The Hemingway Solution

We are always in the midst of our own destruction. Last night I saw this so clearly, and now in the light of day the dark clarity of that moment is fading. Somehow I understand the fleeting, evanescent state of the human condition. Recognition that at some point we all die is an intellectual abstract that our consciousness cannot grasp since Being does not include Not Being.

Yet my human condition moves inevitably toward its own destruction. I struggle on a slippery slope and my optimistic intuition suggests that even though I will slip into oblivion, somehow the universe will rescue and preserve my awareness. It is this awareness that defines and makes the universe what it is. Without awareness, the universe is nothing.

Beneath my hope is that existential angst that drives me toward some control of my exit strategy---especially since my entry into the human condition was beyond my control (or so we surmise). I fully understand Hemingway's solution. Once there is no further hope, at least there is some integrity in controlling when to say Goodbye to All That. Yes, goodbye and good riddance if I am betrayed by my belief. Not that there is anything I can do about it anyway (or so I surmise).

Last night I lay in a stupor, having finished Young-Ha Kim's extraordinary book I Have The Right to Destroy Myself. Chi Young Kim's translation is riveting, but one can see beneath the words to the spiritual bedrock of the text, touch the mind of the author who has achieved a poetic level that helps me understand myself as an artist who is just passing by or passing through, if you will. I envy my Korean friends who read the text in its original Korean because I know that language is more cinematic than English. But to get back to last night. My existential dilemma was much clearer than now as I lay in a text-induced delirium with hallucinations defining my understanding. Kim begins his novel by describing Jacques-Louis David's famous painting, The Death of Marat. Marat lies, murdered, in his bath:

I have already tried to make a copy of this painting several times. The most difficult part is Marat's expression; he always comes out looking too sedate. In David's Marat, you can see neither the dejection of a young revolutionary in the wake of a sudden attack nor the relief of a man who has escaped life's suffering. His Marat is peaceful but pained, filled with hatred but also with understanding. Through a dead man's expression David manages to realize all of our conflicting innermost emotions. ...We should all emulate David. An artist's passion shouldn't create passion. An artist's supreme virtue is to be detached and cold.

I am transported to years earlier when I wrote an opera libretto that included a critic who shared this conviction of detachment as a virtue, the daemonic divorce of feeling and reason. I know that I am in for an adventure as this author is measured, always in control, always shrouded in mystery masquerading as clarity, a genius of misdirection. I am concerned that critics have described his work as perverse because that never occurred to me as I read his text.

Through this beginning Kim has set the tone for revealing a mystery. Perhaps the narrative is real, or perhaps this is the fiction of a writer who lurks calmly on the outskirts as the main character, but then recedes assuming all identities of the narrative. Are the characters in this book simply the novel the author is editing? The writer is the book. He is the wizard pulling the strings. "Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!" Yet, he is calm and unflustered --- detached.

I am anything but detached. In my state I am everyone in the book. Kim ends with The Death of Sardanapal by Delacroix. It is the death of the king's steeds, his concubines, all brightly lit as a delightful spectacle of murder and mayhem, while in the upper left corner you discover the detached figure of Sardanapal in the shadows. At first you might think he is watching an orgy, but on closer scrutiny you see the knives thrust deep, the writhing, dying women, Sardanapal presiding over the death of his kingdom and the fall of Babylon. His actions have taken him to his own demise. Now I begin and end in the utter detachment of death, just like the narrative structure.

The symmetry of Kim's narrative almost pulverizes me as I discover that it mirrors my own quest for literary and artistic symmetry. I find myself reeling in the vortex of passions unleashed but casually contained. There are the brothers at odds and quietly at war, each a polarity of each other. There is the writer editing his novel and servicing his "clients." These three men are balanced by three women, Judith, perhaps Klimt's Judith, and Mimi, the stunning artist whose explosive work challenges the premise of artmaking, and the woman from Hong Kong. Even as I write this, I know there is no stability, the terrain shifts even as I unravel the mystery. It becomes clear that Kim IS Sardanapal oddly detached as the reality he has constructed deconstructs, just as HE was Marat in the opening, calm and coolly dead, filled with hatred and understanding.

My own fantasies mix in and I understand why the novel is about self destruction...and my own disintegration continues like some subtext to this narrative. I see Hemingway nodding and smiling in approval in the confusion of my cluttered, unlighted room. I am worried that I am Sardanapal presiding over my own deconstruction. Everyone is me and I am them in a feverish delusion of dimensions where I disappear into the text, now streaming as an alternate reality...

Fading Half-Life Radiation of 9/11

9/11 is still vividly burned into my world. That beautiful blue-skied September morning still shimmers in my memory along with the shrill shrieking of the airplane that flew directly over my head as I came out of the supermarket, watching that American Airliner plummeting toward its destructive destiny. An instant later, there in the distance, smoke billowed out of the north World Trade Center tower. Even as the innocence of autumn was ripped apart, I had the sense that something sinister had invaded my city. The Trade Center was about 20 blocks away, and the the gaping crater in the tower was enveloped by a grotesque serenity as the scream of the airliner overhead had dissolved into the eerie silence of the distant target. Quietly the debris rained on the horrified crowd below. In the stillness of that morning smoke was slowly spreading like a grey and black dye in the sky.

In that instant I imagined the horror unleashed on those trapped in the building. Oddly, I thought that it would take a long time to repair such damage, although I knew even then that world as we knew it was crumbling. This was a World Trade Center...and now that world was fatally wounded. Less than ten minutes later the distant tableau was punctuated by a second plane swerving from the west and turning directly into the south side of the southern tower. Fire and smoke erupted through the side and front of the tower... exploding across the world as a mass murder of innocents who had begun that day with such beauty and bright hope. Now America was in the throes of a surprise attack that was beyond our comprehension.

In the days that followed the attack we lived in a war zone. Military and artillery lined Houston Street and zones were established for 14th Street down to Houston Street, Houston to Canal, and then to Chambers Street, and below that, at the center of the collapsed towers, was what became known as Ground Zero. I roamed these grounds encountering people lost and bewildered, strangers in search of validation, vigils peopled by mourners, and reading walls and fences lined with messages and pleas for information of missing loved ones.

Seven years later a city reconstructs its destruction. Even now I walk through the lingering vapor, through the empty carcass of a bleeding landscape, watching workers weld walls and supports into place as the emptiness of Ground Zero is covered by a resurrection, a Phoenix rising from the ashes to bring hope and renewal.

But beneath this restoration, the gaping wounds have turned to fresh scars. The tissues and sinews connecting this space form a network of a tragic sense of loss. It is though I had limbs that are now amputated, but I imagine them to be intact. I feel the clouds of billowing smoke, the suffocating dust, the rush of terror.

Yet I roam through my city, through this tract that has been burned throughout history. This very land has been the scene of the great fire of 1776 as a "scorched earth" left for the invading British, the disastrous fire of 1835 which leveled this entire district with the utter destruction of Wall Street, and now this same ground in its most devastating moment of 2001. What attracts such destruction and death? Does the energy of all those people past still linger throughout these downtown canyons and corridors? These are sacred grounds consecrated by the tangible presence of death and sorrow.

I know a new truth as I wander these streets. There is a lingering sadness even as I celebrate a new season, a new energy of rebirth. I know there are new reasons to celebrate. I touch the fresh fabric covering the remnants of our suffering and find a tragic and urgent beauty... a quiet reason for understanding that from the death of the past, new works and new people must emerge... that is our destiny, the perpetual rediscovery born from our pain where joy is colored by the lustre of a deeper understanding of why we love this city and honor its past while celebrating and mourning its brave new face. The presence of the past is palpable, realms of experience resonate like emerging new music sounding through the desperate anguish that lingers in forever fading half-life radiation....

Brave New World of the Eumenides

Director Nancy Smither's remarkable conception of the Aeschylus play The Eumenides restores the lustre of antiquity while breaking new ground. The play has been in production for the last week in October and the first weekend in November in Steinhardt's BlackBox Theatre at New York University. Smithner is known for an inventive physical approach to staging, the actors move with such imagination that the result is an original choreography born of passion and drama that allows characters to create worlds that intersect and collide. Moreover Smither empowers the actors to find their own space and strength, and their characters emerge with a kinesthetic energy that shapes their destinies.

