Jerome walked out of the building on 23rd Street having just finished physical therapy. It was a brilliant August day, shimmering and alive with energy. The morning sun chased Jerome into the shade. He paused and looked east. Sixth Avenue was intensely clogging up with traffic, and Jerome knew if he went that way he would leave Chelsea. There was something about the day and Chelsea that enticed him westward toward the Hudson River.
When he first came to New York, Jerome would hear about Chelsea, but he couldn't locate it in his mind. It was as though people were talking about someplace in England. Everything that happened there seemed so distant and foreign. But he was from Texas, and everything outside of Texas was foreign. That was long ago.
When Jerome was a young boy, he had dreams of being a composer, of going to New York, of becoming George Gershwin. He improvised and composed songs, shows, and ballets. His father always thought that Jerome's music was a waste of time. "Jerry," he would say, "You should become a writer. It's what you do best." But Jerome stuck to his dream. He followed it all the way to New York, but somewhere along the way he floundered. He got side tracked. It was the story of The Natural all over, the baseball player who had it all and was tricked and lost his world. Now Jerome pondered his similar fate. Everyone had been convinced of his great promise, so what diverted his destiny? Who was the trickster? Look in the mirror, he thought.
Now as he walked along 23rd street in the mecca of the New York art scene, Jerome paused. Across the street was the Chelsea Hotel, the home of some of New York's greatest artists, writers, musicians, performers, and ne'er-do-wells. He crossed the street and walked up to the entrance. The hotel held its age well, going back to another century, another era. Jerome had heard that O. Henry may have lived there, but always under a pseudonym, as he was always dodging bill collectors. George thought it was odd, because O. Henry wasn't his real name any way.
Jerome's father had given him a copy of O. Henry's The Four Million, a book of short stories about every day New Yorkers. The book was a rebuttal to a remark of a rather stuffy wealthy gent who observed there were four million people living in New York, but there were only about three or four hundred of the wealthy elite that were worth knowing.
Jerome held the The Four Million tightly as though his grip might empower him to absorb the substance of being a New Yorker. At this point, this was the closest he had been to New York even though he had been trying to get there most of his life.
Jerome stood by the Chelsea Hotel feeling the energy of the past, hoping to find some thread of meaning to why he stood on this historic spot. It seemed he was always searching, looking for some clue to explain his life. Was there something here in this old, historical building, now a relic from a past that almost no one remembered?
He walked further west toward the river. There were so many wonderful places he thought he might like to visit, the restaurants, coffee bars...and especially the galleries. As he approached 9th Avenue, he saw the red trim of the Chelsea Square Restaurant, a landmark for him because he liked to go there. He could order coffee and a roll, and they never bothered him or hurried him to leave.
Suddenly he noticed Suna and Hana. They were sitting at a table near the front. Jerome paused and watched. Hana seemed animated and was laughing, and Suna was listening and nodding. It was like watching a silent film. He was tempted to go in, but he thought better of it. He loved seeing them through the window as though they existed in another dimension. As he looked at them he noticed his reflection on the window. He was looking through his reflection to their images inside...a kind of trio.
But he had another destination... galleries that he had neglected so long that he was out of touch with the energy that young artists were launching. Jerome moved on, flooded by images of so many young people around him headed to their own destinations... in the midst of their own adventures.
Everyone he saw had their own story. Now it was The Nine Million creating and pursuing their own narratives, their own happenings. They were tapping out messages on their smartphones, snapping pictures as they passed by, taking selfies and snapshots of their latte, gatherers of moments chronicling their own stories.
Who needed O. Henry now?
Monday, September 07, 2015
Running
Suna was running along the piers near 23rd street. If she could, she would run every day. It would be her ideal routine. Everything works together, she thought as she ran. She marveled at the way the Chelsea area had developed. During the years she had been there, it had changed from a somewhat rundown, seedy neighborhood of has beens to an up and coming chic neighborhood where people came to shop and play.
