Losing Something

Jerome was confused and discombobulated.  He had planned to meet Elysa at Dante's, his favorite coffee house in the village. But Caffe Dante had unexpectedly closed. It was as though his world was beginning to disintegrate.  It was the death of an era, and Jerome remembered so many times there with his friends that he stared at the shuttered storefront in disbelief. Elysa was on his way to meet him, but this was so unexpected that all he could manage all he could do was text her and cancel their meeting. He had completely forgotten why they were meeting. Now on this bright beautiful summer day he felt as though someone had closed his world.

Jerome imagined himself a poet, although he had never submitted any of his poems for publication. But to him, creating the poem was everything. It didn't matter that it remained a private utterance. Poetry is meant to be private, he thought.

He would spend many hours at Dante's filling pages of blank books with the work of his imagination. Over the years he had watched the closings of coffee houses in Greenwich Village, one of the last bastions for artists of a different era. He looked at his smartphone and realized this was in part an instrument of self destruction. It was not made for places like Dante. The smartphones were creatures of Starbucks, Think Coffee, and all the social gathering spas around the city where patrons were engaged in taking selfie's and posting their images on FaceBook as though that somehow defined their identity.

Smartphones gave Starbuckers something to do as they waited patiently in line for their coffee. Texting softened their addiction, made it less urgent.

Coffee was an addiction. Make no mistake about that. In earlier times it was treated as such with respect. It was a time when addiction was fashionable behavior before it became the main apparatus for self destruction.

Jerome tried to remember why he was meeting Elysa. She was a dancer, a choreographer whose work he always admired since he first saw her perform. She could improvise wonderfully expressive works as though they had resided within her waiting for an opportunity to burst into reality. Strangely, she seemed to like words as much as music, so it might have been his poetry that had suggested to her that they might work together.

Was that why they were meeting? He closed his eyes and tried to remember. He hoped she was not too angry that he had cancelled the meeting. He thought to himself, it was irrational, uncalled for.

Jerome was a wanderer and a loner. He loved New York because it allowed him to be alone. Years ago he had composed music and his friends all believed he would become famous. But nothing ever came of it. Somehow he had lost something. His father had remarked, "I dunno.. Jerry was just gliding along, everything coming so quickly and easily... and then... well, he just stumbled."

Even so, he had several friends he hung out with at Dante's and Bruno's. Bruno's was his hangout on Laguardia Place until it suddenly seemed to flee the encroaching modernity of the FaceBook generation.

He thought of Erik and the times they had sat over coffee. Some of their meetings were almost thematic. There were deep discussions, but there was the reality of time passing and needing to move on. Erik was very particular, and Jerome understood this. There were many levels where they met, and many others that for Jerome were meant for another lifetime.

Dante had also been a regular coffee spot, and for Jerome the connection was the compelling image and theme of a Muse. Dante's Muse deeply attracted Jerome. His pursuit of the Muse became his mantra... a new incarnation of a distant beloved, always the quest beckoning...

He hoped Elysa would understand why he cancelled their meeting.  Actually, he wished he understood. It was such a beautiful August day. Yet the brilliant sunlight seemed so harsh on his vanished, obsolete sanctuary.

Elysium

Elysa was out of breath. She had run down Fifth Avenue and now paused beneath the Washington Square Arch. At the right angles the arch could frame Fifth Avenue looking north and uptown, and Freedom Tower looking south. She remembered a day more than a decade ago when the arch framed the destruction of the World Trade Center, smoke billowing just before the towers collapsed.

It was the last days of August and the park seemed amazingly fresh and full of energy. As she regained her breath, Elysa walked through the Arch and headed toward the fountain. She loved the fountain and all that it seemed to inspire of everyone nearby. The sound of running water was so soothing. She had been inspired to create site specific work in the context of the arch and fountain, which had been warmly received.

But she couldn't afford to linger. She was late for an appointment. She glanced at her smartphone. There were a number of messages, but Elysa needed to hurry on. She was annoyed by the seemingly endless intrusion of her smartphone on the continuity of her day. She glanced around and noticed so many people sitting on the park benches, lying on the grass, tapping away on their phones, almost oblivious to the splendor around them.

Then a text from her colleague and friend popped on the screen. "I'm sorry," his text declared, " I won't be able to meet you today at Dante's." Elysa was furious. She had been running to make this appointment, and at the last minute he calls it off? She angrily hit the face of her phone, hoping her gesture would be translated at his end.

Gestures had been on her mind a lot recently. She had begun to notice that human gesture seemed to be disappearing into the mysterious space inside the smartphones. As a dancer, the relevance of gesture to her craft seemed obvious. She often watched people in the park. Her body would capture and translate the gestures into a vocabulary she would eventually choreograph. Everything, everyone seemed relevant.

But Elysa had increasingly become disenchanted with her life. Everything seemed to be conspiring to distract her from her creative work, which was what she really cared about. Her world seemed to be accelerating out of control, dictating and shaping her life in directions that she did not want to pursue. And yet, she seemed trapped.

