecue we had which was not marinated was SAENG GALBI: No frills just all natural 100% Black Angus beef short ribs, followed by DongBang GALBI : Beef short ribs in DB's own authentic marinade. Our soup was SAENGTAE JIGAE, a fresh pollack fish casserole with vegetables. The side dishes were like mini-feasts, plentiful and little taste excursions in their own right.

Perhaps the crowning moment for me was the discovery of OB, the premiere Korean beer. In general I have not been a beer drinker as my father prejudiced me against wanting to taste it by saying to me when I was very young that beer tasted awful, and as far as he was concerned "they could have left it in the horse."

OB had such a compelling taste that I could have stayed all night and drunk myself under the table, but fortunately I had friends who were more sensible. We drank a toast to Fiesta 2.0, to the new year and to the realization of our great and future dreams.

Looking across our neighboring tables we saw CHA DOL BAEGI, thin sliced sirloin steak with no marinade. Since I have never tried it, my friends decided we should conclude our meal with this third and final main course, which was a good decision since good things usually come in threes. We were not disappointed, but I discovered that we had to eat the steak as soon as it left the fire so it would not dry out.

We wanted to go somewhere for dessert and thought there would have to be some great places in Fort Lee, but our waitress knew of none and suggested we drive along main street. We did, and I can tell you that there is nothing grimmer than Main Street in Fort Lee after 10 p.m.

Instead, we went to a wonderful dessert place in Palisades Park, Fruit Gelatoria on Broad Avenue. It appears to be one of the few places in New Jersey that remains open until midnight. One of the attractive features of this Gelateria is that they make their own gelato and yogurt. The selection was extensive and delicious. I tried the mango gelato and my friends had yogurt. The yogurt was the best I have tasted, worth a drive to Palisades Park anytime. Even Fiestas have to come to a close, and although we teased each other about going to the city, I think we were willing to call it a Fiesta.

Outside, the winter evening had crept toward midnight, and the wind was still blowing, but a little less insistent. Inside, we were closing the Gelatoria, as we were the only remaining customers, and they had started to stack the chairs and sweep the floors.

Walking out into the night, I was struck by the silence of the brittle winter air; our celebration seemed punctuated by the full moon so luminous above us.

All in the Voice

Once long ago, when I was set on becoming a composer and fancied myself as a cross between Gershwin and Brahms, I became hopelessly lost over a failed romance, as is expected of overly romantic adolescents. It was the classic rejection. I was smitten by Amanda, but she was less than enthusiastic about me since she already had a hunk of a guy who was on the football team. Amanda was a stunning redhead, who could play the piano inside out and had legs that were the stuff that make movie stars.

I was so distraught, I wandered the city for days. I didn't eat. I ended up late one night on the roof of a parking garage, looking at the city lights, winking as though in reply to the twinkling stars of an exceptionally bright Texas night. Inexplicably, or perhaps predictably, I collapsed. I awoke in a hospital and for some odd reason the doctors thought I had appendicitis and had removed my appendix. My parents had been summoned and they drove 120 miles to see what their son had been up to. The Chair of my department came to see me and showed genuine concern and understanding. I was in a state of bewilderment at this turn of events from unrequited love.

This culminated the day before Thanksgiving. I could not travel home. The doctors released me to the university infirmary. Infirmaries at that time had notoriously low level security so I left the infirmary and found my way to the practice rooms to see if this adversity conjured any masterpieces for me. It had not, but there were snippets of ideas and I played somewhat feebly because the wrapping around my body securing the stitches was so tight.

A woman that I recognized as an alto from the choir came into my practice room.

"What are you doing here? It's Thanksgiving..." Dorothy seemed puzzled, but sympathetic.

"I just had my appendix out, and I can't travel home."

She insisted that I spend Thanksgiving with her family. She was married and had a small daughter. I tried to protest, but she was insistent.

So I went along and was well taken care of and quickly came to adore her daughter, who it turned out was struggling with remarkable courage and cheerfulness although disabled with cerebral palsy.

Days later Dorothy was asked to sing a solo in the choir. When I heard her sing, I was blown away. I had never heard a voice such as this, so resonant and rich that it seemed to emerge from and fill the room. That voice was the inspiration for many songs including one about her daughter, "Always Be My Sweet Little Girl."

I never heard a voice like that again for years until recently I heard someone singing a foreign folksong and the resonance filled the space with a radiance of sheer sound that overwhelmed my senses, much the way a fine liqueur permeates the tongue with intense taste. I was actually stunned to hear such a voice again, as I thought I never would.

The true source of identity is through the voice. The voice begins from the breath in the center of body and is released to the air in a moment of definition. Drawn inward, released outward to the world. Our word "personality" comes from the Latin "per sonare" meaning to speak through. The reason the Greeks wore masks in their dramas, is that they believed the true essence of the character came through the voice, hence the characters in the play were known as dramatis personae.

Somehow in hearing this voice I felt touched by the presencing of identity embodied in the sonority of singing so profound that its essence seems etched immutably in the inward chambers of my permanent awareness.

Naomi Tarantal and the Art of Felting

Felting is the art of transforming garments and materials into works of art. It is an ancient art and appears to be enjoying a revival.