Finally it had become worthy of her wardrobe. Suna always paid careful attention to what she would choose to wear. People couldn't see your living quarters, but they see you everyday. It was important to be well groomed and current in her style. It wasn't easy. She could little afford expensive clothes. Her friend Hana had teased her "your expensive tastes don't match your pocketbook." That was true, but Suna had a keen eye and could ferret out bargains where least imagined. She always managed to look dazzling. These things just came to her.
Suna smiled, looking at the piers and out at the Hudson River. She knew that she was part of the change. As she became a New Yorker, Chelsea became more in vogue... the place to be. For some reason, it had been considered the center of the art world in New York with all of its galleries, and of course the Chelsea Hotel. Just about anybody who was anybody had lived there, writers, actors, artists, musicians... Marilyn Monroe's boyfriend Arthur Miller lived there and wrote something about "The Chelsea Affect."
Suna didn't need to read Arthur Miller to know about the Chelsea affect. She was caught up in the Chelsea affect without even knowing about it. Yes that's it! ... it was this history of Chelsea that made it the arts center. It was her fate to come here... she was drawn by its history and energy. But she was sad she didn't know more about it. Maybe if she had lived there earlier she could have been one of Andy Warhols Chelsea Girls. It seemed true that these kind of things just came to her almost as if by magic. She looked at it as being beyond her control. It was just Destiny.
At that moment it was her destiny be out of breath and to pause at the river's edge. She looked out at the Hudson River. It was luminous under the shimmering August sun. A breeze from the river cooled her as she scanned the horizon and looked across to New Jersey.
Suddenly something was vibrating, demanding her attention. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her smartphone. A text was on the screen, almost scintillatingly cheerful: "Hi! Having a good day? Want to meet?" It was from her California friend Elysa. Suna thought she had already left New York to return home.
If nothing else, the message proved to Suna that destiny was at work. She knew that no matter what, she now was a true New Yorker. And she lived in Chelsea. None of this was planned, yet here she was a small town girl from a foreign land who was now the epitome of being a true New Yorker, whatever that was. She was just sorry she was too late for Andy Warhol.
Finally it had become worthy of her wardrobe. Suna always paid careful attention to what she would choose to wear. People couldn't see your living quarters, but they see you everyday. It was important to be well groomed and current in her style. It wasn't easy. She could little afford expensive clothes. Her friend Hana had teased her "your expensive tastes don't match your pocketbook." That was true, but Suna had a keen eye and could ferret out bargains where least imagined. She always managed to look dazzling. These things just came to her.
Suna smiled, looking at the piers and out at the Hudson River. She knew that she was part of the change. As she became a New Yorker, Chelsea became more in vogue... the place to be. For some reason, it had been considered the center of the art world in New York with all of its galleries, and of course the Chelsea Hotel. Just about anybody who was anybody had lived there, writers, actors, artists, musicians... Marilyn Monroe's boyfriend Arthur Miller lived there and wrote something about "The Chelsea Affect."
Suna didn't need to read Arthur Miller to know about the Chelsea affect. She was caught up in the Chelsea affect without even knowing about it. Yes that's it! ... it was this history of Chelsea that made it the arts center. It was her fate to come here... she was drawn by its history and energy. But she was sad she didn't know more about it. Maybe if she had lived there earlier she could have been one of Andy Warhols Chelsea Girls. It seemed true that these kind of things just came to her almost as if by magic. She looked at it as being beyond her control. It was just Destiny.
At that moment it was her destiny be out of breath and to pause at the river's edge. She looked out at the Hudson River. It was luminous under the shimmering August sun. A breeze from the river cooled her as she scanned the horizon and looked across to New Jersey.
Suddenly something was vibrating, demanding her attention. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her smartphone. A text was on the screen, almost scintillatingly cheerful: "Hi! Having a good day? Want to meet?" It was from her California friend Elysa. Suna thought she had already left New York to return home.
