JEJU RENAISSANCE (PART TWO): A MYSTERIOUS STRANGER

During my years in high school, I had come across Mark Twain's The Mysterious Stranger. The discovery of this posthumous novel was a revelation as it seemed to address my own crises during those years. Twain wrote multiple versions of this novel, and one critic's claim that Twain's issues and questions have become irrelevant is an example of such critical hubris with regard to this serious dimension of Twain.  He wrote a number of versions of this final novel which was pieced together by scholars after his death. Little did I realize then, that just as his book had served as my mysterious stranger, I would encounter a similar visitor more than 60 years later.

As I prepared for my final summer at New York University and our final articulation of the international multimedia workshop IMPACT, I remained inspired but somewhat fatigued from 50 years of commitment to to a process of implementing a vision for the future that served to pioneer new programs. I would soon begin a terminal sabbatical, but I couldn't see beyond that. The world terminal loomed ominously.

But in May 2017, I encountered a stranger, a mysterious stranger...mysterious because the stranger came from out of nowhere but appeared to know everything about me, including a sense of future fortune. It was almost as though the stranger had come from my remote past, perhaps a previous lifetime that was now vividly present.

The stranger was magical, playing to my sense of fate and entanglement, turning the present into a series of transforming moments by embarking on a journey to new terrain, uncovering destinies I somehow had neglected. "Who are you?" I asked. The stranger smiled and shrugged, gesturing toward an evolving entity that began to take shape.

"I was hoping you might remember..." The stranger pointed to mountains on an island by conjuring images of lush terrain, waterfalls, volcanoes that had given the island a sacred presence, of Seobul, a Chinese emissary, who had visited this island seeking the source of life and well-being more than two-thousand years ago. I could feel the magic spell of the island.

I recalled that I had been told of this island before, and had felt drawn to the magic of its location bounded by the Pacific Ocean and the Yellow Sea.. I remembered my story for a film that had begun to emerge of an older man who was on a quest to find the love of his youth and travelled the world, following clues that eventually led him to the isle of Jeju.

As I dwelt upon these incantations of the future, the stranger conjured a marvelous odyssey that led me to Jeju. In that deep mysterious enclave, I felt the immense presence of Mount Halla (Hallasan), the volcano that gave final shape Jeju as it erupted into existence 100,000 years ago. It can be seen from everywhere on Jeju as among the tallest mountains of Asia. Jeju island is just 25 miles across (north/south axis) at its widest point and some 45 miles long from west to east. Initially, the island was formed by volcanic activity two million years ago. I stood on the seacoast rock near Mount SanBangSan on this part of the island that stretched back to two million years. It is a wild and raw terrain, with winds so fierce at times that I could lean against the wind and be held upright. I walked up Seongsan Ilchulbong (Sunrise Peak), the volcano that is the signature image of Jeju.

In Jeju, I found such wonders, and a sense of spiritual renewal. Anyone would be stunned by the richness of the plants and vegetation, the abundance of fish from such varied oceans, and the majestic skies defining the more than 300 volcanoes and tremendous forests that are the habitat of an array of birds and wild life, including the 60,000 wild horses on Mount Halla.

Of all the renaissances that have renewed my spirit, nothing has touched me as deeply as this quest to this island of antiquity that has long been a destination for spiritual renewal, healing, and well-being. In many ways this new quest wiped away impediments structured by a mindset developed over the years, and at 81, I seemed catapulted back to myself at 18, perhaps an historic palindrome. Suddenly I felt the surge of energy in the midst of an island serving as an icon for spiritual well-being and freedom.

The stranger, reading my mindset, created a new panorama and then just as unexpectedly as appearing, vanished.

I was alone.

JEJU RENAISSANCE (Part One)

Wednesday night emerged as an epiphany as I attempted to deal with the challenges of a profound   transformation that began prior to and during my time on Jeju Island,  a magical isle off the coast of Korea that has been s source for recovery and well-being for more than a thousand years.  A major area in the west and south of the island, along the Pacific Ocean side is an area known as Seogwipo, named for Seobul, an emissary of the Emperor of China, who was sent to Jeju to find plants that could bestow well-being and eternal life. The Emperor was Qin Shi Huang who unified the Chinese Continent (BC 221-BC206).

It would be fascinating to to understand how Seobul's presence transformed Jeju and Korea during his visit. Not only is Seogwipo (gwipo refers to eternal life/healing/well-being) named for him, but the capital Seoul is derived from Seobul. His impact was pervasive and metaphysical. His journey to Jeju brought this remarkable Island to the attention of the world as a pristine paradise favored by divinity. His quest had such impact that his name continues to enrich the manifestation of a spiritual presence in Jeju that remains palpable.

A year ago, I knew nothing of Jeju except that one of my graduate students was studying at NYU on leave of absence from her school in Jeju, where she had been teaching for several years.  The year of 2017 was a year of change, it was to be my last year of teaching at NYU as I would go on sabbatical in my final year.  It would also be the final year for EXPANDED MUSIC and IMPACT, our international workshop which had just passed a decade of collaborative new multimedia creative work of international participants.

I wondered what I should do on a sabbatical as an octogenarian. The end of my sabbatical would mark 50 years of involvement with NYU Steinhardt Music and Performing Arts Professions that began with some exploratory discussions with Jerrold Ross in 1968. Leaping back to 1968, when my multimedia opera ROTATION premiered, I had made a commitment to education as a life pursuit, even though I would continue to make music through students by exploring and  sharing the collaborative process in a number of settings. But as I break from academia in my final year at NYU, all options are open, if only I knew what they might be.