Naomi Tarantal is a visual artist who has worked with many media, and she now finds herself drawn to felting. She recently exhibited her work as part of a Collective at New York University, and her work occupied two windows of NYU Skirball's Windows Gallery located on La Guardia Place. This is a wonderful forum for public art, available 24 hours a day during the exhibit under changing conditions of daylight and night time. Inevitably viewers will also see their reflected images in the window and passing traffic, adding additional layers to the experience.

As the artist points out, she likes the setting with the overlapping sounds and images from the environment because it resonates with the art of felting which utilizes layers as an essential element.

This video interview took place on a crisp January day near the end of the exhibit just after a light snowfall.

Sleepless in Serenity

Here I am in the middle of exhaustion, trying to figure what holds me from sleep... What is this nightly battle that has emerged as a more and more perplexing mystery? It has nothing to do with worry. I am beyond worry. It has nothing to do with ideas racing through my mind refusing to abdicate to quiet serenity. I can be serene, yet sleepless.

In some way I have forgotten how to go to sleep. There is something about sleep that is similar to losing consciousness, but not the same. Actually we are slipping into a different realm of consciousness when we sleep. Sleeping has something to do with dreams, but it is far more eloquent than the sleep center monitoring that counts the REMs (Rapid Eye Movement) to somehow measure the quality of sleep.

So I lie in bed, trying to blank my mind, debating right side, left side, or back, and remembering that I never used to have that debate, so that is different. The radio drones at low volume like a sleep machine. No help.

I have this rich vocabulary of dreams remembered, that once served as an entry point to sleep: a huge house on an estate that I had access to, many rooms that were remote and secret floors that were mysterious spaces where I could make miracles. Another dream was a magnificent block in some suburban place that had urban structures and a mysterious Gothic church sitting on the back corner of the block that seemed dark and daemonic in the midst of urban/suburban glamor. Another dream was a mysterious old building in New York City that was a five story walkup, and I was always drawn to the fourth floor. And of course, I have the classic dreams, the top floor of a building that no one knows about or the second basement that only I had access to.

These dream locations were once portals when I knew how to sleep. Now they are locales, maybe sources for a film script that could launch a wild and imaginative narrative.

The way one proceeds through day after day of sleepless nights is an intriguing experience. Somehow I manage to ignore that I didn't sleep, and my engagement with projects pulls me through the hole of haziness to a clear and lucid state where a new energy is generated through the power of the imagination and new ideas.

I write this entry as an act of sleeplessness... it is a testament to an obsession that ripples through my reality and defines an encounter with the serenities of the night.

Ira Antelis A Natural Winner With Vonnegut Musical: Between Time and Timbuktu

For me, Ira Antelis, was something like Roy Hobbs, the wunderkind of baseball in Bernard Malamud's The Natural, who suddenly disappeared, only to reappear to finally follow his dreams late in life. That metaphor only applies to the way the Antelis was in my life. I saw him as a student, who I also asked to do some teaching because he was so talented. At that time he was writing incredibly successful jingles and was poised for a career in Hollywood as the next big film composer (at least in my mind and fantasy). Then he disappeared from my experience.

Mysteriously, about a year ago, he surfaced in my life through FaceBook. He has been, of course, alive and well, very successful with music production and composing in Chicago. Ira visited New York on business, and we got together for brunch to catch up. He said somewhat casually that he was writing a new musical based on materials by Kurt Vonnegut.

This new work, Between Time and Timbuktu, was showcased at a reading on Thursday, January 14, to a packed audience at The New 42nd Street Studios. This truncated 90 minute version of the musical had an outstanding cast and was enthusiastically received. Timbuktu deserves its chance for a place in the sun, and maybe it will get it.

Based on materials drawn from several Vonnegut sources, Between Time and Timbuktu was originally a television play in 1972 that served as a satire on human freedom and the power of the imagination. As a musical, the materials are folded into a narrative that is sensitive and aptly paced by a skillful and varied score. The musical direction by Jason DeBord was outstanding, beautifully nuanced in a studio setting where such details are difficult to achieve.

Antelis's music serves to elevate the text, adopting a more traditional Broadway style that is a little bit Sondheim, a little bit Rodgers and Hart, and a lot Ira Antelis. The reading was presented with very little dialogue. The music moved the action, and certainly that should continue to be the direction for Timbuktu's narrative design.

Jeremy Dobrish managed to incorporate the materials from the larger domain of the full script and score to fashion a 90 minute, non-stop version that at times seemed a little disjointed. This almost always occurs when a work is truncated, and the problem is compounded when many disparate sources are drawn upon and sculpted to fit together.

Dobrish's direction created a cohesion that some how mitigated the disjointed structure, achieved by a sense of an ensemble performance by the cast, all of which were highly talented, full of energy, and focused for this reading. Gregg Edelman's "everyman" performance as the non-descript hero who wins a jingle contest that launches him into an outer space rendezvous with a distant constellation, eloquently blends the elements of victim and hero and elicits our sympathy and concern. Anita Gillette's comic profile as his mother is effective and at times outlandish...just as intended. Matt Cavanaugh threads his way through the work as the contest announcer who often establishes continuity, at times a little too high-keyed for the space we were in, but adds a deft touch of panache and style. The character of Bokonon may be a bit of a cliche from the 70s, but Cassady Leonard is somehow able to transcend this with a certain sense of wonder and fun. Highlight of the reading is Robert Cuccioli as Dr. Paul Proteus, on trial because of his belief in the human spirit and the destiny of man. His performance was riveting and elevated the moment beyond that of a reading.