To be sure, on one level The Eumenides deals with Orestes' tragic and brutal murder of his mother Clytemnestra to avenge the death of his father, Agamemnon. Although vividly remembered through Smither's brilliant use of puppetry, shadows, and visual re-enactments, these events have taken place prior to the time of the play. What now remains is the cultural shock and fury, made compelling through the presence of the Furies, a chorus of underworldings who seek revenge for the spilling of one's own blood, the son's stabbing of his mother. For them, this is the only crime. Apparently Agamemnon deserved to die because he had only sacrificed his daughter Iphigenia to appease the daughter of Zeus, Artemis who was the twin sister of Apollo. Clytemnestra was also a bit miffed that Agamemnon had returned from his victory with the spoils of war: the lovely and provocative Cassandra as his slave and concubine.

The atmosphere of the world of The Eumenides is a fantascape, brimming over with the remnants of reality, the underworld, the imagination, and fantasy, like a visual and sound manifestation of Ligeti's Atmospheres that introduces the other worldliness at the end of Stanley Kubrick's 2001. This brave new world has been achieved through Tim McMath's chimerical set, Deborah Constantine's evocative lighting, and composer Rob Schwimmer's magical acoustic environment. Schwimmer has employed electronic instruments of the past such as the Theremin, which adds to the distant, other worldliness that pervades the atmosphere of the play. These elements serve to fuse the unity of the vision as the play is performed from beginning to end without intermission.

One might surmise from the many layers of figures and characters, that ultimately the issue of justice becomes a major concern. Indeed, whose justice? We may well wonder, and at the end we may still be in doubt, despite the clear resolution. The Eumenides is the third play in the trilogy, The Oresteia. The first play, Agamemnon, tells the story of Agamemnon's return from Troy and his murder at the hand of Clytemnestra. The second, The Libation Bearers, deals with the revenge of Agamemnon's children. Thus in the third play, Aeschylus is concerned with justice and the values of a new culture and emergent democracy.

Smithner's direction understands that the Furies emerge as the star of the play, thus underscoring the fact that the role of the Greek chorus has been transformed into the main character of the play. The chorus no longer merely makes commentary on the acts of the main characters. The chorus creates the action and moves the play forward. Smithner seizes this opportunity the develop each of the Furies in interlocking individual characters that are distinctly personal, but also part of the group. In fact, the Furies are likely unaware that the very nature of their group mirrors the democracy that finds new definition as the play unfolds. They press charges against Orestes and demand that he be punished for the murder of his mother.

The Furies form a compelling fabric for the play. Alecto played by Dean Amato was utterly relentless and in your face, while Lisha Brown as Mania seemed linked in her madness to the maniacal psychosis of Clytemnestra and her ghost, Praxidika played by Emily Weidenbaum was almost spiteful as the vengeful fury, complementing Ami Formica's Tisiphone as an avenger of murder, Erin Kaplan's Megaera, the grudging one, epitomizes the reluctance of the Furies to accept an new order, and Semina played by Lisa Vasfaido as the venerable one to offers distant hope for a new order. This is a vision of the Furies that emerges from director Smithner and the talented cast, who have created an intelligent commentary on the play through subscribing to a new and insightful vision.

We understand from the outset, that this is to be a forthright examination of the facts as we are introduced to the story by our storytellers, David Altman and Jamila Khan who later enact the events surrounding Agememnon's death by his own sword in the hands of Clytemnestra. The Priestess played by Naomi Tessler underscores the moral undercurrents and also beautifully represents Iphigenia who is sacrificed by her father. Hermes is ably played as the messenger by Kyle Stockwell, sent to protect Orestes from The Furies. Orestes, the central figure of the trial is portrayed by Isaac Polanco as the son who feels the guilt of murdering his mother, but who has acted at the command of Apollo. Apollo as played by Mauel Brian Simons, is the essence of reason and clarity, even when provoked and goaded by The Furies.

Athena charges into the fray with incredible wit and timing, unlike any Athena I have ever imagined. Created by actress Erin Ronder and Smithner's deft directorial vision, Athena brings humor and charm to the play, while proving there is always more than one way to look at the facts. Athena accepts the Furies on her own terms and plants the seeds for their transformation into the Eumenides at the end. Ronder has a great sense of panache and timing, and we can appreciate that the elements of doom and gloom of any tragedy can be transformed by point of view. But The Eumenides is not a tragedy. It might be the very first morality play, but of course it ranges far beyond the scope of most present day moralities. The Eumenides is meant in the end to uplift, inspire, and instruct. We are treated to a trial by jury (actually drawn from the audience as citizens of Athens). Athena has the deciding vote in the event of a tie, and make no mistake, she will opt for a new vision of justice for the future in which the Eumenides become the pillars of a new and calmer social order.

It was a joy to see the richness of Aeschylus through the artful lens of these young actors from New York University under the creative vision of Nancy Smither whose staging creates the need for a new vocabulary of movement for actors. I cannot forget the haunting vision of Clytemnestra's Ghost played as a bizaare phantom by Nandini Naik. Just as the Furies have grudgingly accepted their new and more gracious (controlled?) role in society, just as the lights are beginning to fade to black, and just as we are comfortable in the vision that all is well in this new society, the provocative image of Clytemnestra's Ghost eerily appears, reminding us that nothing is ever the way it seems.

The Otherness of Ourselves

Once while dining with a friend, I found our conversation taking a deeper turn. I am not sure why. But I began to come across aspects of myself that I had forgotten. I have always thought that each of us come from the same cataclysmic moment of the cosmos bursting into awareness of itself. We are that initial awareness masked by the otherness.

At that point where we connect in mystical acknowledgment of our beingness, we mirror to each other a singularity of consciousness. Thus in a conversation, an exchange, we discover ourselves all over. We suddenly remember moments long forgotten. Images, words, sounds, and songs pop into our heads as we speak, and I realize that had we not been engaged with the person opposite us, we might have passed those moments by, unaware that they were hidden there in a clump of consciousness buried beneath the debris of forgetfulness --- waiting to be acknowledged.

But the miracle of otherness doesn't stop there. We also look ahead to the possibilities of who we are becoming. The very presence, the energy of otherness opens us to new options and opportunities. The world unfolds in the presence of our connection and these cosmic collisions of consciousness shape us to a destiny that is constantly in flux.

In the otherness of ourselves we experience the microcosm of infinite becoming. It is the miracle of awareness, and I thank you, all of you, for your incandescent presence that illuminates the darkest and most remote corners of myself. I can only hope that the experience is mutual in my otherness of you.

Jamie Dazzled Us Like Disney

Jamie's gone. He was our Beagle friend, family member, and personal Disney star. He had all the moves of a Disney animation, except he was real life. He would run ahead, pause, look back at us with his left leg lifted and pointed, just like Bambi. And he could smile. Just like Thumper.

After 17 years, Jamie left us, quietly, in his sleep, in his bed, but I remember that Christmas Eve we brought him home, snuggled inside my son's coat to protect him from the cold. Jamie was rambunctious, inquisitive, proud, stubborn, bright, happy, and often dazzling. It was amazing to see how such a tiny bundle of energy could transform a space and make everyone happy.

Living with Jamie, we saw where Charles Shulz got his ideas for Snoopy. On the first night home, Jamie climbed on top of his doghouse (yes, we had a doghouse in the apartment) and howled. All that was missing was the moon. We were always seeing Snoopy on top of his doghouse. Now I know why. That's what Beagles do.

Jamie was always into everyone's business, just like Snoopy, and he was deeply reflective. You would often see him lying there pondering the universe. He had a deep sense of justice and would scold us when we had somehow wronged him.

We were never able to get a really good picture of Jamie. All his best images are still inside our heads. Every move was so beautiful, with such personality and verve. His tail was the indicator of his moods and usually it was straight up, proud and beautiful. I often called him "proud tail." But when he felt guilty for some infraction, it was curled down between his legs.

But all of his features were dazzling, his soft, brown floppy ears, the white arrowhead on his forehead, and his beautiful tricolor blend of brown, black, and white. Throughout his 17 years, Jamie looked puppy-like, youthful. I think it was because of the zest and energy that was always the source of his animation. Even as he entered his 17th year, people would sometimes mistake him for a puppy.

Jamie lives with us still, in our memories, in the spaces he inhabited and visited. All his love, indignities, energy, concern, joy, and animation --- still dazzle us like Disney --- but he was and is, real.