As I approached my final year of IMPACT,  I was already exhausted from the academic year and anticipating moving out of my office and removing the accumulation of half a century. In many ways 2017 was IMPACT's most ambitious year, but the framework was more intimate. Several colleagues who had helped found IMPACT were no longer involved.  But we had a creative new staff on the IMPACT Team, including a brilliant young man who had started as an IMPACT participant and risen over the years to visual director. From the first time I met him at IMPACT, I regarded him as a child of the new century, a true multimedia artist. This final year he returned as production coordinator. As it turned out, it may have been an even more inspiring experience than our tenth-year celebration.

Yet, as we prepared for IMPACT during May 2017,  I had no sense of where I should be or what I should do during a terminal sabbatical. Clearly I sensed then, and continue to anticipate a turning point. Structurally it was to be a crucial juncture mandated by academic procedure. Spiritually it may require yet another renaissance...

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.

Yet, what is emerging is not like the past... the days of opportunity are not dissolving. The inward possibilities are bubbling up from the depths and taking shape. "What might be" is evolving into a vivid presence. But none of this would be happening had it not been for an encounter with an unexpected stranger.

ARTS RECOVERY COLLABORATION: WELL BEING

Soon I will have completed about 50 years of contact, planning, and implementing a new idea for an academic structure. My work shifted from composer to creating curricula anticipating the media and technology explosion that began around 1968. Now, in September of 2018 that chapter of my life at New York University will come to a close.

I am somewhat surprised to still be here, because in my fantasies, I always thought I would have been gone from this existence by now.  I speculated over time when the end would come. In my teens, my heroes were Gershwin and Mozart. Both died at 35. I said to myself, "Fine, I will live passionately and when I'm 35, I'll be gone.

But when I turned 35, I was surprised to see I was still around. What should I do? Plan my life for retirement? But frankly at 35, I was in the maelstom of sweeping academic and administrative changes at the university. In addition, I was in the midst of sponsoring an on-campus festival and symposium in collaboration with Keyboard Magazine that introduced to the world the new breed of low-cost synthesizers that led to the revolution of musical practices and styles of the 70s. We turned the entire Education Building and Student Union into rooms that hosted manufacturers and their equipment, and artists in special workshops, with performances by luminaries, in what was later named Loewe Theatre, each evening of the three-day extravaganza.

Since I was sill around, I thought maybe the end woud come at 50, then at 60, and then surely at 70, so I never really planned for retirement. But as 80 approached, I began to realize maybe I wasn't going to die in the job.  Is there life after 80?

One of the joys of working in such a dynamic department where we had managed to attract so many energetic and visionary faculty was my relationship with the Music Therapy Program when I served as Chair. I had helped the former Chair in setting up the new program, and we brought in a talented and visionary person to lead the program. As consistent with our other programs, our Music Therapy departed from the prevailing model in Academia, so much so that we left the existing association and created a new one. This was through the initiative of my mentor and Chair, Dr. Jerrold Ross who had been responsible for bringing me to the department to develop new and innovative programs.

During my tenure as Chair, Barbara Hesser, our new Music Therapy Program Director initiated retreats in the Catskill Mountains on Panther Mountain near Phonecia, New York. My first experience with the retreat was so memorable that I composed an interactive ensemble piece based on the happening of that week together with so many creative artists.

I travelled to the retreat with colleague and philosopher, David Burrows, whose book Time and the Warm Body, remains one of the most original treatments of Time that I have encountered. I remember him saying, "John, these people know something about making music that most of us do not know or understand."

The Panther mountain facility was beautifully designed and we lived in dorm style rooms. We could make our own meals or purchase simply-prepared snacks or meals. We had to clean up after ourselves, and there were many rooms where we could separate in various configurations as needed and congregate together as a group. There was no set agenda, except to share and to have conversations and mini-sessions that were like informal workshops.

Deep in the forest was a Sanctuary shaped somewhat like a teepee. A large circular building narrowed like a funnel as you looked upward, culminating in an opening at the top where you could see the sky, or stars at night.

On the first night we gathered in the sanctuary. Those of us that had instruments brought them and put them in the center. We gathered into a large circle so that everyone could see each other and the instruments in front of us.

In the sanctuary, in the middle of the forest, underneath a starry sky, we sat in deep silence. After a while, Time became irrelevant. We no longer sat in silence... we communed in silence and communed with silence. I became deeply aware of our breathing. It was almost as though we were all drawing the same breath. After more than an hour I could hear a low voice intoning a sound as though breath had discovered tone. Gradually everyone joined.  Toning began to follow contours, and then melody emerged, almost as though this communion had summoned the power of music. For the next two hours there wonderful textures, melodies, emotions created as an ensemble, but punctuated with solos, duos, trios, and other configurations expressing full joy and utter despair, pain and gladness, anguish, and delight. The improvisation created its own form and after about two hours, it returned to silence. We sat again in the circle, silent, but somehow wholly fulfilled. After a few moments we began to talk and share our experience.

The retreat was all about making music together spontaneously and then sharing our work from the past year.  Everyone was exhausted from the demands of rigorous programs in the different parts of the world, so as we shared and interacted, we found that the process we were undergoing Became a profound healing experience.