She noticed an interesting woman walking past the fountain with a book in her hand. She thought it odd, because she seldom saw people carrying books anymore. The woman was Asian, and she had a quiet intensity that was intriguing. She was also carrying a smartphone and somehow was managing to take images of the park, even though both hands were full.

Everything about the park was idyllic.  It seemed to her to be the epitome of Elysium, an enchanted oasis in the middle of Manhattan. She realized that this alluring woman must be attracted by the calming magic of the afternoon.

Then she noticed a man who appeared to following the woman, cautiously keeping his distance. But there wasn't anything sinister about his demeanor. He seemed somewhat in awe, and was clearly interested in pursuing her. Then she heard some musicians playing and he was momentarily distracted, watching them and listening to their music. He turned to watch.

Elysa was also distracted and when she looked back, the woman had disappeared.

When the man turned and saw that the woman had vanished, he seemed to panic. Elysa watched him as he ran back and forth, trying to catch a glimpse of her, hoping to find some clue.  He turned away and held his face in his hands in despair.

All the gestures of anguish and headache flooded her mind. Elysa surveyed the surroundings. A misterial majesty enveloped the moment.  Then from nowhere the woman appeared. Elysa watched as she commanded an errant butterfly to suspend its flight and settle on her book. The butterfly submitted to her gesture and landed quietly.

Elysa could see that the man was captivated by this enchanted spectacle. He was deeply moved, but also stunned and paralyzed.  It was almost as though an incantation had transported this moment to an enchanted world, an Elysium, a Shangri La where miracles really do exist.

Elysa turned to see if the woman had noticed the ardent despair of her admirer, but she had vanished without a trace.

Why George Couldn't Do It

George walked by Fiorello LaGuardia's statue in front of Citibank. The statue always cheered him up because the long past mayor of New York City seemed larger than life, and it made George feel that maybe he was too. But today he was somewhat distracted. He had noticed someone who seemed so interesting he tried to pursue her, but she was walking so fast. He was afraid that if he ran up to her, he would scare the daylight out of her. So he kept his distance.

There was such an air of mystery about her, a kind of regal demeanor, and foreign... That was it! She seemed like someone he might run into in Burma or Rangoon... or even Shangri La. George had a thing about the Orient. Oh, he knew that Orient was not politically correct... but his fantasies carried him on the Orient Express where he lost himself in countless Agatha Christie-like adventures of intrigue.

Always there was the dame, the one with the long cigarette holder who always asked him for a light. All of his romances, his loves, were at a distance... and even now, he followed this mysterious foreigner past the trees, past NYU's library. He watched her enter the park. All he knew was that she was carrying a book,  and he thought maybe he could get close enough to see the title, and that could be his angle. She also was taking some pics with her phone as she walked.

She crossed the street to Washington Square Park and glanced back. Oh no! He thought maybe she had seen him following her, but she continued crossing, seemingly unaware of his pursuit.

It was a splendid summer day, he thought. This is a great day to meet someone new. Even though it was August, the air was fresh and sweet. The girl with the book seemed somehow approachable. He tried to imagine what he should say.  Maybe, "What are you reading?" Oh migod! he thought, that's so lame!

Over by the fountain, two saxophone players were playing riffs back and forth. Actually, he noticed they were pretty good. They didn't drop a beat as they tossed phrases back and forth. Two or three people wandered by and put some money in a hat the musicians had put on the walkway. The fountain was punctuating the musical dialogue with a music all its own... gleaming in the bright summer sun. George fancied himself a composer, but no one had ever heard his music. Maybe his songs were the same kind of illusions as his adventure fantasies.

Damn! He had gotten distracted. Now he had lost his mysterious stranger! Where did she go? Frantically he started running the direction he had last seen her. How had she vanished so quickly, he wondered. But she was nowhere to be found. George began to doubt if he had really seen her. Maybe she didn't exist, he thought. He knew he was prone to fantasies. But he believed she was real. She had to be somewhere.

He searched the park and began to feel depressed and discouraged. She was so perfect, he thought. She looked like someone he could talk to. Talking to strangers was not easy for him. But he had lost her, and this made him feel sad. He closed his eyes. He could still see her in his mind's eye, her walk, her mysterious, foreign, regal presence.

He opened his eyes, and suddenly there she was... sitting beneath a beautifully green elm tree a little west of the fountain. She was taking some pics and held the book in her lap... he thought he might run up and strike a pose for her to take his pic... ohmigod, how stupid can I be?  Yet, even though she was distant, his gaze closed the gap. It's easy. I'll just walk up and say hi. He started toward her. But then he froze.

The girl raised the book toward the sun like an offering and somehow wondrously, a splendid butterfly with black and red wings appeared above her. It fluttered around her and appeared to notice her presence. The girl lowered the book to her lap and the butterfly hovered tentatively as though to flee, but then in a moment of magical trust, the butterfly settled comfortably on the book. The girl and the butterfly communed in the silence of that summer moment.

George stood mesmerized. He had never seen anything so bewitching. He wanted to say something, but he was speechless. He struggled to regain his senses. He watched the butterfly soar high above him into the vividly green elm tree, a vanishing mirage.... and when he looked back down, the enigmatic girl of his dreams had faded away into a memory.