It Was Different Then

The QWERTY keyboard is the same, but it was different writing on an Olympia Portable. I first saw it in the window of a stationery store on Columbus Avenue in 1960. I had to have it. The typewriter font was "shaded pica"---very smart indeed---almost like having a sculptor chiseling each letter on the page!. Such a typeface was sure to improve my writing 150%. Up until that time I had used an old Underwood machine that we pulled out from a closet and was shared by my family, a machine notorious for blackening in each e and a. But the Olympia was a machine for dreaming writers who needed the excellence of West German technology and precision to put their dreams on paper. It was such a beautiful feat of engineering and could be taken anywhere. It was so elegant that I even wrote poetry directly onto the paper with my Olympia.

That Olympia took me almost all the way through my graduate study, until I was seduced by the IBM Selectric, especially with Selectric with memory! Goodbye, whiteout! Now my words were saved as code on a cassette tape. It was the beginning of the end to the sound of a typewriter slapping the paper in a relentless rhythm with an automatic carriage return, except the carriage return had yielded to a roving ball of type that could easily be changed for a different typeface. Soon the QWERTY keyboard would be embedded in the silence of a computer interface where the only sound would be the quiet tapping of my fingers on a keyboard, a quieter and more subtle rhythmic envelope.

Recently I found myself yearning for an Olympia portable typewriter of the 60s vintage. I know you can't go home again, but there was something about that Olympia and the romance of the word that still beckons like some eloquent siren of past voyages. Googling it does no good. Such romance is beyond Google since the Olympia is more than word. As good as it can be, Google doesn't capture the essence, the romance of words embedded in a distant and almost forgotten reality.

A Fleeting Experiment...

There was once an experiment in Philadelphia where a group of idealists met to create a new type of civilization. In one sense it was the beginning of the modern world. The idea was to project the proposition that all are created with equal opportunity for the pursuit of life, happiness, and the pursuit of liberty. These people had fled the tyranny and discrimination of Europe in search of a dream where they could be free to follow the dictates of their soul and conscience. They declared their independence from the old world with a proclamation that would be heard around the world.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.—That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed.

Declaration of Independence.

Even this small group of freedom fighters did not fully comprehend the implications of this brave new experiment. This declaration would be the guiding force for the freedom of all oppressed peoples regardless of race, gender, or creed.

Few in the world thought they had a chance to survive. The odds were clearly against this new nation. Its army was demoralized, often defeated, but inspired by a commander who persevered through severe adversity. In Philadelphia this group of patriots forged a new document that would come to be recognized as momentous for the advancement of humanity as the Magna Carta of 1215. It had taken another five centuries for humanity to unequivocally proclaim that it was the right of all individuals to be free from oppression. Yet it might be another five hundred years for all people to be truly free, if that day ever materializes.

The dream lives on in America, in the United States, specifically. But few realize how fragile this dream actually is. There is no guarantee that freedom will survive.

This dream began with an American revolution that was itself a fragile gathering of a ragged band of soldiers ages 12 to 60 who fought for the idea of freedom. The British forces were superior, even though there were fatal errors in the English structure that would ultimately prevent England from winning the war. After the Declaration of Independence, the American forces met with defeat after defeat, the British Army forcing the retreat of American forces back to Trenton. Even so, there was the occasional victory such as the triumph at Trenton on 25th December, 1776, when General Washington launched a surprise maneuver across the Delaware and captured a large contingent of Hessian soldiers under Colonel Rahl. These tactics galvanized the American army at a time when spirits, materials, and personnel were declining.

After that, the American soldiers almost died of starvation and cold during the winter of 1777/78 at Valley Forge.

One individual made the difference in the war for Independence: Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben. He brought from the Prussian army the training regimen that had established the Prussians as the most disciplined militia in the world at that time. Their training was far superior to that of the British military. During that winter, George Washington persuaded Steuben to train the American soldiers, and he devised a plan that trained the officers who participated in training the soldiers, making them extremely familiar with command structure and combat technique.

It was this Steuben-trained army that advanced on Monmouth (they first faced disaster when the ranking officer failed to follow Washington's orders). When George Washington arrived, he rallied the soldiers. Their rigorous training paid off as they pushed the English back and took Monmouth. Later they defeated Cornwallis at Yorktown to win the war and leave the English army in shambles.

Yet, it is a fragile dream, one that can vanish in an instant when we regard freedom as our inalienable "right" even as it is dissolving in the face of the most sinister threats yet waged against civilization and all hope of universal freedom. Some may think liberty will endure, but are they, are you, am I, willing to die so that liberty might survive? Are we willing to declare "Give me liberty or give me death!"

Nothing is forever. Past empires, civilizations, kingdoms, and countries have risen to achieve grandeur only to vanish in the wake of cataclysmic destruction or slow erosion. This dream of freedom is a fragile, fleeting experiment. It is an experiment of bringing together people of diversity to create a new union, linked by a shared commitment to liberty and the willingness to sacrifice ourselves so that our vision of freedom might survive.

But it is a matter of Time, spinning like a blackhole where this noble experiment of our fragile species is likely to vanish in the shredding force of an Event Horizon. All civilizations have their own Singularity, their own drifting toward the inevitability of some final destiny beyond their imagination and control.

Teng Beng Chew, Malaysian Genius of Papermaking: Artist as Researcher

Dr. Teng Beng Chew, noted Malaysian artist, has a distinguished career as an important artist, one of the six artists chosen in 1993 to represent Malaysia at Queensland Art Gallery Asia-Pacific Triennial of ContemporaryArt, with numerous exhibitions of his paintings throughout the world. Almost single-handedly, he established art education in Malaysia, leaving a rising career in the US to establish the first art education program in his nation at the Universiti Sains Malaysia (USM), where he was Chair of the Fine Arts Department until his retirement in 1998.

As a child he painted people and the country-side of the remote, unspoiled Terengganu region where his family lived and his father worked as an artist. Chew's mentor was his father, and in his formative years he developed a passion for his work that has persisted throughout his life.

As his work matured and he became more widely known, Chew attended New York University where his passion took up the cause of fusing the "canvas" with the painting, a quest that formed the basis for his doctoral research. He was intent on creating a special paper where the medium itself was the artwork.

This led him to the jungles of his native land where he lived and ran numerous tests on the indigenous plants of the forest, living in the wilds as he created new papers with phenomenal textures. He spent months in the wilderness, keeping meticulous records much the way an empirical researcher would, noting the fibers, the techniques, the process of mixing and drying out, the exposure to elements of the weather, etc. on hundreds, perhaps thousands of new papers, all original and brought into existence for the very first time. The secret to such abundance was extensive variation of the process, carefully recording each differing version so that the process could be replicated. This resulted in many different papers of wildly varying textures and colors from the same basic pulp.

Chew brought to this research a skill and sensibility that the typical empirical scientist would not have, or that would be bracketed out to preserve the scientific "integrity" of the research: the sensibility of the artist to notice what the scientist would overlook. This artistic noticing created papers of exceptional expressive originality. When he returned to New York, he brought four volumes of new papers that did indeed achieve the goal of his original quest: every paper was a work of art to see and touch, the marvelous textures and colors exuding an impressive presencing of an indigenous art.

After receiving his Ph.D. in 1987, Chew returned to Malaysia, where his research formed the basis for a cottage industry producing exceptionally fine paper from the indigenous plants of his homeland.

The abstract of his dissertation succinctly summarizes the research but fails to communicate the passion and scope of Chew's achievement:

Title: PAPERMAKING FROM SELECTED MALAYSIAN FIBERS: AN INVESTIGATION OF ITS ARTISTIC POTENTIAL THROUGH CREATION OF ORIGINAL PAPER ARTWORKS
Author(s): CHEW, TENG BENG
Degree: PH.D.
Year: 1987
Pages: 00472
Institution: NEW YORK UNIVERSITY; 0146
Source: DAI, 48, no. 03A, (1987): 0495
Abstract: The purpose of this research was to utilize selected tropical plants of Malaysia as a source of raw material for papermaking, to develop tools and techniques for the production of the investigator's own artwork, and to discuss the aesthetic implications.

The investigator sought to find out if the cellulose fibers of the agricultural residues of the bananas (Musa sapientum) and the pineapples (Ananas comosus) were suitable for the production of the pulps, to determine their characteristics, and their results.