From this experience, the idea of ARC (ARTS RECOVERY COLLABORATION) occurred to me as a possible focus for what I might implement in the future. An Arc is a symbol of connecting. Maybe it is ARTS RENAISSANCE COLLABORATIVE, or ARTS RENEWAL COLLABORATION... but the idea of reaching out and connecting with colleagues in the arts at the end of the year to celebrate and recover seems like something worthwhile to do, taking my inspiration from what I encountered in Phonecia almost 40 years ago.

DEEP INTO THE NORTH COUNTRY WITH BASHŌ

From the first moment I learned of Haiku, I felt a connection with Matsuo Bashō, one of Japan's greatest authors. This Christmas I received a volume of Bashō's middle and late periods, if one can call them that, since it appears that his progression toward his rich mature style was steady and uninterrupted, even though it came at great personal sacrifice. The volume is The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches.

As was the practice of the time, a poet's work was created on journeys undertaken for the sake of creating.. I felt a parallel with the volume I received and Robert Pirsig's Zen in the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.  This sensitive and thoughtful translation is by Nobuyuki Yuasa, and covers the major three journeys of Bashō.

Perhaps it is the notion of the journey that most attracted me, because I had not realized the context of Bashō's poetry before. From this reading I understand also that poetry was often a collaborative process. Disciples accompanying the master would contribute poems and often suggest lines to the master. But also there are deliberate sacrifices that must be made to undertake such journeys into a wilderness... usually by foot, but at times the terrain could be so challenging a horse would be necessary.

In my journeys, I have been aware of the spiritual quest that has always defined the issues of awareness and noticing. Listening and noticing---intimate encounters with being that provides glimpses into the nature of existence as we embrace appearances masquerading as reality.

In following Bashō's journey, I became aware that the haiku and at that time hokku, was an evolving form, and the 5-7-5 syllable form was not the only syllable structure prevalent. Nobuyuki Yuasa prefers the four-line form which seems to better fit the poems as written by Bashō. Especially since poems always appear in the context of prose passages.  Scholar and translator Yuasa comments:

First, the language of haiku, ...is based on colloquialism, and in my opinion, the closest approximation of natural conversational rhythm can be achieved in English by a four-line stanza rather than a constrained three-line stanza.

Bashō took his name from the tree of that name after one of his disciples presented him with a stock of a Bashō tree. A Bashō is a species of banana tree. Bashō remarked "I love the tree for its very uselessness."

As many who know me have observed I have given much thought to issues of madness, and making moments tangible and retrievable through poetry. Poetry is the essence of intense noticing. This seems to be confirmed by Bashō:

What is important is to keep our mind high in the world of true understanding, and returning to the world of our daily experience to seek therein the truth of beauty. No matter what we may be doing at a given moment, we must not forget that it has a bearing upon our everlasting self which is poetry.

In The Narrow Road to the Deep North, Bashō  undertakes a journey to what is regarded as the unknown forces of the universe in order to be the poetry that makes the world profoundly eloquent. Having composed a song this summer, "If This Be Madness", I wrote:

If this be madness,
It sets me free,
From all the sadness
That once was me.
But is it madness
To look with love
Beyond the limits
That we’re made of?
We each have madness
Somewhere inside…
 A touch of genius
From which we hide
Perhaps its madness
Or just naive
To want to live my life
As I believe…
And even now I hear
A distant song
I know it’s somewhere near
Where I belong
And even now I see
That I must go
There’s a different me
And there are worlds
I’ve yet to know!

What a revelation it was to come upon this poem by Bashō:

With a bit of madness in me,
Which is poetry... 

And so I seem to have come full circle as I continue my journey of 81 years, remembering that as a child, the essence of the world was its poetic presence.

DEATH OF A STAR

Going quietly into the night, NOHO STAR shuttered its doors forever on New Year's Eve, 2017. There was no fanfare, and the lack of public outcry was disappointing.

I learned of the proposed closing from Ted Coons, a colleague of mine at New York University over breakfast early in December. I was saddened that the owner George Schwarz's son had decided to close both neighborhood fixtures, NOHO STAR and TEMPLE BAR after more than 30 years in order to convert the building to rental property. George passed away December 14, 2016.

Adding to my dismay was that I was scheduled to leave Manhattan for Asia before the closing. I never heard if there was an appropriate wake to mourn the loss of the NoHo Star. I saw many celebrities there during my 30 plus years of using this landmark bistro as my true office, with countless meetings with students, meeting with colleagues, meeting with artists in planning sessions, Many a project was launched over breakfast, brunch, and dinner.

NoHo Star opened after I had been with NYU for about 17 years when NoHo Star opened at 330 LaFayette Street. I saw the transformation of the area south of  Houston Street into SoHo in the late 70s. Before that it was an industrial area filled witth factories and industrial sites, warehouses, and various tradesmen.

This was a block from where I lived, and I watched artists tranform the area by invading on the weekend and using factory spaces to perform and exhibit exper innovations in technology that were experimental artwork, much of it using technollogies begun in alliances with scientist and artists in the 60s in New York, It was a time of Happenings. Everything was free and in the moment. I remember wandering around the warehouses and coming upon works such as a darkened room filled with low and high frequencies and fluctuating projections on the wall. As I grew accustomed to the dark, I saw the artist on the floor hooked up to biofeedback.

I remember how quickly artists were replacing factories and warehouses with lofts and studios. Then, quite suddenly, the area was officially dubbed SOHO, and the area hurtled toward gentrification. Now all the artists have fled and what is left are upscale stores and businesses, with Apple occupying the old Post Office Building on Prince Street.

SoHo --- because it was South of Houston Street, but also it borrowed cachet from the area in London which was also Soho and known as an area for the music, theatre, film, the arts and the pornographic industry.