He knew the girl would never know all that had happened in this tiny Shangri-La-like moment, but he could never forget, and he would try to find her again, somehow.

The Girl, The Book, and the Butterfly

It was a late summer day when Washington Square Park was shimmering like a fairytale. For August, the day was surprisingly cool with a hint of September in the air. The water spraying in the fountain was glistening in the sun as the streams arched over the pool and shattered into glistening beads plummeting to the basin. The water churning in the basin was an obstinato punctuating the sounds of birds, conversations, and strands of music permeating the most remote places. Washington Square Arch stood like a radiant entrance to a land of dreams.

For Sylvia, the park was an inspiring terrain where she could wander at will and find adventures unfolding among the day's population,  animated and engaged in playing music, dancing, performing, or lying about the the lush green lawns in the sun or sitting on shaded benches. Washington Square was Sylvia's retreat where she could become anyone or remain anonymous.

With her smartphone, Sylvia took many images in the park often posting them on FaceBook or sharing with her friends on the Internet. She had an eye for noticing things that often went neglected or remained obscure. One would think of her as an artist had they spent time with her, but she was content to masquerade as a different person everyday, blending in with the panorama that was the daily menu of a park populated by people who came from all over the world to celebrate life in that tiny patch of land in the heart of Greenwich Village.

Sylvia understood Washington Square, and although her life was often in a hurry, she disciplined herself to slow down and enjoy the moment. Washington Square was a haven that she sought out whenever she visited New York. She had lived in NewYork City adopting it as her second homeland when she was an international student. In those days she had been too busy to interrupt her almost frantic pace.

So even though Sylvia pursued a crowded schedule, she found time for the park. She loved to go there with a book and immerse herself in the fading summer splendor.  All too soon the days were growing short, and soon she would leave New York to return to a different life, a different pace. She was reluctant to leave because there was something different about her place in the world, her place in the city, but she was looking for some clue to understanding a new feeling that had emerged during her visit.

Years earlier some negative experiences had taken her out of herself and out of her trajectory. Even though she thought she had made peace with that part of her life, she realized she had returned because she knew she had left something behind. She didn't know what, but she felt drawn to its mystery.

For Sylvia, books were a different way to noticing the world through other eyes and ears, through other tastes and boundaries. Books were a haven just as much as the park. Today she went with a book she had known before, but wanted to revisit. This book was comfortable and a loving description of a way of life about music and how we inhabit the world. She found a spot beneath a tree and lifted the book for a moment as though to christen it to its new surroundings. She raised it toward the sun.

Suddenly a butterfly appeared, almost as though it had materialized from her imagination. It flew above her and then circled around, lowering toward the book and then fluttering upwards in an elusive maneuver.

Sylvia was transfixed. Somehow this beautiful creature was sharing her personal journey. She watched the path of the butterfly almost as though there was some hidden code in its trajectory that defined her presence in the world. True to her experience of documenting her being in the world, she captured an image of her companion as it seemingly found the trust to settle comfortably on the book in her lap. Later she would discover that this butterfly was a Red Admiral, looking very regal as it briefly shared her time and space.

Sylvia realized her life was filled with chance encounters that as she looked back were maybe not so much by chance, but a series of discoveries in which noticing the smallest moments created a tapestry that shaped meaningful times in her life. It was as though all the negative energy of the past was drained away on this idyllic summer day... with a butterfly reminding her that beauty was always at hand in trusting and living in the immediacy of the moment.

Fantasy # 1

He couldn't remember what had diverted his path and taken him to a different destination. But suddenly he found himself in a new place and wondering why he was there. There, in a crowd of strangers, he sensed someone was there for him. This was no ordinary moment. He felt a sense of strong anticipation... something was about to happen.

He stood silently waiting, connected to an energy he had known before, but that often eluded him, especially in recent times. Everyone in the room was engaged in conversation or activity. He scanned each person. Most were facing away from him, intent on their reasons for being in that space. He couldn't figure out what was going on, or why he was there.

It had something to do with the date. It was August first. August had always been an ending for him and a new beginning. But recently it seemed he had been asleep for decades. He couldn't seem to wake up to his life. He had thought many times of the Hemingway solution. It was always an option. He thought determining an exit strategy from life might be an noble, existential act, a measure of personal control in a world of dimensions that inexorably shaped every moment. His friends had remarked that such a choice seemed rather selfish and arrogant.

Then he caught a glimpse of someone he had seen before, enigmatic, a dark and mysterious presence. Even so there was a radiance, an ambience defining an energy he sensed as eminant.  She rose and turned to leave, an aura surrounded her face, everything was surreal... ...Ingrid Bergman and her first appearance in Casablanca... the enchanted stranger across a crowded room... stunning...

She passed by him, and he managed to say he would like to see her. She seemed surprised, agreed they might meet... and as he watched her disappear, he stood there stunned. He mused that perhaps he overused stunning in his fantasies. Her aura lingered.