The study focuses on the historical development, aesthetics, production of pulps, sheet formation, discerning paper characteristics, and the extension of pulp as an artistic medium.

The elicitation of the fibers involved in cooking and maceration. The variegated pulps were then used in several ways to handmake paper and paper artwork. Of myriad approaches employed in creating artwork, six were the researcher's invention that have not yet been expounded in any related literature thus far.

Aesthetic inquiry was based on phenomenology, to discern as yet unseen aesthetic properties imbued in the chosen fibers.

Primarily, the research was qualitative, employing aesthetic and descriptive procedures. However, quantitative method was also applied to record the experiments and tests. Research techniques included both traditional and contemporary phenomenological research and methods.

The results evinced that both plant fibers were strong, elongated, elastic, and indissoluble, easily extractable, pulpable, and malleable. They were susceptible to dyes and intermix exceptionally well with recycled paper.

Of the two genera, the pineapple fiber seemingly appeared to be tougher. In the pineapple species, it was found that Nanas Bukit is stronger than Nanas Mauritius. While in that of the banana, Pisang Awak is superior to Pisang Mas. Hence, more time was consumed in cooking and macerating the pineapple fibers. By varying the time duration in cooking, beating, and aging, the character of the fibers can be altered to effect different grades of paper.

The research concludes that not only are the fibrous pulps potentially suitable for papermaking, but are equally versatile and fascinating as an artistic medium. Undoubtedly, the materiality of the fibers embodies wide ranging phenomenal features sui generis.

Chew has given us remarkable model of an artist creating a new indigenous artform and tradition. Work of such power and originality abound in the work of those pioneers of the International Society for Advancement of Living Traditions in Art (ISALTA).

Sandro Dernini: Art Eating Impresario

Aside from the fact that Dr. Sandro Dernini holds doctorates in Art and Biology, he is one of the most astonishing figures in the world of arts and research. He happens to be extremely original, and thus is slightly incomprehensible to the ordered worlds of academia and society. His ideas have resonated across continents since the 1970s, and the emergence of PLEXUS INTERNATIONAL coincides with those years and was extremely effective in establishing startling collaborative efforts through numerous exhibitions, happenings, lectures, and showings of artists of all media.

Sandro Dernini is a mercurial spirit that inspires much of the work of Plexus, but perhaps his greatest gift is creating working networks among artists that lead to new creative activity, and his fierce determination to restore art to the community. Indeed, the arts have been skillfully hi-jacked and institutionalized by critics, historians, and an inner circle of anointed artists. This began in the 20th century with the rise of commercializing "high" art and has continued in this century through the institutionalizing of the past and using the past to control the future.

However, Sandro is a knight errant, keeping the art establishment off-balance, and taking on incredible adventures that are largely misunderstood because of his unique inventiveness. Yet he has impact that comes from the energy that radiates from his activities. Although the establishment has tried to marginalize him, in the spirit of Derrida, Dernini has expanded the margins so that the true substance of artistic creativity is discovered in the margins.

Recently he published his doctoral research as Eating Art, a book that is a sweeping gesture of crossing boundaries, indeed, of demolishing the borders that separate human disciplines and activities and replacing them with the organic flow of intensified moments. Such a combination of nutrition and art emerges naturally for Dernini, for food and art have long been intertwined in the Italian culture. Printed by the Beniamini Group, a private publishing house for specialized publications, Eating Art is not yet available through Amazon.com, an oversight that surely the author will rectify.

This is not the place to enumerate the countless happenings and art events instigated by Dernini, a magical impresario who has continued to cause gastric distress for the art establishment. The number and quality of events will astound you. Dr. Dernini subtitles his book "Artistic Practice and Creative Process as Qualitative Problem-Solving for Individual and Community Well Being."

Now Dernini has emerged as a contributing member in ISALTA (International Society for Advancement of Living Traditions in Art), a website that has brought together the work of artists largely mentored as artist researchers by Dr. David Ecker at New York University. The collective work of these artists are on this new website, the inspiration and work of Dr. Carleton Palmer, which celebrates ISALTA's renewed mission deserving wider recognition.

Eating Art has the look and feel of a happening of the moment, a newspaper of the last four decades. It is a book to be consumed with leisurely and casual excursions which will ultimately grab you, and rivet your attention in the conscious acknowledgment that you are indeed uncovering something significant and worth knowing.

Old Wine in New Bottles

Dr. Carleton Palmer has responded eloquently on behalf of the International Society for the Advancement of Living Traditions in Art.

Many thanks for the insightful observations about ISALTA. Technology has made practical what was unreachable twenty-five years ago because of logistics and cost. The ideas of an encyclopedia of living traditions in art, research journal and artist/researcher magazine might now be realized as interactive, co-operative projects along with enhanced communication tools at a single website. The existing site, isalta.com, is merely a sketch, and definitely a work-in-progress that can be continuously reshaped by the artist/researchers themselves.

An excellent vision now requires a renewed commitment and a new membership. The achievements of the past are impressive and serve as a road map for new generations of artist researchers from all disciplines and should now extend beyond text. But attracting this constituency may require more than a website, as was suggested in Navigating Global Connections.

While I agree with Dr. Palmer's claim that artistic problem solving is inclusive rather than exclusive, transcending media and materials, I also believe that many may still regard ISALTA as the domain of visual artist/philosophers. Yes, this is not accurate, and no one is more persuasive than David Ecker in using music, dance, theatre, or even food to make some of his finest manifestations of phenomenological description. Even so, many in the academic world have made a clear distinction differentiating art and arts in an oversimplification of categories. This schism is evident at nearly all colleges and universities. Traditional names of colleges or schools as Arts and Sciences reinforces this perception and perpetuates this artificial distinction. Even at New York University the separation and isolation is underscored with a Department of Art and Art Professions that deals only with visual art, while other arts disciplines reside in a Department of Music and Performing Arts Professions. The conditions at NYU mirror a common perception among professionals and non-professionals.

The underlying concept of art as qualitative problem solving transcends medium and material; it is inclusive rather than exclusive, and challenges preconceptions about art and empty definitions that drain art of meaning. The dissertations whose abstracts are available through the site encyclopedia, and the varied art they discuss give some idea of the breadth and utility of this idea, although they do collectively reveal a visual bias, that is the product of historical circumstances not philosophy. Discussion of "a performance-based conference aimed at attracting thinkers and practitioner's from all media, intermedia, mixed media, and multimedia" excites the imagination and would be a highly desirable development.

As attractive as Dr. Palmer's rationale for inclusion may be, it is not convincing in the context of the common perceptions I have described. Living Traditions in the Arts could open the terrain dramatically. I am suggesting that ISALTA might take an aggressive stance that could prove irresistible for 21st century artists. There are many obstacles, including lack of funding and insufficient personnel. Yet, the very emergence of ISALTA is like a beacon flashing in the wilderness.

...the philosophical groundwork for those particular dissertations lies to a greater or lesser degree in Dr. Ecker's work (some of whose papers are being digitized and made available on site as quickly as possible), but he would agree that they represent only a small part of a story yet to be written. Serious contributions and documentation are requested for inclusion in the Encyclopedia and publications. It is hoped that ISALTA will be a place where that story can be written, seen and heard, and every interested artist/researcher is invited to the space.

I would suggest a more open architecture, a Wikipedia conception rather than encyclopedic. A moderated Wiki might have a greater chance of attracting younger generations more attuned to structures where the readers are the authorship, where knowledge is created in a new platform of users who generate knowledge through creative inquiry. This argument was the main point of the commentary at Web Arts Collaborative (ISALTA.com Still a Web 1.0 Website?) ISALTA may be putting old wine into new bottles, and today, it may be even more true that "appearance is everything." The old wine of past decades is now decanted in the rarefied atmosphere of cyberspace, in the splendor of a new technology, but maybe it is time for new labels, new vineyards.

Great news that more of David Ecker's brilliant work will be made available on the ISALTA website. His is among the supreme gospels of phenomenological practice. Serving as his colleague at New York University, my real education began when I collaborated with him and his students on incredible projects that continue to resonate today.