If nothing else, the message proved to Suna that destiny was at work. She knew that no matter what, she now was a true New Yorker. And she lived in Chelsea. None of this was planned, yet here she was a small town girl from a foreign land who was now the epitome of being a true New Yorker, whatever that was. She was just sorry she was too late for Andy Warhol.
Sunday, September 06, 2015
Destiny
Suna had been running along the piers on the west side, not far from Chelsea. She was out of breath and even though this was a pleasant summer August day she was hot. She was meeting Hana later at the Chelsea Square Restaurant on 9th Avenue and 23rd Street. The restaurant had been there for what seemed forever, a throwback to the earlier days and not the chic splendor of the multifaceted Chelsea Market up 9th Avenue a block or so. It was one of those 24 hour joints that flourished in the 70s and now were beginning to die out as Starbucks and the new smartphone crowd had discovered Chelsea, but who didn't have the slightest idea who Andy Warhol was.
Sometimes Suna had gone there with friends when everything else was closed, or to get out of the rain. She was meeting Hana after running. Suna loved to run. She admired people who took the time to be physically fit. For her everything worked well as long as she could include being fit in her routine.
When she first came to New York, Suna didn't know enough English to order a cup of coffee. But she persevered and finally was able attend the university and become a true New Yorker. Jerome had christened her as the only true New Yorker he had known. She was very popular and success appeared to come easily with her. She had a great smile and always included everyone in her gaze.
When Suna arrived at the restaurant, Hana was already waiting for her.
"Did you see Elysa?" Suna asked.
"Yes," Hana replied. "Why?"
"I know she may be leaving New York later today or in the morning. I was hoping to see her before she goes."
Hana paused. "All I know is Elysa was pissed at Jerome. He didn't meet her for coffee."
"Well you know Doc..." Suna smiled. "Most of the time Doc is in his own world." For reasons only known to Suna, she always refused to refer to Jerome by his first name, even though they were good friends.
"I ran into Elysa in Washington Square and all she could talk about was this butterfly that some woman seemed to hypnotize ...and about a stalker."
"What?" Suna seemed incredulous. "What are you saying?" Suna tended to think that Hana had her own reality, so she was often skeptical. Even so she saw deeply into Hana and knew there was much more to her than appeared. In many ways she was Hana's strongest advocate.
"Well, you know Washington Square," Hana laughed," ...it usually has its share of crazy people."
"Who was this woman?"
"I'm not sure. I think I've seen her around before, but she seemed...different. I don't care what you say, she did make something happen in the park. It wasn't just my imagination! "
Suna shrugged. Her philosophy was that you pass by some people...some are for you and some are not. In her early days at Washington Square, Suna could be seen sunning herself and taking selfies. Something of a loner. On the other hand she easily attached herself to social situations. She was socially adept in the new media. She was not exactly a fatalist, but in her way of thinking, the world was beyond her control. It all came down to Destiny.
Jerome had been impressed by Suna's charisma and talent. Nothing seemed to fluster her. She was exactly the opposite of Hana. Hana was a talented composer and was also something of a historian, but a worrier. They balanced each other, perfect friends.
"Elysa helped me with my work last night." Hana said.
"I would have joined you," Suna suggested."I really wanted to see her before she leaves."
"I don't know," Hana said. "I think she may be leaving early in the morning."
Whatever happened, Suna consoled herself that life was beyond her control. Destiny would intervene, one way or another. Jerome often thought of her as a variant of Scarlet O'Hara in Gone With The Wind, strong, independent, sometimes disillusioned, but there was "always tomorrow." If she was meant to see Elysa, Destiny would intervene.
Sometimes Suna had gone there with friends when everything else was closed, or to get out of the rain. She was meeting Hana after running. Suna loved to run. She admired people who took the time to be physically fit. For her everything worked well as long as she could include being fit in her routine.
When she first came to New York, Suna didn't know enough English to order a cup of coffee. But she persevered and finally was able attend the university and become a true New Yorker. Jerome had christened her as the only true New Yorker he had known. She was very popular and success appeared to come easily with her. She had a great smile and always included everyone in her gaze.