He stood silent and speechless and alone.

Renaissance?

In The Fantastics The Narrator muses "You wonder how these things begin..." because each occurrence appears seamless, a chain connecting moments so intimately that experience is uninterrupted until the tyranny of mechanical time creates the illusion of minutes and seconds, ripping the flow of being into millions of little bits of time as though they were the true measure of who we are.

And yet, something does occur, often monumental, and we are never the same, we are changed in the flow of being. The something might be a person, people, happenings, cataclysms... all articulating Time, Being, and Experience. We write millions of words, probably billions, trying to understand these occurrences, with great titles like Being and Time, Flow, As Time Goes By, and so on. Time is relentless, but it flows and ripples, and there are deep eddies, rapid currents, and still waters. It is much more complex than the mechanical measurement of intervals. Time is Space, and Space is Time. Flowing.

Some days ago, I encountered a moment that transformed my awareness... and now I write in an attempt to pursue languaging as inquiry, as a tool of discovery, attempting to understand the moment. Even as I write, this moment measures time and becomes a fixture in reality.

Words falling on the page... Time captured as inquiry... trying to penetrate the mystery...noticing Now, but remembering, retrieving the fragments, trying to penetrate the essence. The moment is red hot in my mind, erupting like a quasar... enigmatic...something happening, an interaction... sparks fly, and consciousness attempts to attend the moment, to notice intensely, and to save the essence so that meaning might be extracted. In a moment I feel a sea change. I struggle to find the meaning...as though understanding somehow might make the past tangible. The past has tentacles to the present... entanglement connects eternity, reaches across the infinite stretch of time/space, and I know that somehow I am changed.

Here as I write, I am searching for words, for gestures that might help me understand the how an apparently simple diversion can account for such seismic change in the direction of my life. Having lived many years, I have experienced several such changes. I regarded such changes as renaissances, but I had concluded I would not be called again to such a rebirth.

How many renaissances . . .
How many times
Will the silence invite me
To the feast?
I toast to festivals of years. . .
Here's to the painful isolation,
Here's to the innocence
Now lost. . .
Here's to the quiet wonder
Here's to the mystery of awe
To chaos on the edge of order . . .
Too soon
The days of opportunity dissolve,
The inward possibilities remain inert,
And all that might be and might have been
Is gone.

MAKING A MULTIMEDIA SONG CYCLE

Photo by Dr. Youngmi Ha

If Time Remembers exists only as a song cycle because of Rick Hartung. He even suggested the title, which was a solo piano piece composed about 30 years ago for our current Chair, Dr. Ron Sadoff, when he joined the faculty as Director of Piano Studies.  He played its premiere at Merkin Hall. It was based on my experiences of growing up during World War II and the songs that inhabited those years, especially one that has always been a favorite, As Time Goes By.  We had thought we might use the piece as an overture, to this cycle, but it is much too long to serve such a purpose.

The songs of this cycle came into being as a private journal in which I wrote the lyrics and then improvised the song. They were never intended for an audience and I seldom performed them exactly the same way twice. It was a way of reflecting upon my experiences. There are three exceptions. The Way They Ought To Be and I Never Knew are from a musical I composed years ago and that had several incarnations. I was fortunate to find Rick Hartung who played the leading role based on Don Quixote. Whatever Happened to Might Have Been is from a musical The Marvelous Multicolored Maze that received a stunning performance at Texas Tech University as commissioned by the Texas State Council on the Arts.  It never had another production, perhaps deservedly so as it was ephemeral and fleetingly embedded in the 70s.

The other journal songs existed as lyrics on a page, which lived only when I sang them while improvising at the piano. The songs in this cycle are selected from songs spanning more than thirty years.  Must You Go? was composed for my jazz quartet in college. I remember when I finished the song in the practice room, the lead tenor came in and listened. He was so excited, and said we needed to get the “other guys” and try it out.  We sang the song over and over in a car, driving around Lubbock, Texas until about 5 a.m., where we went in to a Toddle House for pancakes, and started remembering portions and saying to each other that although we had stopped singing, it was still sounding in our heads, and we were still drunk from the music. The Four Freshman heard the song and wanted to buy it, but I was young and foolish and the deal never happened. It wasn’t until about 20 years later that I thought it would make a good solo piece, and I began improvising it as a journal song. I discovered that this song was not just about losing a girlfriend, but it was about my family and my close friends. Inevitably we are on a journey where we lose all of our loved ones. The haunting phrase of “must you go” affected me profoundly, and as a solo, the work ends with an E-flat augmented triad. Leaving the answer open, but inevitably we are always saying goodbye to those we love.

The final song of the cycle, Where is the Music? was composed or “resurrected” two weeks ago. In 1998, I suffered a stroke in which many of my journal songs were lost from my memory. I slowly began to recover that song and the form that is in the cycle is still emerging and growing, but was especially created for this cycle.

The journey between dissonance and resolution underlies all the songs. And in the final song Where is the Music?, the cycle comes to a close with a struggle for resolution between E-flat and A-Flat Augmented triads.  It ends not really resolved, but possibly intent on some future quest, “somewhere”.