I always had the fantasy that when George Schwarz acquired the building just north of Houston Street, he dubbed his eatery The NoHo Star, and inspired the christening of those few blocks north of Houston as NoHo.

It is sad to witness the death of an era in NYC which was such a mecca that it drew so many artists from the midwest and around the world, including me. Unfortunately Manhattan has been captured by a strict business mentality where the arts have a place only if they are part of the establishment. The artists have left their strongholds of SoHo and Tribecca and headed to Brooklyn, where there appears to be a renaissance in all aspects of the arts. Yes, there is a revival of young artists in te Lower East of Manhattan that is gathering momentum, even though the city politics and institutions are rigged against them.

The closing of THE NOHO STAR is the dissolution of a giant star. In my small universe, NoHo Star was a massive star, perhaps its debris of a supernova will seed new generations from the many projects and ideas hat were created through casual and not-so-casual meetings of creative people discussing, creating, and launching new ideas over coffee, tea, and the tasty fare from morning on into the night.

CAMELLIA HILL: THE FLOWERING OF ADVENTURE

As it happened during the holidays, the Camiellias of Jeju were reaching their peak. It seemed appropriate to visit Camellia Hill, a wonderful theme park which, because of Jeju's temperate climate, is open year-round with different species of flowers peaking in the changing seasons. Arriving a few days before the New Year, we found the camellias in full bloom, white and red camellia trees lining our path as we wandered through  the thick growth to encounter many surprises along the way.

There were shops, coffee houses, green houses, statues, a Japanese garden, storybook characters and icons scattered throughout the terrain. As we walked I was

reminded of the 19th Century Parks in Europe and England designed deliberately as adventures. Paths would wander and then abruptly turn and you would unexpectedly see a waterfall towering above you. Central Park in New York City was originally designed using that concept. The surprises of Camellia Hill were similar, as the growing shrubs were so thick that many things were obscure until you would enter a clearing and there would be a Greenhouse thoughtfully laid out with many species of flowers and trees and even moss. 

Further on you might see a coffee house and restaurant and then  wander through a Japanese Garden, beautifully sculpted, coming upon an exquisite Japanese Bonsai Tree near a rock formation called Crouching Dragon. The garden invites meditation, maybe a place to return to when there are fewer people. The Crouching Dragon    seems to be sleeping. I noticed that the English sub-title beneath the Korean name was "Couching Dragon,"---a typo or merely descriptive of a lazy dragon in the afternoon sun? The afternoon unfolded like an adventure, perhaps emulating the great English Parks of the 19th Century.

Finally we found ourselves in front of an elegant greenhouse, and on further investigation discovered it to be a coffee house still decorated for the holidays and almost gleaming inside from the afternoon sunlight pouring through the glass.

Here we were in the midst of winter, but on an idyllic adventure that might be typical of a Spring day elsewhere. A few days later I would be waking to see a blanket of snow on the farmland outside my window.

RECONNAISSANCE ADVENTURE TO SUNRISE MOUNTAIN IN JEJU: SANGBANSANG

Just a short drive to the Jeju coast in Seogwipo is the mountain SangBanSang which was once the peak of Mount Halla and was separated by a cataclysmic event that caused it to land by the ocean. Because it was the peak of Korea's tallest mountain, it possesses a powerful energy and spiritual presence that inspired the founding of a revered Buddhist Temple, Sangbanggulsa Temple. 

 In a reconnaissance maneuver to scout the terrain before winter solstice, I journeyed with friends along the coast leading to SangBanSang, coming upon countless coffee houses and hangouts where any aspiring Hemingway would be honored to linger to observe and write unpretentious masterpieces of humanity encountering the world, inspired by the sun and sea, with a beautiful terrain so breathtaking that one can hardly believe the whole thing is not simply a fantasy. I resolved to sometime return to Zen Hideaway to resume the writing I used to do in the coffee houses of New York City.

Arriving at the foot of the mountain, we found a multilevel approach to Buddha and the Temple, and through some mysterious means found ourselves having tea with the Temple's Buddhist Monk who revealed an inspiring voice as he shared his chants with us.  His voice had such resonance and depth, and I felt as though we were touched by some ancient miracle as he brought the sound into our presence as though summoned from some cherished sanctuary.

All of this was just to see if, indeed, the stories about the mountain being the site of a sunrise vigil to welcome in the New Year were true. They were --- we will return to SangBanSang to welcome in the new year 2018.

WINTER SOLSTICE: LET'S FACE THE MUSIC

Apparently this will be my 81st winter solstice. One might think in all these years some of the mystery would be gone, but the mystery deepens. It deepens because there is no true repetition. The absence of repetition is something we seldom notice because we are so captivated by its illusion. Music delights us when we hear the refrain repeated.... the familiar returning. We scarcely notice the illusion that Time affords us. Each repetition is tempered by time. We are older, even thought it be seconds later, and that repetition invades time as a new entity, stamping the moment with its presence, even as we are shaped by the time that passes. Even though the earth is spinnng its predictable course around the sun, the sun is traveling around the galaxy and is in a new place. Time teeters on the edge of discovery, and we are in a different energy.

We also alter the moments by the space we occupy. Our changes may be subtle or dramatic, but they never repeat the past. As the human race, we share some vision of the future. We see a scintillating panorama of things to come...of machines obedient and serving us like slaves... of an increasing, never ending projection into a future where we control our destiny. But if we are to believe artifacts and remnants from the ancient earth, there were greater dynasties than ours that have vanished...
leaving behind faint echoes of civilizations that once flourished and have fallen to some cataclysmic ending.