Andrew Barrett's lyrics are remarkable. He catches the spirit and rhythm of Vonnegut almost better than Vonnegut. The lyrics manage to transform the TV adaptation into a an entirely new work and unifies the material. What emerges is structure and content that would make Vonnegut proud.

Ira Antellis is clearly engaged in a labor of love. In some ways the music is too good, too overwhelming, too many hits, too many highs, but this may just be the aftermath of a 90 minute extrapolation of the material. There is also a bit of a formulaic feeling to the some of the work, the comic relief song, the ballad, and the final piece, the title song, is a wonderful conception, designed to be the singable hit, but it comes too late, and I wonder if this kind of ballad still works on Broadway. But this show is in the tradition of Broadway at its best, so it's worth a try. I suspect the context may change as the show develops. There is no doubt that Antelis has a gift for melody and for music as narrative. He is as good and better than most that have had tremendous success on Broadway.

Most musicals go through radical transformations from first readings to Broadway. Here's hoping this material evolves as it should into such a hit that I can say I blogged about it before it was so well-known, and that I knew Ira Antelis when...

FIESTA on Eighth Street

There is this trio of friends that somehow seemed to materialize out of nowhere. As such they are often involved in things together, or follow parallel paths that define a singularity of purpose. These things sometimes evolve out of human experience, and there is no real logical explanation. But it is a rare and exquisite experience that you should cherish whenever and however it happens.

As it turned out during the holidays, one of the trio went out of the country, so upon return, we decided to honor the homecoming by indulging ourselves with our own fiesta, which suggests partying --- with lots of great food. Fiesta can be any festive occasion, and of course it is closely related to a feast. A feast is more than just food, it is defined as a "rich and abundant meal." And a Fiesta also implies a celebration, perhaps including dancing and singing, or musicing... and in this case our creative response was in a metaphysical context of a feast so sumptuous that we were somewhat overwhelmed.

The other of our trio suggested a new restaurant known simply as 8st Kitchen on eighth Street in Manhattan. We knew from Internet descriptions that it would be unusual, but we could not have designed on our own a more appropriate venue for our special fiesta. It was as though our friend had some intuition about how elegantly this Asian Bistro would create a special ambiance for our celebration.

8st Kitchen's cuisine is Korean, but served in small courses, French style, so that the emphasis is on tasting and savoring the moment. We began with a cocktail, Pear Soju, mostly because I am a fanatic about Soju in the same way that Toad was obsessed with motor cars in The Wind in the Willows. My friends indulged me and my madness.

We ordered a sparkling water, TAU, which is an ancient Welsh word that means "to be silent" --- quietly exhilarating in its taste, obedient and supportive as a companion to the meal. TAU is meant to be tasted, savored, slowly.

Our host and waiter was Jung-min Kim who transformed our experience into an event that might have been worthy of a Disney theme park. Every dish was presented with painstaking detail and arduous enthusiasm by our host.

Our first dish was Wan Ja Jon, bite-sized patties of beef so delicate and delicious that they seemed to melt in your mouth. The food was so tantalizing we had to deliberately slow our pace. The others of the trio put together a sequence of dishes, so the tasting experience emerged like a musical score.

The second dish was Chung Po Mook Moo Chim, a green-lentil jelly with vegetables and wasabi. It served as a delicate transition from the opening to the third course, Ba Ssak Bul Go Ki Gui, sliced Kobe rib-eye, with a flavorful sauce. This was a powerful middle section, masterfully orchestrated, deep lavish taste with lush texture.

The fourth dish and movement of this culinary suite was O Jing O Bok Keum, stir fried squid with noodles, serving to connect us to the Finale, Bo Ssam, pork belly with
pickled cabbage, daikon salad and oyster (photo by Joe DStefano), a masterpiece of collected tastes that topped off a truly memorable feast.

Our host provided a complimentary Soju drink made of richi, that served as a cadenza to the coda: another gift from the Kitchen, Dae Goo Jon, lightly pan-fried cod fillets brought to us as a surprise. This was a substantial coda worthy of our meal, introducing new tastes, but reminding us of themes from earlier courses.

Our Fiesta was not yet done. We proceeded to a small intimate concert space nearby where a composer was premiering a string duo, a trio with violin, cello, and clarinet, and an electronic sound score. This provided a sonic feast of sounds, giving some chance to refresh the senses, to realign ourselves from our sense of taste and touch, to a heightened sense of sound.

We capped the the evening at bar and restaurant, Murphy and Gonzales, which was both upbeat and low-keyed---whatever you wanted to make it. We ordered drinks (of course) and Mexican appetizers in keeping with our fiesta as a convivial fanfare to welcome the return of our friend.

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...