My life has always been a quest for beauty, spontaneity, and excellence. Affecting the video stream of the Poet is the Italian film, The Great Beauty.  I call the main character of the cycle, the poet.  This name was derived from a madrigal cycle I published in 1969 called The Loves of a Poet.  I never published another thing, and my life has always been creating and moving on to the next thing… and noticing. For me one of my purposes in living is to notice and have reverence for all I notice. That is why I love to teach, because I strive to notice the sheer beauty and potential of all those that I am lucky enough to encounter. Noticing becomes a way of creating spontaneity, but also a way of documenting our experience of our world.

The Great Beauty is about a writer who publishes one of the greatest books of Italian literature when he was twenty-five and never published again.  Always the question from everyone he met was “Why did you never publish again?” He couldn’t find the answer. But in the film, one sees his quest for beauty, always inspired by his muse who was also his first love. The film is about the quest for beauty and excellence. He never had an answer to the question. But after a profound series of events, all about the essence of beauty and excellence, he discovers his answer in remembering his muse. 

In this performance, the left screen is the Poet’s stream of conscious and the right screen is the stream of consciousness of the The Woman. The center screen is the live action that has the power to enter into the streams of consciousness. This is determined by an artist at the technology console making decisions that interact with the stage action.

In starting an opera project several years ago called A Song for Second Avenue, I developed, through dialoging with friends, a concept of the MoviOp.  The MoviOp involved the creation of streams of consciousness of characters in prepared videos and projected with the live action on the stage, coordinated, but not meant to connect directly to the live action. In addition, live video is captured in the moment on action on the stage, and such action can be manipulated and invade the streams of consciousness. This meant to be a live and improvised experience

I abandoned A Song for Second Avenue two years ago. It seems as though I am veering on returning to the libretto and resuming a revision of the text and writing the music. For me the question is slightly different than that of the writer in The Great Beauty. I have wondered if I can go into the isolation required to do such a work. I enjoy the act of noticing being in the moment with those I know and encounter.
On the other hand, I always have admired Rossini. The great composer was a friend with Balzac and both had become addicted to coffee. In those days coffee was considered a drug and both Rossini and Balzac had become addicts. Balzac wrote:

Rossini has personally experienced some of these effects as, of course, have I. "Coffee," Rossini told me, "is an affair of fifteen or twenty days; just the right amount of time, fortunately, to write an opera." 

Without Rick’s encouragement and friendship this song cycle would not exist. Working on it has opened the door to completing the opera. I’m no Rossini, so the idea of finishing A Song for Second Avenue in about 20 days is an inspiring challenge. If I could do it, I could get back to noticing the beauty around me much sooner.

It's a Secret: An Excursion into Time Transformed

An extraordinary experiment set sail on Columbus Day at NYU Silver Room 220. The creators describe the event: http://www.itsasecretperformance.com/

“It’s a Secret” is an experimental music theater production. The work is an hour-long composition for 2 singers (soprano and baritone), 4 instrumentalists (flute, violin, trombone and bass clarinet), and live electronics. It is currently in workshop at New York University.
The project deals with our increasing confusion over the relationship between public and private identities. At what point should the private become public? And to what or whose end? This dilemma is presented through a series of encounters within an immersive theater space. Performers and audience members alike inhabit a semi-public, ambiguous space of reflected memories and dreams…
Two narratives run through the show. One witnesses the Alice James, real-life sister to William and Henry, of Susan Sontag’s last play: Alice in Bed, in her painful, mute rejection of her famous family’s public life. Here, enframed, Alice appears and stands forth, casting her gaze like that of a portrait out upon the viewer. Alice fades in and out. As she withdraws, the 19th century bourgeois public sphere begins to crackle with energy of digital technology. The second narrative traces the imprint of technology upon our thoughts and utterances. Private thought now dances along electric circuits like the digital effervescence of memory.

What follows is my own mapping of the performance. Mapping was intensive, a number of members of the company were capturing the moments as multiple video  recordings in constantly shifting points of view as well as still image. We were warned that any imaging or recording we did would become the property of the performing company, so I chose to map the experience by moving constantly and chaining my point of view and mentally recording my experience of the hour as it unfolded.