When Suna arrived at the restaurant, Hana was already waiting for her.
"Did you see Elysa?" Suna asked.
"Yes," Hana replied. "Why?"
"I know she may be leaving New York later today or in the morning. I was hoping to see her before she goes."
Hana paused. "All I know is Elysa was pissed at Jerome. He didn't meet her for coffee."
"Well you know Doc..." Suna smiled. "Most of the time Doc is in his own world." For reasons only known to Suna, she always refused to refer to Jerome by his first name, even though they were good friends.
"I ran into Elysa in Washington Square and all she could talk about was this butterfly that some woman seemed to hypnotize ...and about a stalker."
"What?" Suna seemed incredulous. "What are you saying?" Suna tended to think that Hana had her own reality, so she was often skeptical. Even so she saw deeply into Hana and knew there was much more to her than appeared. In many ways she was Hana's strongest advocate.
"Well, you know Washington Square," Hana laughed," ...it usually has its share of crazy people."
"Who was this woman?"
"I'm not sure. I think I've seen her around before, but she seemed...different. I don't care what you say, she did make something happen in the park. It wasn't just my imagination! "
Suna shrugged. Her philosophy was that you pass by some people...some are for you and some are not. In her early days at Washington Square, Suna could be seen sunning herself and taking selfies. Something of a loner. On the other hand she easily attached herself to social situations. She was socially adept in the new media. She was not exactly a fatalist, but in her way of thinking, the world was beyond her control. It all came down to Destiny.
Jerome had been impressed by Suna's charisma and talent. Nothing seemed to fluster her. She was exactly the opposite of Hana. Hana was a talented composer and was also something of a historian, but a worrier. They balanced each other, perfect friends.
"Elysa helped me with my work last night." Hana said.
"I would have joined you," Suna suggested."I really wanted to see her before she leaves."
"I don't know," Hana said. "I think she may be leaving early in the morning."
Whatever happened, Suna consoled herself that life was beyond her control. Destiny would intervene, one way or another. Jerome often thought of her as a variant of Scarlet O'Hara in Gone With The Wind, strong, independent, sometimes disillusioned, but there was "always tomorrow." If she was meant to see Elysa, Destiny would intervene.
Thursday, September 03, 2015
The Trio+1
There had been a trio, friends that supported each other and celebrated occasions, holidays, and birthdays. Eventually it became a quartet, but Jerome had always thought of it as a Trio plus one. So there was always a swing person, sometimes there, sometimes not.. There wasn't much to say these days, the true energy had begun to dissipate. The Trio held together, but there was a level disconnect because that's just the way things happen over time.
It was the test of Entropy, energy burning to sustain existence, coherence dissipating into incoherence. It was always a matter of time. Except Jerome argued that the human spirit and consciousness had been going in the opposite direction of Entropy. So he clung to the hope that the evolving spirit was infinite and eternal. But generally physics conceded that the ultimate fate of existence is the deep chill of nothingness.
The Trio+1 had been tested. Actually the test was severe, and maybe it only partially survived. You know, the old principle "you can't go home again." Jerome had become so focused on the creation of memories and sharing the development of ideas through what he called dialogic inquiry... a process in which the participants begin inquiry not knowing the direction of ideas that will emerge. In one case, completely new ideas were articulated that energized how the Trio existed. But in some ways that was just Jerome's invention. He detected a growing distance in the relationships, and a sense of secrecy and exclusion, so it was just a matter of time that the illusive structure would crash. But something survived.
Jerome thought he knew why it survived, but he also knew such structures are fragile crystals that often shatter and scatter as the frailty of the human condition betrays our best intentions. So in the quiet of the night, Jerome often communed with the energy that continued to sustain him, although now it seemed to dissipate like half-life radiation.
The point had been about creating memories, because Jerome believed the web of human memory was a powerful force in the universe and our deepest source of connection. The others tolerated his theories and shared some sort of destiny that they had not yet figured out, and probably never would.
