The Real Massacre of Valentine's Day

Long before I was born, Al Capone of the Chicago South Side Italian Gang slaughtered seven members of Bugs Moran's North Side Irish Gang on February 14, 1929, which became known as The St. Valentine's Day Massacre. This was truly a brutal act. Even though it does not involve murder, the personal toll of Valentine's Day has left its mark on me.

Every year since I was about six years old, I have had a knot of fear that starts to develop about a week before February 14th because I have come to associate it with rejection, rejection of gigantic proportions over years and years. Yes, I know this is just my imagination, but the knot in the pit of my stomach seems real enough, and on February 14th I usually feel like staying in bed with the covers up over my head.

It all started in preschool. On the night before Valentine's Day, we had to punch out pre-cut Valentines from a Valentine booklet of cards for our classmates. Even then we were targeting the ones we especially idolized. Everyone else was doing the same. On the morning of Valentine's day we would exchange our Valentines, but it was clear from our choices who we really wanted to be our Valentine. I never connected with any of my first loves. In fact, I would get messages that were the equivalent of "get lost" ...

The worst part of this was that this Valentine ritual was so ingrained as part of the school culture that there was no escape. Every year I dreaded making those Valentines, creating messages with hidden meanings, and putting names on envelopes. Of course as we got older, it became more sophisticated with chocolates, flowers, and fancy gifts, and the stakes were even higher. The distress and defeat was even greater. As we approached junior high school, I tried being sick on that day, but that was even worse as I became a pariah and was generally ostracized. I guess these defeats could be traced to bad timing and poor choices, but in general, Valentine's day came to be anticipated as supreme, unequivocal disappointment.

Even though now, it shouldn't matter, I still get that feeling and a general malaise sets in as I realize Valentine's day is approaching. I envy all those happy lovers and wish them well. Wish I could be them, but I have other triumphs and destinations, so I guess this once a year trauma is something I can endure. It is something like an old war wound that acts up whenever the weather is about to turn bad.

This year, I have an out that can lessen the pain. The Asian New Year begins on February 14th this year. I can tell myself it isn't Valentine's Day, it is the Year of the Tiger.

A Spiritual Awakening

Some of you that know me may have been aware that I have been in the midst of an identity and professional crisis in which I could not find my way through the maze of doubt and frustration.

Imagine that you have fallen asleep and in your sleep you succumb to a nightmare that is very real. You are struggling in the water, slipping down, gasping for air and flailing your arms. There is no rescue in sight and you writhe in futile contortions striving to survive, but with each passing moment you are losing the battle.

Your life flashes by in front of you, the lingering disappointments, the brief successes, the loves, all that you have tried to create remapping your journey one last time as you sink toward oblivion. The friends that made up your world seem to surround you, but you cannot reach them. They seem almost indifferent. All seems lost and irrelevant as you grapple with fistfuls of water slipping through your fingers just as you are dwindling and lingering with one final attempt to break free.

Then, suddenly and quite unexpectedly you feel someone touching you, reaching inside of you, rousing you. You awake to find that you were caught in a nightmare, sleeping on the pier and not in the water. The reality is that you were never in danger despite the appearances and the terrifying feelings you were undergoing in the midst of your drowning.

I awoke to a spiritual awareness that is deeper and sharper than ever before. I can never forget that I felt my soul touched by a deeply etched reality through someone with vision and clarity. It is Soul that sings, and I find myself singing.

In the midst of this Spiritual awareness, I exist in a new context of this journey. It is Spirit that sustains and inspires. Spirit is the substance that underlies everything. Spirit sustains a revived vision and purpose, inspiring me to recognize and add to the beauty that I am discovering from moment to moment.

The Emptiness of Anguish

There is nothing I can do about this inner pain that plagues me except to recognize that it at least reminds me that I am still alive. Not that being alive is necessarily so great, but then I have never known "not being alive."

I have a friend who defines each moment as "This is my life." This seems to persuade my friend that things are unfolding as they inevitably should, and is beyond control. I agree that any notion that we have control over the moments and events in our lives is pure illusion.

So I have tried using "This is my life, my destiny," but it doesn't work for me. There is such power in love and desire that we can be shredded in our encounters with disappointment. Love and friendship unrequited and unreturned still makes the world go round. It is the stuff that inspires great art (or so we are led to believe).

Today's generations have other ways of dealing with anguish, and may be less disabled by disappointment. I don't know. But somehow they seem more casual, less intense, and more able to cope when obstacles block all possible routes. Beethoven found a way to cope with his disappointment, to be resigned to admiring his distant beloved from afar. Or maybe he didn't. Maybe the pain was always there.

I think that somehow I must withdraw, but there seems to be no way to think beyond that. As I withdraw, the pain becomes more intense, but if I remain in the midst of it all, I almost collapse from the force of my emotion.