ISALTA for the Twenty-first Century

Remembering the spectacular vision of David Ecker in the 1980s, I find the emergence of the International Society for the Advancement of Living Traditions in Art as a presence and project on the web to be a promising leap into the future. Spearheaded by Dr. Carleton Palmer, many of the practitioners of ISALTA of the past thirty years now have a home and a multifaceted voice that can extend some of the most original ideas of all arts into an energy for preservation and change.

In a world that treasures modernity over substance, ISALTA offers a vision that extends to the spiritual and aesthetic foundations of creative work. Yet, the organization, born out of the momentum of 1981, is in need of renewed vision and energy. ISALTA's website is an impressive articulation of a vital spirit, but now that this sleeping giant has emerged in cyberspace from the collective of artists that spawned world wide research and arts events, it seems to have nowhere to go. Yet, if I Google "living traditions in the arts" I find more than 22,000,000 hits, and ISALTA does not emerge as a prominent player.

ISALTA is aware of its plight. Visiting the website reveals a globe that serves as a link to this message:

ISALTA is changing. Since 1981 Members of the Board of Directors
and members have passed away, retired and moved on to other
interests. It is up to the membership to set the direction for ISALTA,
in this century, and all input will be welcomed at isalta@optonline.net.

ISALTA needs more than new ideas. It needs artists from all media with vibrant passions about the past, present, and future. The strength of ISALTA in the past is that its members had strong convictions about the present and the vision to shape the future.

If you examine about 30 pages of the 22,000,000 hits for living traditions, you are struck by the obsession of those websites with the past. This is certainly admirable and consonant with an objective of ISALTA in the 1980s, but ISALTA also was intent on creating tradition and bringing the latest technology and arts practices to bear so that boundaries were broken and crossed and new affiliations and collaborations emerged, sometimes with breath-taking speed. One such artist is Sandro Dernini, a contributing member, whose monumental work Plexus spanned Time and Space in an elaborate ongoing collaboration of artists and performers. Dernini was also an important figure in the initiatives surrounding the 500th year of Columbus' voyage to America which led to the creation of Navigating Global Cultures at NYU. NGC no longer exists, but as Web Arts Collaborative suggests, a new era for interactive creative work has emerged, and ISALTA might seize this opportunity for its own initiatives.

ISALTA needs to extend beyond the visual bias that presently is reflected in its membership, research, and coursework. Perhaps a performance-based conference aimed at attracting thinkers and practitioner's from all media, intermedia, mixed media, and multimedia could provoke a new revolution of thought. ISALTA's phenomenological-based stance is most welcome in this new world of quantitative dominance. Whether David Ecker's work is enough to propel this facet of ISALTA may not be relevant. Ecker's work is important and significant, although lately somewhat overlooked. But there are many others such as Don Ihde, Merleau-Ponty, et al., who philosophically underpin the work of this organization and embrace its raisone d'etre.

Yet, one cannot help but admire the tenacity of ISALTA. After all these years, its efforts and work have coalesced, and it can manage to somewhat defiantly shout in the wilderness of the 21st Century (with apologies to Sondheim):

Good times and bum times,
I’ve seen them all and, my dear,
I’m still here.

The Wizardry of LEMUR

LEMUR (League of Electronic Urban Musical Robots) brought the full resources of its technological wizardry to bear on a concert which emerges as a milestone event for that organization and for new music. Performed May 31-June 2 in the transformed space of 3LD (Three Legged Dog), the concert was curated by Eric Singer, the guiding guru of LEMUR, bringing together distinguished composers and performers from the full spectrum of contemporary music practice.

The spectacle of technology as intelligent machines fashioned out of materials which might have otherwise been sentenced to the junkyard or may have been spawned from the debris of the trash heap, provided an array of "robots" poised for action. These robots are functional contraptions focused on their capacity to deliver sounds with precision and energy beyond the reach of their human counterparts. Guitarbot was a tunable string robot that shook passionately as it meted out its sound with almost raucous joy.

Some thirty robots were mixed with humans in this extravagant display of mechanical alacrity. They clung to the ceiling and floor with fierce determination, jiggling, swaying, and dancing to the tunes of a million different drummers. Robots were at their best when they were banging themselves in a clutter of notes cascading throughout the space, shaping the moment with different densities and textures where energy was palpable as explosive resonance reverberating in perpetual bliss.

The evening was saturated with outstanding talent and musicianship. They Might Be Giants wowed their fans with songs With the Dark, Vestibule, and Our Cannibal Friends. The Lemur robots churned along with them, but their efforts seemed more or less peripheral. The songs were just too good and didn't really need that support.

George Lewis, a trombonist, composer, and improviser, provided a stunning performance, his instrument resonant and strong, adding to the texture of the Bots with exciting timbres and musical riffs.

JG Thirwell's Prosopagnosis pitted a string quartet on collision course with the Robots in a tour de force that rocked 3LD and the surrounding area of Greenwich street. The Modbots were equally matched by processed string sounds, and the result was an exciting deluge of sound shifts, tears, eruptions, and tumbling, collapsing sound debris, volcanic and magma-like. Prosopagnosis is a condition where you cannot remember faces likely because that area of the brain is damaged. The notion of motivic structures collapsing on themselves seemed to match the imagery of the concept.

Clearly, the most musical event of the evening was Morton Subotnik's extraordinary With a Little Help From which explored the timbres of the Bots in a slowly emerging improvisation, gradually picking up speed and density, with overlapping textures, percussive and lyrical. Ably assisted by percussionist Tom Beyer, the piece gathers momentum until Beyer begins to move his feet, almost dancing. Eventually the listener realizes his "dance" is transforming the texture of the music, and finally Subotnik joins Beyer in something of a foot duel that leads to a rousing climax of the work.

Such events as this concert as a large scale celebration of new music mixed with mechanical wizardry are all too few. Thanks to the League of Electronic Musical Urban Robots. Thanks to the vision and determination of Eric Singer. They are in a league that is a special world of contemporary musicing to be applauded and appreciated as the new musical prophets and wizards.

Carving Clarity: Ben Munisteri's Dance Projects

Ben Munisteri Dance Projects performed at DNA (Dance New Amsterdam) May 31-June 3, presented three very different glimpses of an artist who establishes an authentic clarity in his work even though often layered with myriad contrasting effects and technique. Regardless of the complexity, you are never lost.

Munisteri's dance concert was reviewed by Roslyn Sulcas in the NY Times as "Ballet and Headstands, and Other Quirky Contrasts," a fair review, if not insightful. It seemed odd that a dance critic appeared surprised that "ballet" might comprise part of the substance of modern dance as though this was something new or even out of place. Even so, we might question the accuracy of her observation that implied some conscious artistic process on the part of Mr. Munisteri to mix "ordinary" human movement with ballet.

There is no question that Munisteri's work celebrates the human body and transforms "ordinary" movement into the realm of the extraordinary. His eclectic taste in sound and music also contrasts the classical sensibility of Stravinsky's Capriccio in his 2006 work Tuesday 4 a.m. with a score of processed sound and dialogue by Evren Celimli for Smash Through to Sunlight (1999) and a collage of Placebo and Bjork for Terra Nova (2007), an encounter with motion capture which at times echoes the dancers on stage and at other times anticipates the shape of movement through Time. The animation developed from the motion capture by Peter Birdsall, Ted Warburton, and Timothy Jordan was poetically subtle, an extension of a changing horizon of clouds, rain, water, and constellations. Even though derived from the movement of the dancers, the animations seemed oddly distant and disconnected, almost like a separate entity commenting on the movement on stage, but the dancers and the animations never really notice each other.

Yet the star of the evening is Munisteri's celebration of human movement and his ability to express an infinite gradation of perception and feeling. Pattern and repetition add to a vocabulary by juxtaposing what has become familiar with a new irony. We recognize an immediate past even as we see it dissolve into the uncertainty of Now and anticipate its reiteration in a new context. This approach to movement undoubtedly creates formal structural devices, and Munisteri's grasp and manipulation of form is masterful, but it always seems couched in expressive irony. The Time's reviewer called it "quirky" but for me it was as though the predictable had been transformed into the unpredictable, the common becomes strange as we enter into the movement imagination of Munisteri's world. His is a world of variety and surprise, but always threaded through the clarity of his vision.

His dancers brought a range of versatility to the movement and this mixture was integral to the integrity of the Munisteri's vision. DNA is a wonderful venue for Munisteri's work. His audience seemed revved up, perceptive, and responsive to the challenge of his works.