Recently I listened to Diana Krall's "Let's Face The Music and Dance," a masterpiece in sound and interpretation.  I detected in the arrangement and improvisation more of an encounter with the universe, with entropy and with a moon that is widening its arc around the world until it spins out of earth's orbit to some distant destiny. There is a sense of cosmic inevitability about the arrangement that moves from a simple beginning to an ending that is like the running down of the cosmos...

Perhaps Irving Berlin meant this simple lyric would mask a deeper meaning... the law of entropy demands we pay the price of existing in time...so before our fling draws to a close, we will have to pay the piper, so to speak. There are no free rides....

Ms. Krall starts with a simple dance rhythm, nice and casual, but then a note of caution, a sustained string sound has a slight foreboding tone:

There may be trouble ahead,
but while there's moonlight and music and love and romance,
let's face the music and dance.

But we try to ignore those signs of impending disaster... the music is playing, and yes, we will have to pay for our putting off the inevitable, but this the time to celebrate while we can... let's get the most from this moment:

Before the fiddlers have fled,
before they ask us to pay the bill,
and while we still have the chance,
let's face the music and dance.

Reality interrupts the party... the universe is running down and the moon is pulling against the earth, intent to follow a different journey... the counter melody moves away from the main melody

Soon, we'll be without the moon,
humming a different toon,

Then the orchestra and improv become more complex in texture, and we hear a kind of wistful orchestra as we become aware that the end may be near:

And then, there may be tear drops to shed.

But we realize we have no control over the future or our destiny:

         So while there's moonlight and music and love and romance,

                 Let's face the music and dance.

        Soon, we'll be without the moon,
        humming a different toon,

        And then, there may be tear drops to shed.
       So while there's moonlight and music and love and romance,

                 Let's face the music and dance.

                           

                          Let's face the music and dance...

                                  Let's face the music and dance.              

                                         Let's face the music and dance...

                                                Let's face the music and... dance.
            

The repetition is incessant and sad, but also resigned to the beauty of the reality that reluctantly all things come to an end...  each repetition becomes fainter and fainter as the universe comes to its treacherous demise...suddenly Ms. Krall abruptly breaks the texture with an almost passionless utterance of "dance!" and the music seems to end teetering on the brink of chaos... a brilliant rendering starting simply and unraveling as time goes on in the song... music can be a comforting companion in a journey through Time.

REPETITION...  "Let's Face The Music and Dance" has been repeated many times over the years since Irving Berlin penned this song 81 years ago when I was born in 1936. All through those 80 trips around the sun, singers such as Nat King Cole, Ella Fitzgerald, and Frank Sinatra have charmed fans with their versions which voiced the reluctance of two lovers resigned to an unknown fate... and then the song repeated in a new era, wiser in the understanding of our place in the universe, Diana Krall reminds us that we should relish "our place in the sun" while we can... just Face The Music and Dance...

And so this solstice is our romance with humanity's journey with the sun and our hope that the sun will continue to sustain us for another season... a ritual since before Stonehenge and now in a few days on Sunrise Mountain on Jeju Island.

A POET'S WALK

Last October... as autumn ebbed away with slight invasions of winter... as a Saturday sun defined a golden afternoon, I meandered through Poet's Walk overlooking the Hudson River where Washington Irving once walked and is said to have been inspired by the distant Catskills to write Rip Van Winkle. It was a perfect autumnal evening with the waning sun settling in the west. Below, the Hudson detailed itself in elegant silence, and clouds interpreted the sky with glowing gestures of drifting calm.

Now in the waning hours of 2017, I walk along the beautiful vistas of Jeju Island, which erupted into being eons ago in the Yellow Sea. Looking north, I know the morning calm of mountains of Korea are somewhere beyond the horizon. To my right, Japan silently waits for my attention, and to my left the vast mystery of China calls me with a voice I remember when I was a child discovering that continent in my father's library.

In some way that I cannot understand, this island has emerged as the center of the universe and my mind leaps light years in all directions. What began as a poet's walk along the Hudson has become a greater walk among the stars. Perhaps the most elegant aspect of the island is the magnificent changing skies providing a panorama of changing cloud-formed constellations. I see the sun painting such bold, and sometimes delicate, streaks of light, igniting a spectrum of colors, never repeating and endlessly changing. At night, dwarfed by the surrounding oceans, the island glows in the moonlight and silence is the music of darkness. And in the silence I hear the music of myself.

AN ERA

Time has a way of continuing to unfold. It is the most compelling dimension we encounter. It is the consequence of of a moment of revelation in awareness ignited with a sense of IS-NESS. We have been trying to understand ourselves in relationship to Being and Time, Time and Being, (as Heidegger framed the dilemma twice in his life).

In eight decades, the procession of events has been defined somewhat angular on what I sensed as an upward trajectory. This metaphor is probably common to us all. Does the trajectory now tail off and curve back toward the earth, or does it continue and escape gravity, spiraling toward unknown destinies?

That is where I am today, as I look to know where Wyzard Ways now wanders, for I sense it more as a wandering than a zooming.  Free of the gravity of my past life, I now float freely toward some unknown destiny. The all sounds much too grand for what emerges as a quiet, more reflective drifting to new ways of BEING and MEANING. 

I look to being in a place where I can comprehend where I have been and what that may actually represent as experience, as a sense of reality. Language begins to fall short of discovery. 