Yet the greatest thing about the Trio was that Jerome learned to laugh. Up until the time of the Trio, Jerome had been somewhat laughless, which is about the same as being lifeless. Maybe the other dimension was that things spilled from the Trio to the outside world.
The most perplexing figure in the Trio was George, who was only there as a schism, a break with reality, a fantasy that shaped the creative forces in the turmoil that always seemed to bubble over with each crisis. With George, the Trio+1 became a quintet. Everyone knows the quintet is the best ensemble with the greatest potential and most inspiring possibilities. This quintet is a shimmering presence, and there should be scherzos and fantasies.
It was the test of Entropy, energy burning to sustain existence, coherence dissipating into incoherence. It was always a matter of time. Except Jerome argued that the human spirit and consciousness had been going in the opposite direction of Entropy. So he clung to the hope that the evolving spirit was infinite and eternal. But generally physics conceded that the ultimate fate of existence is the deep chill of nothingness.
The Trio+1 had been tested. Actually the test was severe, and maybe it only partially survived. You know, the old principle "you can't go home again." Jerome had become so focused on the creation of memories and sharing the development of ideas through what he called dialogic inquiry... a process in which the participants begin inquiry not knowing the direction of ideas that will emerge. In one case, completely new ideas were articulated that energized how the Trio existed. But in some ways that was just Jerome's invention. He detected a growing distance in the relationships, and a sense of secrecy and exclusion, so it was just a matter of time that the illusive structure would crash. But something survived.
Jerome thought he knew why it survived, but he also knew such structures are fragile crystals that often shatter and scatter as the frailty of the human condition betrays our best intentions. So in the quiet of the night, Jerome often communed with the energy that continued to sustain him, although now it seemed to dissipate like half-life radiation.
The point had been about creating memories, because Jerome believed the web of human memory was a powerful force in the universe and our deepest source of connection. The others tolerated his theories and shared some sort of destiny that they had not yet figured out, and probably never would.
Yet the greatest thing about the Trio was that Jerome learned to laugh. Up until the time of the Trio, Jerome had been somewhat laughless, which is about the same as being lifeless. Maybe the other dimension was that things spilled from the Trio to the outside world.
The most perplexing figure in the Trio was George, who was only there as a schism, a break with reality, a fantasy that shaped the creative forces in the turmoil that always seemed to bubble over with each crisis. With George, the Trio+1 became a quintet. Everyone knows the quintet is the best ensemble with the greatest potential and most inspiring possibilities. This quintet is a shimmering presence, and there should be scherzos and fantasies.
BUTTERFLIES
Hana Wu had worked with Elysa earlier that week. She had been trying to write, but was having difficulty and Elysa offered to help. It had been a great meeting. They went to a restaurant in the Village and took over a table for the evening, a kind of endless feast for writing and editing.
Hana thought fondly of that evening as she strolled through Washington Square Park the next day, a fabulous late summer afternoon. She was a little cautious, because certain things spooked her so she usually had to be on her guard in case she might feel threatened. To be out and about was a little unusual for her because she had been facing some health issues, but it seemed to her that life was on the upswing. She was optimistic.
As she walked she saw Elysa sitting on a bench near the water fountain.
"What's going on?" Hana asked. "I thought you were meeting Jerome for coffee."
"I thought so too." Elysa seemed perturbed.
"What happened?"
"Well, it was strange. I saw this guy stalking this woman in the park."
"You mean right here?" Hana glanced around nervously. "Stalking?"
"Well, maybe not stalking... just following her... and then she disappeared... and then reappeared almost like some sorceress with a butterfly... and she could control the butterfly..."
"What in the world are you talking about?" Hana sat beside her. She was dumbfounded. She had always thought of Elysa as level headed and smart. Now she was talking about a sorceress with a butterfly! Who just suddenly 'appeared'?
Elysa looked her in the eye. "And then just as suddenly as she appeared, she was gone."
"Gone? What about the guy?"