Darha Nopigom: The Mastery of Byungki Hwang

The long awaited new album by Byungki Hwang, Darha Nopigom, has been launched by a tour of the Northeast, with lectures and concerts in Boston, New York, and at the Smithsonian in Washington, D.C. This was something of a whirlwind tour fr0m May 30 through June 5th.

Hwang is the consummate quintessential Korean composer and performer, a highly original voice whose work achieves the immediacy of a masterpiece possessing a timeless and permanent presence. In his work we relish every pitch, every nuance, every texture that seems to resonate on a canvas of time and space, all the more precious because of its fleeting temporal existence emerging from and disappearing into silence.

This paradox of permanence and ephemeral transiency defines the special quality of Hwang's poetic vision. His body of work seems integrated and whole, much like the way Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass embodies the work of the poet throughout his lifetime. All of Hwang's work seems related, serving as a remarkable index into the sensibility of an artist who has journeyed through uncharted regions and left a path for us to follow. His musical works transcend performance, existing as enduring soundposts of life deeply engaged with the essence of the world and committed to sharing it with us if we are willing to embrace it with our full attention.

Although we often associate his music and performance with Traditional Korean Music, he is in fact one of the leading composers of contemporary music in Korea. His conceptions incorporate and extend tradition, establishing a new frontier for the Korean Identity. This new CD, Darha Nopigom, provides eight compositions(Darha Nopigom, Sigyetap [The Clock Tower], Hamadan, Jasi [Night Watch], Nakdoeum, Moon of My Hometown, Chahyangije [Two Poems on the Frangrance of Tea], and Chucheonsa [Swinging Song]), 23 tracks of music so original it will challenge you to engage with musical expression on a personal level, assimilating a sensibility that has something profound to say about the world that the composer inhabits.

It is impossible to single out highlights. Every work is distinctive, and one might add, definitive. The beauty of the Gayageum tone with its expressive accents and sliding pitch reveals an instrument of intimate emotional power, but also tones of such elegance that we are captured in the sheer splendor of the sound itself.

Revealing Ron Mazurek

On May 29th, ICIA (International Composers & Interactive Artists) celebrated the memory of composer Ron Mazurek, who passed away quite suddenly on April 26th. ICIA sponsored a memorial concert that provided a framework for understanding the scope of Ron's work and the depth of our loss.

Over the years I have followed Ron's ascent as a composer. He was comfortable with traditional musical settings, but as he explored electronic media, new ideas erupted in a virtual cornucopia of new multimedia works, all exploring musical expression on a basic, elemental level as Ron found and developed his personal voice. Little by little, these works, often in collaboration with other artists, accrued as a body of work that was impressive and original. In addition to these striking musical achievements, he is highly regarded as a pioneering artist in collaborating with choreographers to create telematic dance of imaginative beauty.

Ron had a special way of interfacing with his collaborators, bringing out the best in them, urging them beyond the boundaries of their previous achievements and arriving at a new place in their artistic development. The work of those collaborators inspired Ron to establish a deeper awareness of his purpose and his work. My own work was in parallel with Ron's vision, and it was his encouragement that often helped me on to other projects. He had a way of providing a perspective that made obstacles dissolve in the face of creative process as a natural unfolding of ideas that were the inevitable outcome of a practical resolution, always there and always available.

On May 29th, we had an opportunity to hear Ron's work in a new context, with the years gathered together in a single evening and his recent achievements sitting atop the edifice of his other work, making a monument of one miracle after another. Although I had heard some works before, there were also works I never knew that filled in missing links to Ron's steady growth as a composer. Every work was exploration of original terrain. Every work was genuine and honest, nothing pretentious...as down to earth as the roots that grounded Ron both in his native New Jersey and his Polish heritage.

The crowning achievement was his recent string quartet Mai Timise, now premiered by the Lumina String Quartet for the world as a tour de force, original and inventive, inspiring because of its sheer beauty and brilliantly couched in a command of materials demanding virtuosity, insight, and poetic sensitivity.

Having experienced his work incrementally in the past, I appreciate that in those years I was privileged to witness the emergence of Ron Mazurek as an important composer and multimedia artist. It is also a testament to his authenticity that his sudden departure created a vast emptiness quickly filled by the embrace of family, friends, and colleagues who reached out to each other with a fierce devotion to all that he has meant to each of us. This memorial concert revealed Ron in the full luster of his achievements, transcending the past in the unpretentious presence of a mature artist fully secure in his sensibility as an original voice who remains with us even now.

Remembering

Today is Memorial Day, a day for remembering, for celebrating those who have defended freedom and the idea of freedom so that the world might be a place for hope.

Launched in a vast and seemingly hostile universe, Hope is ultimately all we have. Hope blossoms into Faith, and Faith into Charity, and Charity into Love. This is the chain of our past, the foundation of our convictions that makes us look to each day in anticipation of something better, of the promise of tomorrow...of something real. For somewhere in ourselves we sense that if only we could embrace reality, truly perceive it in the clarity of the moment, we would discover the Truth of ourselves.

Remembering digs back into the collapsing edifice of the Past and restores its luster, its shimmering reality of Now, shimmering because it flickers between the Past and Future in an eternal flame of awareness. Remembering requires the presence of consciousness with the understanding of a past always present in the permanence of ourselves. Time is the illusion. The reality is Space and only Space with infinite possibilities persevering in our perpetual presence.

George Did It

It's been many years...decades, in fact, and somehow George Merritt popped into my head with his sometimes sardonic smile...again with me wondering if someone from the remote past is still alive. The distant past flutters with all those wonderful people that have made this journey so eventful...

George was exuberance personified. Everything was beautiful and amazing. Everything was waiting to be discovered. When I first met him I thought he was this brash, impudent young kid who had entered doctoral study, only to find that he was eleven years my senior. And yet, he seemed to personify youth. He manifest an electrifying presence, an energy that made everyone around him better.

He was a performer, and a conductor---a tenor, of course, but one who was rough at the edges. He came from the mountains of Vermont, a country boy who came to the big city...bright eyed and ready to make it big. At least that was his cover. Underneath he was brilliant, a genius of sorts who could achieve anything that he set his mind to.

He was constantly introducing me to new poets, to new writers, to new philosophers, to new performers, to new music... and everything he did was calculated to make me a better poet, a better composer, a better writer ...a better person. The world was full of mystery and discovery, and somehow George's vision of the world unfolding just for you was infectuous.

We shared many adventures and many secrets. In many ways we were each other's alter egos. As we worked on advancing ourselves through the doctoral program, we each contributed to the growth and achievements of each other and long after we had graduated and went on to other things we maintained the conspiracy of our mutual adventures.

George was one of the ultimate do-ers in my life. Much that is in my life is there because George did it. And yet, ultimately his ambitions drove a wedge between us and we lost touch, only briefly meeting in awkward moments where neither knew what to make of whatever remained between us.

So a day or two ago I ran across the briefest of references to Dr. George Merritt, and in a context that made me sense that he may have gone on to other destinies... if there ever was a case for perpetual energy of the universe evolving to ever grander schemes, it would be George forever doing the universe in his own inimitable modus operandi.

A Different Muse

About a decade ago, I remember a sprite, a vaporous, mercurial spirit who sparkled and burst through the vestiges of Time accumulating fragments of ideas and skills, assembling them into paradigms and exploring new terrain in impish but serious navigation. She seemed to be on a mission, and somehow, I was fortunate to be a mentor that helped her while she explored some of her ideas and potential. For several years she would streak by my life with some new venture, a way of categorizing and analyzing new songs and recordings sent to a recording or publishing house, or inventing herself as a literary/talent agent with a fresh angle.

In a way, we inhabited the Village, but at different frequencies. She occasionally zoomed by my habitat leaving me some trace of her existence with an assuring "See you around the Village! ...Debbie" She probably saw me more than I saw her, because she was an invisible presence, a happening that was joyful, a charisma that often seemed to redeem the moment. But she was always flitting in and out of the picture like scenes of a movie, where the character is always lingering on the edge of the action, appearing when least expected, and vanishing suddenly without a trace.