An excursion...
An experiment...
An indulgence...
Mapping a shared experience
As music theatre
Challenges awareness
On several levels:
Shrouded in the mystery
Of disguised space
Where Time is a capsule
Of the Past,
Performers ring the space
Situated like constellations...
No audience.
Merely onlookers and sharers
Conscious awareness
In a parallel universe,
Watching and avoiding collisions...
A full complement of independent musicians
All performers in a mapped event
Containing calculated spontaneity...
Moments of precision
Captured by multiple cameras
Choreographed by targets and intuition...
We are caught in the deliberate diffusion
Of moments
informing by innuendo...
Collaborating with sounds
And Anguish...
Time suspended~
The past trapped
In agony and despair:
Daughter and Father
Sublimely isolated
In a circumstance of doom and despair.
This is no wonderland...
Alice and her Brothers,
Alice and her Father,
Are trapped in cataclysms
Of the mind...
A creative spirit
Whose inner adventure
Was known early to her
Until decades after her early death.
Her diary revealed an inquiring
And relentless mind,
Resigned to an inner sanctuary
Of imagination,
She vividly recorded
The world she knew.
Alice James reminds us
To remember, revere, and revive
The substance of our interior existence.
What took place on October 12
Was an inward voyage
Setting sail across a vast interior sea
Unknown and unexplored...
Setting sail as a work in progress
Drawing upon past structures
To create an ongoing performance:
A constellation orbiting a galaxy
Recording each changing moment
In constant calibration...
So each rotation is not repetition
But breaking new ground into the unknown...
Cameras documenting their angles,
Their luminosity,
Form part of a new emerging reality.
Actors breaking from rehearsals
Into moments of astonishment.

Nothing watched remains the same.
There is no detachment,
Only entanglement.

Images from:  http://www.itsasecretperformance.com/?page_id=51

Setting Sail

I seem to be starting over
But with less time
Without memory of how
I arrived at this moment...
Poised to cross an Atlantic
Without maps...
Only the stars to guide me.
I have forgotten
How to see stars...
But I suspect in some way
They still see me
Even though they have vanished.
Even now,
I am like stars vanishing...
Absent from myself
In small degrees

Piano Sings from Silent Decades of Neglect (Part III)

 (Readers are encouraged to begin with Part I: 
http://wyzardways.blogspot.com/2014/01/piano-sings-from-silence-of-twenty.html

Months passed.

Subsequent tunings would align strings that had strayed slightly. This went on for several weeks as the piano tuning had be be done slowly when restoring to concert pitch and to also even out the strings that had been abandoned for so long.

When I  improvised at the keyboard, I found myself struggling with the inertia of my own neglect.  And somehow I my guilt and ineptness struck out at the piano for not performing as it had twenty years ago... it seemed slow and sluggish (or was that me?)

But as I searched to find my way over the keys beneath my fingers, the piano seemed to be replying "Where were you all this time? What you are asking me to do is unfair...  I haven't struck these hammers to the keys in so many years... do you think I can be instantly repaired as though those silent years never happened?"

It has not been an easy road to recovery for this wonderful piano that was such a wonderful friend and source of inspiration through its inimitable sonorities.

But the journey back may have been even more tortuous for myself. My encounters have been fitful with slight instances of breakthroughs when  truly new ideas erupt in a multitude of accidents that somehow assumed shape and substance. But do these musical ideas stick in the mind? In the past this was simply a process of sitting down with my friend, fingers poised on the keys... and the adventure resumed often from the previous endpoint.  Now I seem to be trying to rebuild pathways to the continuous improvisation and discovery.  In the past there was never a thought that this musicing would lead to anything outside itself.

Some have suggested I should record these transient episodes with this piano, as though that would serve to replace musical ideas when memory fails me. But this is a more organic process and such recording would never replace the texture and substance of thought and physical connection with my Steinway friend. We both have enormous chasms to bridge within ourselves. It may be true that the reconstruction required may beyond my reach and the rich of my friend who exists only to map the sonorities in exquisite detail in the expectancy of Time unfolding.

And yet there have been such wonderful moments of sonority that touches and resonates somewhere is the deep recesses of consciousness, lingering on the brink of that vast inner domain we call the unconscious.  But the unconscious mind is just a construction, an invention to explain the ineffable domain that we are constantly surfing and mining.

But my Steinway seems to be forgiving me... its resonances coaxing me in new directions. It is a new process and new era.

Piano Sings from Silent Decades of Neglect (Part II)

After meeting with the synthesist who was also now a piano technician, I was alone with the piano in the apartment. It was the first time I had really acknowledged its presence as a piano in years. I wasn't sure if it still had a voice. I also wasn't sure of my feelings... I knew my skills had disappeared and I had some need for spiritual and physical repair.

But there were all kinds of materials on top of the piano, a sculpture called the "Trio" that my mother had given me when I first moved into the apartment, some books, some piles of unopened mail, a pitch pipe, some posters of Dinu Ghezzo, and a candle. I realized I needed to make preparations, so I found a permanent new home for the sculpture and removed all the other paraphernalia.

And I waited...

The tuner came at the agreed time. He put his coat on the couch and looked at the piano, acknowledging his perception of an important instrument that commanded respect. He went to the piano and lifted the keyboard cover and played some notes... hopelessly out of tune. He winced. He tried to lift the piano lid to get at the strings, but it was a missing a pin for the hinge, so we had to use a nail to hold the lid in position.

The tuner used his tuning fork and started to work from the bottom register. I left the room. I knew the tuner needed some space, and I knew that the sounds coming from the piano were painful stretchings... raw and occasional tonal groans that seemed to come from a crippled deformity of sound...

I was gone for some time... and when I came into the room, he looked at me and smiled... "last note." He sat down and started to play a few excerpts... the piano responded, and at times began to ring...

"The tuning is already slipping a little." he said.

I asked about the action.