I try to find some mechanism to cope. I try to appreciate that which I admire. One thing about me that I understand: I have the capacity to deeply appreciate. I savor and enjoy all that I encounter. Time, moments, people, and events invade the core of my Being. I notice these things with a depth of awareness that can transform them and myself as I translate this response through inquiry and dialogic process.

I also understand that a negative force can undermine the positive vision that I have of those around me with the beguiling innuendo that they have become distracted and ineffective, or that I have burdened them by placing too much hope and confidence in their potential. I recognize these temptations as negative energy that seeks to destroy the good, the beautiful, and the true. Ultimately, it is self destruction.

But there is something that gnaws at my core... a fear of being alone. Being alone, "All One," was once my standard. Now I face some sense of emptiness and wish someone would or could answer me without reservation.

So this is a solitary act. I write this for myself. No one else really reads this.

C J at The Bitter End

On the last day of January, an historic event took place at The Bitter End: Korean songs were premiered for a New York Crowd. CJ Jeon, who has been in this country for about three months, premiered four of his songs in the Sunday night session, two in Korean and two in English. The two songs sung in Korean were "La La" and "Lie on My Bed". The two songs in English were "Street Man" and "In My Side."

CJ has a comfortable style, intimate and thoughtful, accompanying himself on the guitar. His voice is private, personal, with a wide range of nuances. Clearly the text is the controlling element, and he is faithful to each moment of the narrative or mood. The effect is that of spontaneity and immediacy. The Bitter End is not conducive to this quiet kind of musical reflection, but CJ was poised and in control. His vocal style connects with the text, and he shapes the phrase with slight shifts in timbre, not as a conscious gesture but in response to the text and the moment.

The fourth song "In My Side" reveals an extraordinary talent, a song that unfolds in a quiet envelop of contemplation, a simple melody, but definitely the substance of today, almost reminiscent at moments of ballads by Radio Head. I believe Koreans are instinctually poets, as their language possesses a beautiful ambiguity that connects with the world in strikingly original ways. CJ's lyrics are beautifully concrete and full of amiguity. He draws upon the images of nature, but they expand as they exist inside of his awareness, of his dreams. The image "breathe, through my tongue" cuts through the moment in anguish before relinquishing to the calm.

Here are the final verses of the lyrics, couched in a stark, but elegant melody delivered in a lyrical flow, with an underlying concern that touches our hearts.

I thought it`s up in the air, in the end
But I saw a light, light where it is
And I see the sun
I see the sky
I see the wind
In my world

I thought I throw everything in my side
But I didn`t get rid of my dream
It takes my way and
It takes my dreams
It takes my love
Breathe, through my tongue...
Breathe, through my tongue...
Words of calm.

(Copyright 2010 CJ Jeon All Rights Reserved)

Fiesta 2.0: More Adventures of the Trio

It was a bitter cold January evening when the trio came together to celebrate Fiesta 2.0 on the return of one of our members to this country. The wind was strong and the moon was full.

Our original plan was to go to the Palisadium Restaurant DaeWon as part of an ongoing playful project of making a movie, and the great food. I had been to Daewon several years ago, a magnificent Korean restaurant overlooking the Hudson. Spectacular! We had talked about this adventure for several weeks. When we called for reservations, we learned that it had closed about a year ago! Not to be dissuaded, we thought we would go to Wonju II restaurant in Edgewater, in a ferry sitting on the Hudson River with a glamorous view of New York City. A review had described this Korean Restaurant as a good experience and the tables might sway a little, not from too much Soju, but from the ferryboat swaying gently with the river currents. This seemed the perfect answer to our dashed hopes of Daewon, even more romantic and a perfect place for our Fiesta. We call it Fiesta 2.0 because we had our first Fiesta more than a month ago when a different member returned from being out of the continental United States. After we had agreed upon this new destination, one in our trio learned from a Korean Cab driver that Wonju II had been out of business for a couple of years. This was beginning to seem like a conspiracy. Two prime Korean restaurants with outstanding food, locations and views were no longer in business!

Since our trio consists of aficionados who relish good Korean food, we are always on the lookout for Korean places that are excellent and unusual. Our criterion for the Fiesta is that we should try some place new. We felt there had to be something worthy of a Fiesta in New Jersey, so we decided to try Dong Bang Grill. What a great find! Located not far from the George Washington Bridge, this restaurant provides an elegant setting with etched glass panels and several dining rooms, along with a beautiful sushi bar. At first it was hard to appreciate the elegance we had stumbled upon, because there was no parking anywhere near the restaurant, and being from Texas, I have trouble with the concept of valet parking. Finally my friends persuaded me that this was the only alternative, but we were still faced with fierce winter gusts that cut to the bone as we left the car and headed for the entrance.

Every table is well appointed and arranged to create an open friendly atmosphere. There are windows that look to the East, including the bridge and upper NYC. After gaining entrance, we went up the stairs and were immediately ushered to a beautiful table near the wall with etched glass panels.