ACKER AWARDS AT THEATRE 80 ST MARKS CELEBRATES THE AVANT GARDE

With noted Avantgarde-artist Clayton Patterson serving as Presenter, the 2017 Acker Awards Ceremony was warmly acclaimed by a packed audience of fellow artists and arts enthusiasts. It was more of a happening than a ceremony.  Initiated on the West Coast, and named after novelist Kathy Acker, the East Coast Acker Awards in 2013 was founded by Clayton as a means of documenting the extraordinary artistic activities in the lower east side of New York. Clayton champions and celebrates the leading edge of artistic development that has long been identified with the East Village.



As described on HOWL ARTS: (updated slightly)

The ACKER Awards were created by Alan Kaufman in San Francisco and Clayton Patterson in New York. Patterson and friends pay tribute to members of the avant-garde arts community who have made outstanding contributions in their discipline in defiance of convention, and to those who have served their fellow writers and artists in outstanding ways. The Acker Awards are named after novelist Kathy Acker, who in her life and work exemplified the risk-taking and uncompromising dedication that identifies the true avant-garde artist.

Each recipient receives a commemorative box that contains original art works and mementos created by some of the 40 winners. Each year the box,includes booklets, bios and  original works of art and ephemera. Previous boxes have contained a signed and numbered papier- mâche potato by Hapi Phace, a sculpture by Tom Otterness, a handmade book by Edgar Oliver, and other specially-created art works.

Flanking Clayton Patterson's stage presentation was the celebrated Phoebe Legere,  musician and multiform artist, serving as MC of this event that had elements of spontaneous combustion. The energy of the artists and the audience was palpable, immediate and free spirited.

The evening was laced with impromptu performances, witty and insightful comments from Phoebe and Clayton, with an air of celebration in understanding that this event helps create and maintain community among a wide range of arts and generations from young and aspiring to venerate veterans who have established identities and domains through many struggles and challenges.

Many in the audience were former winners of the Acker Awards, suggesting that Clayton Patterson's vision of establishing a strong sense of community through the awards has become manifest,  It is a monumental achievement to put together these awards, prepare the  commemorative boxes,  hire a hall, advertise and stage the event. Kudos to Clayton Patterson.

Even more impressive of this community of village artists is the diversity of practices, preferences, and artistic collaborations/creations spanning almost seven decades of explosive creativity. At one point when Lincoln Anderson and his work with The Villager was announced, Clayton took a moment to remind us that the Villager is on-line, and that its presence on the Internet makes it equal to all other publications in visibility. He noted that this publication is a record of the work of the community, urging that everyone add to the record by commenting on articles and postings.

This was an awards evening worth noting for the city, for the artists represented by these awards are carving out new terrain that resonates with change and the creation of new work.

ACKER RECIPIENTS 2017

COUNTESS ALEX ZAPAK, "POLITICAL NOTICE"
NANCY WOLFE  &  ETHAN MINSKER, "2016 VIDEO OF CEREMONY"
NATANIA NUNUBIZNEZ,  "CARTOON ILLUSTRATOR"
SARAH SCHULMAN, "ACTIVIST PLAYWRIGHT"
CARLITO CASTILLO, "ART & SCIENCE OF BOXING"
FRIDAY JONES, "TATTOOING"
MICHELLE MYLES, "TATTOOING"
MARI-CLAIRE CHARBA, "THEATER ACTOR"
MARILYN ROBERTS, "THEATER ACTOR"
BARBARA KAHN, "THEATER ACTOR"
LOIS KAGAN MINGUS, "THEATER ACTOR"
CHARLES SCHICK, "ART"
REGINA BARTKOFF, "ART"
FELICE ROSSER, "MUSIC"
CHERYL PYLE, "MUSIC"
EDEN BROWER & JOHN HENEGHAN, "MUSIC"
LINCOLN ANDERSON, "COMMUNITY MEDIA"
LUCKY LAWLER, "COMMUNITY MEDIA/ART"
CHARLES MINGUS 3RD, "ART"
THERESA BYRNES, "ART"
LESLIE LOWE, "ART"
VICTORIA ALEXANDER, "ART"
AGATHE SNOW, "ART"
ANTONY ZITO, "ART"
JANE DICKERSON, "ART"
ISTVAN KANTOR, "ART"
JENNIFER BLOWDRYER, "WRITER"
SHELLEY MARLOW, "WRITER"
MAGIE DOMINIC, "WRITER"
VERONICA VERA, "SEXUAL EVOLUTIONARY"
CANDIDA ROYALLE, "FEMNIST PORN GENRE"
TOYO TSUCHIYA, "PHOTOGRAPHY"
JACKIE RUDIN, "PHOTOGRAPHY"
MARY CAMPBELL & VIV VASSAR, "PERFORMANCE ART COLLECTIVE ORGANIZER"
WENDY SCRIPPS, "COMMUNITY SUPPORT"
CARTER EMMART, "SCIENCE"
COUNTESS ALEX, "TRANS MEDIA STORY TELLER"
ANNE HANAVAN, "VIDEO"
KEITH PATCHEL, "COMPOSER, PRODUCER"

YET ANOTHER RENAISSANCE...

Just when I thought that for me at eighty there were no more rebirths of imagination... no bursts of creativity, I am awaking to a new world and noticing the beautiful sounds, the beautiful moments that need to be stamped with the permanence of celebration by turning Time into an ally of preservation. We have the capacity to capture Time in the bottle of creation, transforming the moment into an enduring presence.