"Yes, it is a little stiff. But some of that will work out as you play it."

This statement stunned me a bit. It never occurred to me I would have to play the piano. I just had envisioned he would restore the piano and it would be there then for guests and visitors to play. I didn't think that I would be involved.

"I will be back to do another tuning., " he assured me. Next time I will take the action out and explore what we need to do to." He then left.

I was alone with the piano.  The piano stood there, lid raised, waiting...

(to be continued)  See Part I in earlier posting

Piano Sings from Silent Decades of Neglect (Part I)

For now, suspend your disbelief. Suspend your judgment. Suspend your insistence to understand the reason for excessive neglect of such a sensitive persona that had been a life-long companion in several incarnations and was discarded twenty years in response to a different necessity and condition for existence. Two decades ago in a fit of despair, this brilliant instrument of imagination that had served without fail for generations, seeing me through from boyhood to maturity was abused by rejection and neglect---not as a deliberate callous act, but due to circumstances that could have no other outcome.
I was caught in a vortex of contradictions, and as conditions changed when this instrument could be embraced and nurtured, I was was too battered and traumatized to make any gesture of reconciliation.

You wonder how these things begin. How does breaking away from relationships reach such an impasse that there is no way back, no way to repair the damage? Time passes and you forget. You forget all of the tiny pleasures that created such a bond with another...moments creating memories, and memories becoming the substance of who we are and who we are becoming.

And yet I can see vividly how this perfect storm of events that led to conditions of reconcialiation literally exploded in my life on a Saturday afternoon. It was monumental. I arranged to meet a dear friend I had not seen for six months who was under siege in all aspects of health and spirit ... She came into Zuni, radiant, like light filling the dark corners of despair that grew out of the abrupt schism of my life.... And we had such a great inquiry into what could be possible trajectories for future work... And then we connected through a suddenness of need with another friend from whom she had been estranged ...  A few hours later, fresh from this reconciliation, I saw one of the greatest films of my life... Le Grande Bellezza... As though it had been created to reconcile me to life at this precise moment as I recover from a damaged perception... A lost soul wandering empty... alienated from those who had once sustained and nourished me.

I was transformed, renewed and reborn.... And then I stopped at the Mercer Street Bookstore and was drawn directly to a book of poems by Lucas Hunt,  Light on the Concrete, an edition that was signed by the poet... With poems that spoke directly to me ... I might have written them...the first poem was about reconciliation:

          Together at Last
We see the world with shadows all around
and rage to be more alive in the light
of love, thus our hearts, as nimble as  deer,
Pause before leaping the highest fence.

The next morning I had brunch with a former student who is a craftsman and whose passion is making music with analog synthesizers.... I had not seen him for six years, but he came tumbling into my life almost unexpectedly and I could feel the magnetism that aligned us at this particular time.

He was a person that worked with meticulous precision with his synthesizers, at one time having an enormous collection of electronic instruments. Recently he had turned his artistic craftsman skills to piano tuning with an aim not only to tune but to restore.... and as we talked I suddenly knew that I had found someone I could trust to reconcile me with a past that had bruised my sensibility and awareness and cut me off from my expressive companion.

He described how years of tuning oscillators had sharpened his ear so that tuning the piano strings fell into place. As we finished brunch, I told him that I had a piano sitting in my apartment that had not been touched for 20 years. I tried to explain why the piano had been so neglected... but the story is so personal and painful, I could only explain that circumstances in my life and situation conspired in such a way that the piano was blocked from my consciousness. The piano had been my constant connection to the exploration of sound and ideas.  My obsession on the keyboard was to improvise for hours at a time... and the sonority of this piano gave so much feedback to me that original ideas erupted abundantly expressive, powerful, a spontaneous communion as a musical interrogation, uncovering such exquisite constellations of musical ideas.

"I have no idea what you will find," I said, "if you were to take on the project of nursing this instrument back to performance... I am sure it may take four or five tunings, if the pin board will hold. The action will need detailed attention. It is an instrument that was once so proud and now through this neglect is a mere shadow of itself."

I paused.

"Is this something you would be interested in?  Would you like to come and at least take a look and assess the challenge?" I sensed in him a compassion and commitment to quality, the kind of quality manifest in Zen in the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. In fact I discerned in him the kind of artist mechanic that would be needed for an adventure like this. If he was focused and sincere, he could begin the process of reconciliation that I so desperately needed.

These events led to my increasing awareness of the healing energy that was forming the essence of this new experience, of renewal of friendships, of renewal of commitments, of a creative renaissance flowing from these interactions. I began to see how connecting again with my friends, the experience of the film, the discovery of the poem, and the serendipitous background leading to new skills in this gifted young synthesist had converged into a pivotal moment that  could change my life.

He agreed to give it a try and made an appointment to come visit the piano the next day.

