AUTUMN IN NEW YORK

A few days after the idyllic ending days of August,  Jerome walked around Chelsea and kept wishing the autumn weather would soon kick in. These first days of September were very hot and debilitating. He especially liked to wander around the city in September, and the shift in the weather that usually came energized him as he explored what has always been the new season for the arts. There were shows opening, galleries putting forth their best exhibitions, food festivals such as Madison Square Eats or the Oyster Festival, and of course City Center Dance with this year's theme of Fall into Dance. This he had gleaned by stopping for a drink at East of 8th, an intriguing place that Jerome was still trying to figure out. There he had a chance to check his smartphone to see what destinations might be the most promising.

But truth be told, although Jerome kept his phone with him as a close friend, it was still more like a distant relative from a younger generation. For his younger friends, the technology hummed as part of their being. He couldn't walk around  plugged in with earbuds, listening to music. This prevented him from hearing the music and sounds of the city that was as vital to him as the visual experience.

Now appeared to be a time in which those who had been closer to him in the past were more distant, their orbits ranging to other needs, demands and interests. He recognized this as a necessary  evolution in relationships. But he believed that on a fundamental level they remain constant to his experience.

He had just been going through many systemic changes and wanted to share them, but it no longer seemed possible through the configurations of the past which now emerged drained of spontaneity. But the immediacy might now come from other sources.

Yesterday he had been experiencing an intense artistic breakthrough. It was an extended high as though he were on drugs. He realized part of the source was the energy of new people in his life who had imbued him with their energy and zest for living, and suddenly he was aware of new projects, ideas, major alterations. Additionally, it seemed clear that an indispensable source for writing and creating includes social media and blogging.

He had these creative binges before, especially in college, and often came crashing down. Some collapses were quite serious, but always led to positive growth. Yesterday had been a synethesia, a mixing of sensory experiences and genre.  He couldn't help but think of the poets Coleridge and Wordsworth who were perpetually high on life (and heroin) and were the rock stars of the 19th Century. Jerome had always thought of himself as a poet living a masquerade, minus the heroin.

People he would like to engage more in a dialogic exchange were also not accustom to the technology providing that possibility, so there were many missed opportunities. But now there were some new friends that seemed to be more attuned to his need for exchange and didn't feel it was so much of an imposition. It was difficult to find a balance because text on a screen can sometimes the opposite of what is intended. Emoticons were not necessarily the solution to the clarity of emotions and meanings.

By now, the reader might well wonder where this story is going. Well it's headed toward Autumn, if we can believe titles.  Of course, this contains an assumption that there are any readers around. I am learning that writers must assume there are readers, or I'm not sure how they could remain sane. But I am learning writers can be a closeted group, writing their stories in solitary confinement.

We can only observe that Jerome now was sorry that he didn't go into the Chelsea Square Restaurant and to join Suna and Hana when he had seen them a few days earlier. That would have been the spontaneous thing to do. They were so casual and enjoying each other's company as they sat over coffee.

If that had happened we might have had a humorous turn of events, because the trio often laughed together over the most trivial things.  I think we might be genuinely happy if Jerome could lighten up a bit and trust the humor in life. Sometimes he just thinks too much. His best moments seem to be when he simply lets go and connects to the immediacy of the moment.

Well, with that in mind, as Jerome walked out of East of 8th, he heard the strains of Autumn in New York sounding in his mind's ear:

Autumn in New York...

Why does it seem so inviting?   

Autumn in New York... 

It spells the thrill of first-nighting  

Glimmering crowds  

And shimmering clouds  

In canyons of steel   

They're making me feel,   

I'm home...

He looked west and followed his eyes to the river, and there was a hint of joy and laughter in the air. There was the thrill of a new beginning, new experiences, new friends... the turning of leaves to the colors of October ---and then the glistening snow... life is about change, he thought, and tentatively he started to let go and enjoy.

WAS IT 'WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN?'

Elysa was busy being about New York pursuing her usual departing adventures before she left her fairytale land and returned to the real world of responsibility. She couldn't resist the many elixirs and balms of Farmer's Market and Union Square. She liked the freedom of this morning. She was still angry about Jerome's canceling their appointment.

New York had been a productive time. She had worked on an experimental production that had been brought into being under the duress of so little time and so many demands. Although she had known Erick from the past, she hadn't realized how much energy and how demanding it would be because each had quite different ideas.  A remarkable performer and musician, Erick was the clearly the focus of the production. He had been working on this material for more than five years, helping Jerome recover his past through this profound artistic gesture. It was an act of artistic friendship to insist on involving Jerome into working on the production.  This was a gift of restoring Jerome's work, enabling him to undergo a renaissance of discovery.

Elysa knew Jerome and his preference for hanging back and not asserting his presence. She knew that his friendship with Erick was so deep that he feared his ideas and actions might destroy their rapport and deep sharing.

Well, the reader should understand that the creation of new work is always an adventure and the experiment fails as often as it succeeds in making a difference in the precious passing of time in our small interval of existence in the world. It is always risky.

Now it was over and clearly Jerome had been touched by the level of of Erick's work and Elysa's choreography and dancing. As the work developed, Jerome started to understand the relationship of the songs to the context of their creation and saw distinctly three characters, a trio if you will. But it was a moment of triumph that was not entirely free of personal damages.