Elysa shrugged. "He seemed bewitched, startled... but also devastated."
Hana stood up. "This is all just a little to much for me to believe. I think you may have been in the sun too long." She paused. "What happened to Jerome?"
"Here I am running, almost breaking my neck to get to Dante's on time, and he texts me that he can't meet me after all!" Hana could see that Elysa was really pissed.
"Well, there must be some explanation, Hana offered.
"There better be. He doesn't answer my texts or phone."
Hana laughed. "You know he can't talk on the phone. Why do you even bother?"
She walked with Elysa toward the giant old elm in the northwest corner of the park.
"I really want to thank you for helping me with my manuscript," Hana said. "I think it helped me get back on track."
Elysa nodded. "Where are you going?"
"To therapy..."
Elysa thought Hana looked the best she had seen her for some time. She said goodbye and walked away.
Hana watched her walk away. She thought about the butterflies in the park. Butterflies and pigeons... if too close they could spook her, so she was usually relieved to see them flying at a distance. There were so many butterflies at this time in August, all with brilliant red wings with a black jagged line almost in the middle of each wing. Butterflies were beautiful as long as they kept their distance.
"Butterflies are such a metaphor," Hana thought. Wasn't there a movie about butterflies are free?
Hana thought fondly of that evening as she strolled through Washington Square Park the next day, a fabulous late summer afternoon. She was a little cautious, because certain things spooked her so she usually had to be on her guard in case she might feel threatened. To be out and about was a little unusual for her because she had been facing some health issues, but it seemed to her that life was on the upswing. She was optimistic.
As she walked she saw Elysa sitting on a bench near the water fountain.
"What's going on?" Hana asked. "I thought you were meeting Jerome for coffee."
"I thought so too." Elysa seemed perturbed.
"What happened?"
"Well, it was strange. I saw this guy stalking this woman in the park."
"You mean right here?" Hana glanced around nervously. "Stalking?"
"Well, maybe not stalking... just following her... and then she disappeared... and then reappeared almost like some sorceress with a butterfly... and she could control the butterfly..."
"What in the world are you talking about?" Hana sat beside her. She was dumbfounded. She had always thought of Elysa as level headed and smart. Now she was talking about a sorceress with a butterfly! Who just suddenly 'appeared'?
Elysa looked her in the eye. "And then just as suddenly as she appeared, she was gone."
"Gone? What about the guy?"
Elysa shrugged. "He seemed bewitched, startled... but also devastated."
Hana stood up. "This is all just a little to much for me to believe. I think you may have been in the sun too long." She paused. "What happened to Jerome?"
"Here I am running, almost breaking my neck to get to Dante's on time, and he texts me that he can't meet me after all!" Hana could see that Elysa was really pissed.
"Well, there must be some explanation, Hana offered.
"There better be. He doesn't answer my texts or phone."
Hana laughed. "You know he can't talk on the phone. Why do you even bother?"
She walked with Elysa toward the giant old elm in the northwest corner of the park.
"I really want to thank you for helping me with my manuscript," Hana said. "I think it helped me get back on track."
Elysa nodded. "Where are you going?"
"To therapy..."
Elysa thought Hana looked the best she had seen her for some time. She said goodbye and walked away.
Hana watched her walk away. She thought about the butterflies in the park. Butterflies and pigeons... if too close they could spook her, so she was usually relieved to see them flying at a distance. There were so many butterflies at this time in August, all with brilliant red wings with a black jagged line almost in the middle of each wing. Butterflies were beautiful as long as they kept their distance.
"Butterflies are such a metaphor," Hana thought. Wasn't there a movie about butterflies are free?
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.
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.
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.
Monday, August 31, 2015
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 25, 2015
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.
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.
Monday, August 24, 2015
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.
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.
Monday, August 10, 2015
MAKING A MULTIMEDIA SONG CYCLE
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| Photo by Dr. Youngmi Ha |
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:
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.
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.
Sunday, October 12, 2014
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.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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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