A Broken Thread: Long Live the Gate Keeper

David  W. Ecker, Artist,  Philosopher,  Educator

The last day of 2013 was the passing of an era, almost unnoticed, as all the players have moved on in spite of our indebtedness to our mentor and pioneer in the quality of life: David W. Ecker. And yet this quiet giant of phenomenological inquiry who taught us all how to see, how to listen, how to write, how to teach, how to be... has passed from this earth, a true broken thread  to the past.  Even though I had a doctoral degree and was newly arrived at New York University, my colleague David Ecker began my real education about art as experience and the basis for understanding our experience of life. He has always been my mentor and my catalyst.

I was mystified that since his passing on December 31, more than two weeks ago, almost no one was honoring his presence and his passing through any public sharing. PLEXUS, an International community-based art experience over which Ecker had significant influence and experience, appeared not to have noticed he's missing among us. I was hoping to read some tribute from PLEXUS since Dr. Sandro Dernini, who is the heart and spirit of PLEXUS, was one of Dr. Ecker's greatest allies and collaborators. I am delighted that now the PLEXUS FaceBook site is posting images and celebrating the work of this man who was both an elegant scholar and an articulate maker of art and events.

And the website ISALTA that sprung from the genius of his ideas and conception has become so dormant that there is no memorial tribute... as though everyone believed the dream died long ago. In fact, the web address ISALTA has become the index page to the activity and interests of Dr. Carleton Palmer who was David Ecker's protégé . Admittedly, ISALTA as a website exists only through the efforts and perseverance of Dr. Palmer. But it has been a source of concern that when I give the ISALTA web address to friends and colleagues who have been excited about the philosophy underlying ISALTA, there is nothing of ISALTA at that address.

I am encouraged by some communication from Dr. Dernini in which there are plans to dedicate future projects to David Ecker, and I anticipate his passing becomes the opportunity to honor him in the process of text, and the creation of works that his leadership has encouraged and inspired.

I call David Ecker the Gate Keeper because it was the vigilance of his vivid consciousness that kept our efforts true and honest to the integrity of pure inquiry as the nature of experience. He was such a splendid advocate for phenomenology, because it was central to all that guided his actions and interactions. When people first met David, they expected him to explain "Phenomenology".  He always refused, but not directly. He would just smile and proceed to have us learn through engaging in inquiry and description of specific encounters with works of art. He taught by example much more than by lecture. Sitting in on his "experiments" was always such a revealing process because he helped us uncover our direct perceptions, edit out the garbage, and emerge with a deeper sense of our experience.

Breaching the Abyss

You broke your long silence just as I  found myself in the trenches of the Abyss. The Abyss is fundamental to human experience. In some ways the Abyss exists as our terror of nothingness.

I have passed through an autumn of despair always on the brink of the Abyss ... celebrated the full moon at Autumn Solstice, and I did look at that beautiful moon and thought of all my friends around the world... I thought of you and wondered how your transition to a new life was going. I thought of those beautiful souls that brought this celebration into my life...and how this solstice moon changed my perception of the world,

My Abyss is filled with the cacophony of silence...  a troubling rift  in the soundscape, filled with the energy of the sounding presence about to happen... a silence that spins sound into being....

I have passed through a really difficult time that I will never understand and now find myself in a world that somehow seems strangely alien. 

What sense can I make of this stage of my experience... everything that had started four years ago suddenly tumbled down and out of my life...

So I am in a new place...  now going through radical changes in my consciousness... I step into new terrain where I don't recognize things that should be familiar...

I know there are intense energies changing the universe and penetrating my reality, and I am watching with a certain wonder and hoping that somehow I will find the language that will reveal some meaning of the riddle of the Abyss that has always haunted me...

The opera I had started for Second Avenue broke apart like brittle clay, but there were lovely clusters of music resonating as though somehow they might assemble into something even more poignant and compelling...  for it has always been the music that has sustained and inspired me, no matter what the faces and the spirits that surround me and invade my soul...

And the occasion of breaking your silence has reached across the world and awakened a moment in me, igniting a passion that clings to life and living, to beauty, truth, and wonder... you are such a splendid catalyst...

I suddenly wish I could bring us all together to celebrate the magnificent splendor of who we are... connected, but unconnected, in a universe that shimmers like the solstice moon disappearing over the rim of a hill... breaching the Abyss in the recognition that what we have created together endures and continues to resonate.

Tales from the Abyss

It's difficult to pinpoint this process of awareness that comes in like ocean tides, waves sweeping in and covering me and then receding and leaving me exposed and raw as I understand that for a moment I couldn't breathe, and I was gasping for air. Then suddenly there is a flash of consciousness, and I become aware of thoughts and ideas that were uncovered as though the sand of the beach was swept away and what was left was a kernel of truth.

It is even harder to understand that this is a fundamental flashback to points of discovery and to moments when I committed myself to believing in impossible dreams. I was also embedded in despair of a world I thought was dissolving out from under me, and there was no more reason to continue in any direction because everything was quicksand.

So into this abyss came the Trio, or perhaps my invention of the Trio was my hope that such vision for beauty and truth could be shared and become the reality of its potential. So when I asked my friends if we might adventure together for a time, it was an innocent and naive assumption that such a fusion of purpose was possible and desirable.

What followed was indeed adventure and deception.