KEITH PATCHEL'S NEW OPERA PREMIERES AT MEDICINE SHOW THEATRE

Keith Patchel's new opus, The Plain of Jars, based on a novel by the same name, premiered at The Medicine Show Theatre December 10th. This performance was a significant cultural event that should be noticed and honored, if only for the spectacular talent involved in the production that was created from scratch over a 12 day period. If Rossini remarked that it takes "about 21 days to make an opera," making this new work sets a new record. Patchel's work defies classification, as it might be described as a docudrama, musical play, or opera.  Patchel's background as a film composer is evident  as he has created a tapestry where the music flows without interruption, sometimes as the dominant feature and other times as commentary on the scenes of intrigue, exploring the motives of political characters and agents involved in the bombing of Laos during the Vietnam War.

The "Plain of Jars" is a garden-of-eden-like place in Laos that was life sustaining  for Laotians, who led a simple, peaceful life until their homeland was used by the US to test new weapons and bombing strategies during the Vietnam War.

Besides the Laotians, the cast of characters includes JFK, played by Robert E. Turner, Nixon, portrayed by Timothy McCown Reynolds, LBJ acted by Jon L. Peacock, and Henry Kissinger, depicted by John Hayden. Patchel's treatment of the characters satirizes them in the light of their criminal and covert actions, with the exception of Kennedy regarded as the hope of change for the direction for the country. Turner's stately and passionate enactment of JFK provided a stark contrast to the political trio who plot the death of Kennedy. In addition to the rich diversity of these characters, two CIA cohorts (played by Sayaka Aiba and Clare Francesca) add to the scheming and deceit, playing a critical role in persuading the politicians to use the Vietnam War to test new weapons.

The Laotians are performed by Sayaka Aiba, Clare Francesca, Jialin Li, and Xi Yang, and their opening scene of the tranquility of the Laotian natives was serenely projected with their melodic lines interweaving and overlapping, shimmeringly mystical. 

The scene shifts to the White House with JFK and the political trio in which the killing of Kennedy to prevent the withdrawal of US troops from Vietnam establishes the symbolic presence of his spirit. Patchel's conception of having JFK portrayed an an African American is an inspired gesture and Robert E. Turner brings a sense of dignity and destiny to the role. It stands in stark contrast to a CIA-directed White House and State Department intent on using the "falling domino" theory as an excuse for the war.

The trio of conspirators, provided a bitingly satirical commentary, and each actor emerged sharply etched as a caricature deeply embedded in a personal grasp of the demeanor and rhetoric of politicians caught in the web of their own deceit. Timothy McCown Reynolds was brilliant in capturing the expressions and blustering mannerisms of Nixon. John Hayden's Kissinger was covertly evil in his quest for power and posterity, a stunning range of characterization. LBJ was indeed "with heavy heart" as possibly the most powerful and reckless of the trio, but traumatized by the enormity of his transgressions against America and Vietnam. Vietnam was a force that spiraled out of control and each response only made matters worse. Peacock's characterization was accurate, revealing a troubled LBJ who could not overcome his own tragic flaws.

There are two extraordinary scenes that seem to transcend the structure: a "Death Dance" danced by Robert Turner, Cantata Fan, and Sayaka Aiba, an eloquent gesture mourning the death of Laotians. This was a powerful moment, abstract but also immediate and irrevocable.

The concluding scene of the opera is the final aria of Gaia (Yang Xi), a powerful apotheosis of the Laotian pride whose survival in the world exacts a justice, a redemption for having endured the slaughter of innocence. The pride and purity of the Laotians remain untouched. The aria begins in the symbolic demise of Kissinger, Nixon and LBJ entombed in the giant Jars of the Plains. The music celebrates triumph of Laotians over evil. In many ways, the structure of the work is a series of climaxes, each surpassing the previous. Yang Xi's musical sensibility and strength of interpretive expression uses her remarkable voice to shape each nuance and climax demanded in this powerful and expressive aria.

Patchel's music unfolds as a continuous tapestry of sound embellished by live instruments performed by Kento Iwazaki (Koto), Cantata Fan (Pipa), Alan Gruber (violin), and the keyboard manned by the composer. Their presence as a substantive texture, provided an unfolding spontaneity.

Adding to the ambiance of the evening was the wonderful set created by Alexis Kandra, simple, but enriched with the nuance of an primeval space invaded by the technology of 20th Century war... the giant jars on the Plains ultimately serving to entomb Kissinger, Nixon, and Johnson, indicted for their crimes against humanity.

A highlight that must be noted is Clara Francesca's solo "This is the only war we've got..." Her performance was powerful, Brechtian, yet bitterly poignant, confirming the opera's pervasive tone as satire. Perhaps the strength of libretto is the tension between the gentle presence of the Laotians and the sharp, caustic satire enacted with such brilliant individuality by Reynolds, Peacock and Hayden. 

The Plain of Jars theatrical premiere created an unforgettable quality for New York City on December 10, and 11 by bringing to our attention a regrettable and shameful time in American history.  The opera focuses on the violence in Vietnam and the culpability of the United States. Even though video footage of the bombing and violence in Laos was included in scenes, the libretto did not explore the atmosphere in this country that was violent, explosive and cruel, with riots, demonstrations and killings of innocent protestors.

Patchel is to be commended on creating a work that reminds us that Time does not erase such moments, but elevates them to renewed significance as we discover new meaning ifrom events of the past.

SEVEN FOR NINE ELEVEN

Songs of Sorrow,

      Songs of Hope

       Seven for Nine Eleven

                I.