Elysa sighed as she walked around Union Square. August ending was spectacularly revealing  how beautiful a summer day in the Village might be. Her trek to the Farmer's Market had become a yearly ritual. It somehow brought closure to the year. And it did seem as if the year was ending, and she was off to a new beginning.

She had texted Suna and asked if she wanted meet soon since she would be leaving New York, abandoning her creative retreat, returning to the glare of schedules, meetings, and administrative crisis upon crisis.

Jerome had always thought that Suna and Elysa would be great friends. The moment he introduced them he could feel the bond between them. Deep. Like steel.

A while later, they were meeting, immersed in urgent details of life, relationships, of hopes, and dreams and frustrations. I wish I could go into greater detail, but the reader should understand there are just some places we cannot go. There is a certain expectation of decorum for godsake. And maybe you shouldn't be so nosy.

But you should know that Jerome considers women to be creatures further developed in the evolutionary chain than men. This is true when they mingle among us men. But when women get together they seem to devolve to an earlier tribal stage, creating code that no man can decipher. Now this is not a politically correct observation, so rest assured I will be looking over my shoulder these next few days.

But Elysa's triumph in New York City, there in Greenwich Village in the summer of 2015 is something to celebrate. But nothing occurs in a vacuum. Without Erick and Jerome, it would be empty indeed. No doubt what happened there in the Village will continue to reverberate for some time.

Maybe.

GOTTA DANCE!

George stared down at the churning water in the wake of ferry as he tried to collect his thoughts. He couldn't understand what had happened in Washington Square Park with the mysterious woman with the butterfly that he had followed, hoping to meet her.  He had started to dismiss it as a fantasy, but knew it had to be real.  Now it was too late.

He became discouraged to continue searching for his mysterious sorceress and wandered from the park walking south toward the financial district and Freedom Tower. She remained a mystery, but someone he would remember. Maybe if he went back tomorrow, he would find her with her book and her butterfly. He remained astonished that she could make the butterfly land on her book. He wasn't sure how, but he thought somehow she had bewitched him.

Now here he was, the sun was setting, and he crossed the harbor toward Staten Island. He loved  the wind in his face and the sound of the ferry slicing through the waves. As he stood at the rear of the ferry he watched city skyline recede, gleaming like a beacon in the approaching night. As The Statue of Liberty loomed on the left, he saw that the lights illuminating the grand lady had just flicked on. Such a great night to be alive and here in this moment, he thought.

As they passed the statue, George turned and walked inside the ferry. He liked to look at all the people riding the ferry. Most were on their way home probably after having some drinks or dinner after work in Manhattan. But some were sight seers, and George found them interesting because of all the nationalities apparently visiting New York.

Suddenly Bernstein's New York, New York..it's a hell of a town... started playing in his head, and George imagined himself to be Gene Kelly out on the town searching for the girl he had seen in a picture on the subway. He imagined his footwork was more lithe as he tapped his way to the front of the boat, taking a flower from an old lady who was selling them to passengers and presenting it to the first girl he saw who was sitting reading a book. She was surprised, but also somewhat embarrassed, but George danced on 'til he was at the front of the boat.

The ferry was slowing, bumping its way into the landing that would receive the passengers. There was a rush of people onto the deck where they watched the ferry crash its way to its mooring. "Welcome to Staten Island" the sign read. People crowded around and angled for the front of the boat to be the first to depart. George felt himself being pushed backward further and further. Things were getting out of hand, George thought.

Then the gates opened and people flooded into the station.

It was at that moment George saw her, his mysterious stranger that he had followed into the park. She was on this ferry! He couldn't believe his good fortune. But she was disappearing into the streaming crowd that appeared almost running into the station.

He tried waving to get her attention, but she was focused on leaving and had no idea he was trying to catch up with her.

"Miss! Miss!  Don't leave! Wait for me!" George was almost in tears, but it was much too noisy and chaotic for her to take notice.  There were so many people struggling to get away, and he was trapped in the turmoil.

In what seemed an eternity, George broke free and  found himself in an immense station with hundreds of people milling about. Many sight seers who had come just for the boat ride were running to the departure side of the station to return on the ferry to Manhattan. George wondered if that might include his mysterious lady. He ran with the crowd and saw the gates open with passengers starting to board the return ferry. Was that her?  He ran up to a woman with long black hair walking rapidly onto the boat. It wasn't her!  He struggled through the crowd, searching desperately.

He didn't even know her name! After a few minutes the gates were lowered and the ferry pulled out of the ferry slip slowly. George continued to search and went to the front of the boat. Was that her standing there... flowing black hair and such lovely arms. He approached her. She was looking ahead trying to see the very distant NY skyline.

"Miss, were you in Washington Square Park today?"

The woman turned and looked at him as though he were from another planet..

"I'm sorry," he muttered. "I thought.. " he shook his head. "I hoped you were someone else."

He retreated to the back of the boat and then for a miraculous moment he saw his mysterious phantom standing in the Staten Island station watching the ferry depart.  He waved at her. She stood there and looked at him, and then smiled. She waved back! It was her! George was ecstatic, but also mortified as he stood and watched the ferry take him further and further away from his mysterious stranger, his muse, his reason for living.

The Four Million

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?

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.