I think maybe the last time she hurried by was in the Fall of 2000, when she left an artifact she was nurturing, a punk rock novel, Exit 25 Utopia by Steven Wishnia, under the auspices of Walking Bass Literary Agency. It is a striking commentary, well-done, and I am not sure exactly how this nimble dreamer related to this work, but I can see and hear that the novel echoes the spirit of her as venturing into uncharted doorways and sometimes sinister landscapes. A quick google reveals that she has metamorphosed into Muse Literary Management as listed in the PublishersMarketplace, but I can't tell how current this listing may be. However, these listings are not free, so perhaps she is still gliding through the Village and environs, piloting new plots and projects.

So just like the itinerant literary waif that I have imagined her to be, she erupts again into my consciousness when a few moments ago, the note she left with Wishnia's book tumbles out of the bookcase onto the floor. I can see her waving familiarly with an exuberant gesture as she dashes ahead, exploring her vision and her options with that enigmatic glance of optimism that always shaped a new and peculiar pathway.

The years have passed, and suddenly this note tumbles onto the floor like some wayward Time-Traveller, and I look into the shimmering empty space ahead searching for some sign of this mysterious muse.

"Are you still there?"

Einstein's Dreams

The deceptive thing about titles of things is that they can deceive you into thinking that you somehow have appropriated something into your being, that you know it. Titles are highly compressed tags that represent structures that are usually very complex. Once I listened to Beethoven's symphonies so many times that I knew every moment of those recordings, every pause, every print-through echo on the tape, every perfection and every flaw. I could no longer listen to these symphonies because the sound of these works were now fully and totally mine. Thus, I went through years of not-hearing, satisfied that the Beethoven symphonies were something that I possessed. Yet, sitting one evening at a concert where the Beethoven Fifth Symphony was performed, I heard it as though for the first time, with many insights into the work that had never occurred to me until that moment. Then I realized that these works must live in time, not in memory. In memory, they become shorthand references, but in the lived sound in Time, they exist as dynamic connections to the reality of their structure and expression.

Alan Light's book, Einstein's Dreams has been a similar experience. This book is made up of thirty "dreams" where Time is experienced differently. These glimpses of Time pass by like clouds, subtly changing shape as they move across the sky. It is difficult for anything to be tied down, fixed, or permanently anchored to the systematic flow of Time that seems relentless, but for Einstein might be like a flock of Nightingales, darting about in hurried spurts. Having read these dreams, I thought they were mine. As I would pass by the book, lying on a pile of books in my room, I would smile, convinced that this was some trophy that now lay polished and gleaming on my shelf of accomplishments that somehow gave me confidence that I was acquiring wisdom through the wisdom of others.

And yet, today I picked it up and started reading, and it was as though I was discovering Einstein's Dreams for the first time. Such books are made to be performed in the timeline of ourselves. They cannot reside as static landmarks, stacked like stairs for us to ascend them to some remote castle of conquest where we have acquired the insight of the authors. Remembering the itinerary is not the same as living the journey.

A Walk With Walt

In my research for Printing House Square, I came across an extraordinary post at poets.org of a walk with Walt Whitman which maps out a route to and through the square that would have been familiar to the poet as he pursued a journalistic career in his early days in Manhattan. None of his editing positions quite worked out, which comes as no surprise since the best chance of remaining an editor with a newspaper in those days was to be the printer or publisher.

The invention of the steam press completely revolutionized the newspaper business, setting the stage for publishing influential newspapers such as The New York Times, The Sun, The Tribune, etc., and also gave rise to Printing House Square evolving as a powerful fourth estate that became the self-appointed brokers of moral and political power.

Whitman's "walk" begins at St, Paul's Chapel on Broadway and Vesey on to Park Row, north to an "open space" which is Printing House Square, then to Nassau Street where he passes The New York Aurora, The Democratic Review, and Fowler's Phrenological Cabinet, then left onto Ann Street where many publishers maintained their offices: The New York Tribune, Evening Tattler, The New World, and The Evening Mirror. The Whitman Walk is much more extensive at poets.org, it extends to Chatham Square and Five Points. If you are a Whitman enthusiast, I would highly recommend this website, as we learn of the area and the times through Whitman's own voice.

I became involved with Walt Whitman as a student and like most students, I found myself greatly influenced by his ideas and his rhetoric. I do not use rhetoric as a pejorative but in recognition of his unique use of language and his grass-roots style. Whitman is not for everyone...but then, who is? It is interesting to see how he struggled as a young man, was sometimes regarded as lazy, but persisted and maintained a singular vision, which has been described as a manifestation of cosmic consciousness.

When I came to New York and lived in Brooklyn Heights, I walked through the many places that Whitman visited daily and lived a block from the apparent site of his printing office/shop that he ran from 1849-1854. This was demolished and replaced by condominiums, although at least it is called Whitman Close.

I think that my wanderings with empty pages in hand for the purpose of writing poetry is directly linked to my understanding of Walt Whitman as a wanderer who recorded everything he saw as the poems that eventually found their way into Leaves of Grass. I also was taken with his notion of a single book that evolved and grew over the years, just as leaves of grass.

Somewhere in the geological strata of the stacks of paper, books, and memorabilia that have accumulated since high school days are my Whitman poems, poems written in the incandescent glow of Whitman's spirit.

Printing House Square

I have always felt myself drawn to an area of Manhattan near city hall but east of it where Park Row starts to veer eastward beneath the Brooklyn Bridge. It is an area that now embraces city buildings and Pace University. From Helprin's Winter's Tale, I gradually have come to the realization that this was once the location of Printing House Square, an area that was the most vibrant and provocative square in the city, where the power of the press and the Fourth Estate was literally born and rose to prominence.

Helprin describes why the location of Printing House Square was so appropriate and contributed to the dynamic life of the city:

...On Printing House Square in lower Manhattan, ...it had been the place near the center of government for the political news; the wharves, for the collection of foreign dispatches; the Five Points, for crime; the Bowery, for theater and music; and Brooklyn (via the ferry, until they finished the bridge), for human interest.

Because Helprin located it at the "junction of Dark Willow, Breasted, Tillinghast, and Pine Streets," I first sought out Pine Street, but found it seemed too low in Manhattan and I couldn't find traces of the other streets. Further, this location did not appear to coincide with Walt Whitman's descriptions, which seemed to place it further north near Chatham Square. From Whitman's accounts, I believe that Nassau Street and Park Row figured more prominently into the proximity of Printing House Square. Whitman was the editor of the New York Aurora on Nassau Street for a while and then was booted and landed for a three-month stint in 1842 as editor of The Evening Tattler at 27 Ann Street. His sojourns around this area during the early years of his efforts to be a journalist helped me piece together some locations that helped delineate Printing House Square. Then I came upon the engraving made in the 1860s of this fabulous square and realized that it was enormous, and may have indeed at one time, stretched as far south as Pine Street.

Then I came across a book by Frank Moss, published in 1897, The American Metropolis, which provides incredible, detailed descriptions of Manhattan, and the activities of Printing House Square in colorful, anecdotal detail:

In Printing House Square many times have been crowded great armies of patriotic citizens, rejoicing over the victories of war announced on the bulletins, or watching with pale faces the announcements of terrible defeats. In times of riot newspaper offices here have been barricaded and garrisoned by resolute defenders of the freedom on the press...(233) The News of great elections has been received in Printing House Square by countless multitudes. Every great event for fifty years past has been watched for and learned from the bulletin boards , by throngs assembled in this square. Here, when newspapers have prepared to show election news, is the place to see New York at it's best and its worst. (238) ...On the night of the first Tuesday of November, there was another great gathering of the people in Printing House Square, but there was no solemnity about it; it was a tumult of rapture, and a convulsion of joy. The immense crowd filled the square, leaving barely room for the cars to pass through, and it extended into the part as far back as it was possible for human vision to catch the bulletins that were constantly flashed upon the tall fronts of the newspaper buildings. (239)

Earlier in the book, Frank Moss extols the great significance of Printing House Square:
The square will ever be famous as the place where The Great American Newspaper has had its development. Greeley, Raymond, Dana, Jones, and many others, hardly less famous, have done their life work here, and have enriched the nation and the world by it. (214)

Printing House Square dominated the life of Manhattan, the nation, and the world for more than a century. It began to break up when the New York Times moved to Long Acre Square at 42nd Street and gave it the new name of Times Square in 1904. I am astonished that New York City has let such a legacy dissolve into oblivion with such little notice of its historical significance.