September morning---

 Clear and calm …

 Streaking, screaming jets

 Collide with the crisp serenity,

 Crushing the dreams of thousands

 Of world citizens

 In one prolonged

 Agonizing instant---

 Altering perceptions and events

 In a tangle

 Of terror,

 Toppling towers,

 And barbaric entombment

              II.

 All the fallen heroes

 Rushing to rescue

 Innocent victims of violence…

 Trapped between their selfless bravery

 And fanatic hatred

 Focused on annihilation

 Of all hope and happiness…

Gone in the momentous collapse

 Of monuments and unsung miracles…

 All the fallen heroes,

 Mourned and remembered,

 Forevermore.

             III.

Bewildered with rage 

 And weeping,

 We gather and huddle

 In streets and parks,

 Embracing strangers, 

 Posting our private grief

 On walls and chain-link fences…

 Coming together in the spirit 

 Of ourselves

 As though this magnitude

 Of love

 Could stifle and smother

 The animosity,

 The atrocity,

 That has befallen us.

            IV.

Weep, world…

 Many lost their lives today.

Weep for clashing cultures

 Exploding on the world.

 The eleventh of September

 Collides with human destiny…

 Ending all innocence

 And immunity.

Weep, world,

 Weep in sorrow…

 Many lost their lives today…

 Yet, beneath the smoldering debris,

 A new spirit struggles to erupt.

              V.

 A fragile experiment,

 Begun in a time

 When humanity defied tyranny

 And sought a sanctuary

 Of liberty…

Once begun,

 There was no assurance

 It would survive…

Even now

 Tyrants and barbarians

 Threaten the frangible frame of freedom.

             VI.

 We will not die---

 There is a gentle presence

 That gathers strength 

 In our awareness---

 Through all the adversity,

 Through all the tears,

 Through all that perished

 On that frail September day,

 We find the substance

 Of ourselves

 Embedded in all who have gone

 Before us…

 Grasping intangible threads 

 Binding us...  

 

            VII.

 Celebrate the loved ones

 We have lost…

 Celebrate the right to sing

 Of one another…

 Cherish the links

 Connecting us…

 To dare to dream,

 To seek to hope,

 To make festivals

 Of images and sounds

 Leaping like magic

 Across an electric consciousness

 Like shooting stars

 Across the cosmos 

 Confronting chaos 

 With the simple song of ourselves.

© Copyright John Gilbert, September 12, 2011, 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

AUTUMN IN NEW YORK--- A YEAR LATER

September, another Autumn in New York. Jerome had started walking north from Washington Square Park. He had started around 4 p.m. after meeting his friend George in the park. They sat in the park where George had seen his "butterfly girl"and the whole experience seem as vivid as a year ago when he became obsessed about finding her. Suddenly seeing her at the ferry had bolstered George's spirits, but his hopes were dashed when he saw her on the dock as the ferry was pulling away. So near and yet never meeting.

Jerome felt George's angst. George could not let go of the vision of the stranger in the park as a butterfly flew around her head and landed as if by command on the book the woman was reading. He felt that karma had teased him and cheated him.

Jerome found himself in Chelsea and suddenly felt a tinge of Déjà vu. A year ago he had walked this area, strains of Autumn in New York playing in his head:

Glimmering crowds
And shimmering clouds
In canyons of steel
They're making me feel, I'm home...

But this year it was different. There was no celebrating of first-nighting--- only the bittersweet feeling of joys past and emptiness ahead. No more renaissances he thought... You've gone to the well too often, and now Time betrays you.

Even so, there were new melodies that lingered, and lyrics that tried to penetrate the hard veneer that clung to him. For Jerome, September was always the end and the beginning.

Autumn in New York
Is often mingled with pain

Jerome felt the pain. That was the yin and yang of September, the sad/happy, bitter/sweet reservoir of feeling and perception, the ultimate quest that gave him the energy to overcome impediments to his work. 

His work. What was that exactly? Some cryptic destiny. He could think of his action only as process, a means of engaging Time to make something tangible, authentic...wonderful. It could be anything, as long as it was wrought from emptiness of Time and Space and placed in the continuum of so-called reality, whatever that is. It could be a poem, music, painting, a chair, a feast, an equation, a story, or just anything that might be pulled from the empty terrain through an encounter with Time. Something created in and through Time became something substantive, something that might endure, a somethingness as opposed to nothingness.

There had been decades of triumphs and defeats. His road was always rough, with terrain that at times seemed impassible. He felt the despair of emptiness, and wondered if the Muse had deserted him. In some ways, his life had been in pursuit of THE MUSE. He remembered the many lost works as the result of such carelessness and disregard for history. Now decades had passed, and his sense of loss overwhelmed him into silence.

Not this far. . .I never knew I would surviveBeyond a barrierSelf conceived and self imposedSo long agoThat empty pages found a wayTo mock my delusion,Imitating the nothingnessOf anticipated emptiness.Now these words . . .I never knew I could reviveAn unknown continentRemembered, yet emergingSo far awayThat silent chambers now resoundTo shape a new perception,Celebrating the resonance . . .Restoring such abundant songs!

Now as he walked north the Chelsea, the creative energy seemed to drain from him, and he was confronted by a sense of doom. The very thought of impending disaster seemed too melodramatic for him. He knew that he just needed to engage. But he also was plagued by the fear that his mental capacity would dissolve into anonymity... a new malady of the twenty-first century. He smiled as he thought whatever work might survive would be anonymous.