Thanks, Mark Helprin, for restoring some of the luster and life of Printing House Square!

Paper, Pens, Poems, and Posts

Going into bookstores, I find that a popular item is the book of blank pages. Over the years this has been my favorite medium, and I started writing in such volumes many years ago when they were actually rare and somewhat difficult to find. Now these empty books are to be found everywhere, elaborately produced: simple to ornate covers, folios of gilded edges, ribbon bookmarks, and lined pages. In my opinion, the lined pages ruin the illusion of an emptiness waiting to be filled. The lines are reminiscent of spiral notebooks used in school, taking all the joy out of the creative fantasy. I always used the unlined pages and preferred a size that was easy to carry around at all times.

Sometimes I would attempt journaling on these empty sheaves of paper, but seldom completed the task. I have many such partial beginnings, many begun at the turn of the year. None of these journals were as sustained as this Blog, although the obstacle that blunted my efforts in this space at the new year was even then lethal to the imagination, which can at times be extremely fragile. Yet as I walk around Borders and Barnes and Noble, especially in their coffee sites, I see many young people logging in their journals, which possibly explains the market for such empty tomes. Apparently we must have new generations more obsessed with neatness and order, as the lined pages are no impediment to such embryonic inscribers.

My most successful feat with such empty media has been writing poems. A poem is such perfect content for this medium. For me the challenge is creating short works in which form and content are uncovered in the moment. There is a sense of discovery, of solving a challenge, unraveling the Gordian knot, which I do not cut like Alexander, but rather find some means to extricate the tangled cords. Language serves as a puzzle to be solved as the imagery evolves through an expanding awareness triggered by the words themselves.

The medium of choice to mark upon the page was the black ballpoint pen, preferably medium point...not blue, not green, not fine-tipped. The right pen on the right texture of paper was much like finding a grand piano of exquisite tone and touch on which to improvise. Each poem was a tacit and tactile discovery. The rules were simple. Since the poems are written in ink they are permanent etches in time. Once the lines are on the page they are fixed and permanent. Generally they are only one page in length. Here is a sample:

Shafts of light through stained glass
Collide in pools of color
On the cathedral floor;
Motes of dust stream through columns of light
Like tiny technicolor galaxies.
Silence, with its gaping jaw,
Exhales a smothering sigh
Obliterating everything unlike itself.
Eternity lurks in its own caricature
Evading Time in the womb-like cradle
Of the church,
Basking in the prismatic glances
Of stained-glass windows.

Posting on the Internet is quite a different medium, but for me it has similar elements of surprise and satisfaction as a work is uncovered. Not all posts are equally successful or revealing. The process is quite different than the mechanics of paper and pen, but one gains the advantages of fonts and color, substitutes for texture. The texture of the digital screen is extremely monotonous and dull, despite the dazzling color and animation. Even though many have predicted that books will disappear into the digital medium, we are creatures of texture. We need the tactile satisfaction produced by flipping through the pages of books, magazines, and newspapers. Digital domination by singular visual supremacy is not yet a fait accompli.

Must the Winter End So Soon?

I have been reading Mark Helprin's Winter's Tale, an epic novel that pays homage to New York City and is inhabited by characters who come in and out of the narrative much as do the characters in Shakespeare's The Winter's Tale. I have made it a slow read on purpose, savoring the wit and wisdom of an author who is deeply immersed in this city by the sea, and understands it even more than Pete Hamill. Pete Hamill's Forever is an epic novel of New York City, an impressive achievement that left me breathless. Even now as I write about it, I want to read it again.

But Mark Helprin's Winter's Tale rises to an even higher level. Somehow he has managed to merge realism and fantasy, creating characters whose essence is ultimately shaped by the crucible of the city that challenges and nourishes their existence. It is a perfect read for celebrating the delight and destructive power of winter. The frigid air of winter brings clarity, etching the city and the surrounding Hudson countryside in crystalline perfection, enabling us to see further and deeper into the soul of an energy that binds us together as one.

Outside, as I write, temperatures are moderating. The days are getting longer, and I feel compelled to speed up my reading of Helprin's masterpiece, for it is a book to be savored in the deepest chill of winter. I came across a review by Bobby Matherne written in 2003, who apparently felt that the book should be read in summer:

Actually most of the scenes take place in winter, not just one winter, but many winters. All the action outdoors takes place in the middle of extreme cold -- the Hudson River is frozen solid all the way from the ocean to its source. Helprin has written a paean to New York City and a love song to winter. Not the bitter cold, desolate winters when everyone huddles inside for warmth, but a vibrant, active winter full of evocative scenes of festive block parties on ice, ice-boating on large lakes, ice skating on frozen rivers, and midnight silvery sleigh rides bouncing over snowy hillocks or gliding silently over glassy smooth ice surrounded by quaint candle-lit Dutch villages along the fictional Lake of the Coheeries near the headwaters of the Hudson. This novel makes great summer reading as it will keep you in a perpetual chill as you read it.

On the contrary, a winter read takes you through the chill of winter as though you were on the greatest adventure of your life. It is a book for winter, for celebrating both its magical and destructive powers, and while reading it you experience a different season, one that whisks you away on the winds of winter as though you could fly through the storms and blizzards with those whose warmth wraps you in a cocoon of imagination, rich safe-havens rescuing you from the oblivion that lurks on the other side of this frigid realm. If you haven't read it, set it aside for next winter, and begin reading it in a tavern, drinking a tankard of ale as you savor the warmth within, while watching the snow blowing into drifts outside your window.

I was both amazed and distressed that Mr. Matherne describes the flaw of the novel as celebrating criminals and criminality:

If the book has a flaw, it's the constant thievery motif. Peter is a criminal, Pearly is a criminal, most of the people Peter meets are criminals or began as one. ... The author treats criminality as if it adds light to the city, when in truth it adds only darkness, as does every form of immorality. The polishing of the lights that criminals do is with dirty rags that obscure and obstruct the light; the red flashes they create are from burning down other people's property, and the lightning flashes are flashes from the muzzles of their murder weapons. In 1983 Helprin was creating celebrities out of criminals while it seems that the world today is creating criminals out of celebrities. Neither process brightens the world, but only darkens it with its immorality.

Suddenly Mr. Matherne, rather than reviewing a novel, is lecturing us with depressingly moralizing drivel. The truth is that Helprin's understanding of the dark side of human activities illuminates the moments of liberation, when an underlying moral sense comes to the fore, transforming characters, redeeming them, or helping us understand their presence in the larger scheme of things. At least the reviewer in the New York Times got it right:

Is it not astonishing that a work so rooted in fantasy, filled with narrative high jinks, and comic flights, stands forth centrally as a moral discourse? It is indeed... I find myself nervous, to a degree. I don't recall in my past as a reviewer, about failing the work, inadequately displaying its brilliance.

I hear by the grapevine that we are due for another blast of Arctic air this weekend, perhaps a final fling of winter. I am halfway through the book, and I will have to hole up somewhere as this last surge of winter returns, fueling my attention and hurling me to the end of a book that I wish would never end, but must ...and too soon at that.

Daylight Savings Dwindling

So today we threw the daylight to the tail end of the day, supposedly to save energy, but the energy it takes to change the clocks and systems in our house already offsets any energy saved. I'm sure that there are others who, like the researchers at a university in California, find that there is no savings in electricity and that overall usage increases.

So we wonder why the media must raise concerns to the level of an alarm with dire warnings that the collapse of technological society is immanent. Isn't March Madness enough? Must we compound it by fumbling to set our watches and clocks? Where on earth is it all headed? Perhaps to the moon, whose friendly face seems to shine through even the most muddled of time changes, even as it inches further and further away from the earth each year. Try setting your clock to the moon in another 50,000 years!

For some reason this time-change loomed more devastatingly than the change of the century. Some were even prone to claim we were altering the Mayan calendar and accelerating our doom before 2012. Now we learn that for all our efforts, daylight is continuing to slip through our fingers. It is enough to make you reconsider the whole affair. Even Australia is contemplating making daylight savings time permanent in an effort to bolster its economy, encourage a baby boom, and defeat clock tampering once and for all.

But the most important news is that we are losing the energy battle. It appears that the more daylight we save, the more energy we consume. It's a helluva way to run a railroad --- which, by the way, used to be so reliable you could set your clock by it!