We were ready for a special feast, and the ambiance of the space welcomed us. With the barbecue grill in front of us, we were soon warming up to the prospects of the evening. My companions are much more knowledgeable than I about the nature of the menu, and soon they were conspiring to orchestrate the evening with an array of foods calculated to create an unforgettable sequence.

The first barbecue we had which was not marinated was SAENG GALBI: No frills just all natural 100% Black Angus beef short ribs, followed by DongBang GALBI : Beef short ribs in DB's own authentic marinade. Our soup was SAENGTAE JIGAE, a fresh pollack fish casserole with vegetables. The side dishes were like mini-feasts, plentiful and little taste excursions in their own right.

Perhaps the crowning moment for me was the discovery of OB, the premiere Korean beer. In general I have not been a beer drinker as my father prejudiced me against wanting to taste it by saying to me when I was very young that beer tasted awful, and as far as he was concerned "they could have left it in the horse."

OB had such a compelling taste that I could have stayed all night and drunk myself under the table, but fortunately I had friends who were more sensible. We drank a toast to Fiesta 2.0, to the new year and to the realization of our great and future dreams.

Looking across our neighboring tables we saw CHA DOL BAEGI, thin sliced sirloin steak with no marinade. Since I have never tried it, my friends decided we should conclude our meal with this third and final main course, which was a good decision since good things usually come in threes. We were not disappointed, but I discovered that we had to eat the steak as soon as it left the fire so it would not dry out.

We wanted to go somewhere for dessert and thought there would have to be some great places in Fort Lee, but our waitress knew of none and suggested we drive along main street. We did, and I can tell you that there is nothing grimmer than Main Street in Fort Lee after 10 p.m.

Instead, we went to a wonderful dessert place in Palisades Park, Fruit Gelatoria on Broad Avenue. It appears to be one of the few places in New Jersey that remains open until midnight. One of the attractive features of this Gelateria is that they make their own gelato and yogurt. The selection was extensive and delicious. I tried the mango gelato and my friends had yogurt. The yogurt was the best I have tasted, worth a drive to Palisades Park anytime. Even Fiestas have to come to a close, and although we teased each other about going to the city, I think we were willing to call it a Fiesta.

Outside, the winter evening had crept toward midnight, and the wind was still blowing, but a little less insistent. Inside, we were closing the Gelatoria, as we were the only remaining customers, and they had started to stack the chairs and sweep the floors.

Walking out into the night, I was struck by the silence of the brittle winter air; our celebration seemed punctuated by the full moon so luminous above us.

All in the Voice

Once long ago, when I was set on becoming a composer and fancied myself as a cross between Gershwin and Brahms, I became hopelessly lost over a failed romance, as is expected of overly romantic adolescents. It was the classic rejection. I was smitten by Amanda, but she was less than enthusiastic about me since she already had a hunk of a guy who was on the football team. Amanda was a stunning redhead, who could play the piano inside out and had legs that were the stuff that make movie stars.

I was so distraught, I wandered the city for days. I didn't eat. I ended up late one night on the roof of a parking garage, looking at the city lights, winking as though in reply to the twinkling stars of an exceptionally bright Texas night. Inexplicably, or perhaps predictably, I collapsed. I awoke in a hospital and for some odd reason the doctors thought I had appendicitis and had removed my appendix. My parents had been summoned and they drove 120 miles to see what their son had been up to. The Chair of my department came to see me and showed genuine concern and understanding. I was in a state of bewilderment at this turn of events from unrequited love.

This culminated the day before Thanksgiving. I could not travel home. The doctors released me to the university infirmary. Infirmaries at that time had notoriously low level security so I left the infirmary and found my way to the practice rooms to see if this adversity conjured any masterpieces for me. It had not, but there were snippets of ideas and I played somewhat feebly because the wrapping around my body securing the stitches was so tight.

A woman that I recognized as an alto from the choir came into my practice room.

"What are you doing here? It's Thanksgiving..." Dorothy seemed puzzled, but sympathetic.

"I just had my appendix out, and I can't travel home."

She insisted that I spend Thanksgiving with her family. She was married and had a small daughter. I tried to protest, but she was insistent.

So I went along and was well taken care of and quickly came to adore her daughter, who it turned out was struggling with remarkable courage and cheerfulness although disabled with cerebral palsy.

Days later Dorothy was asked to sing a solo in the choir. When I heard her sing, I was blown away. I had never heard a voice such as this, so resonant and rich that it seemed to emerge from and fill the room. That voice was the inspiration for many songs including one about her daughter, "Always Be My Sweet Little Girl."

I never heard a voice like that again for years until recently I heard someone singing a foreign folksong and the resonance filled the space with a radiance of sheer sound that overwhelmed my senses, much the way a fine liqueur permeates the tongue with intense taste. I was actually stunned to hear such a voice again, as I thought I never would.

The true source of identity is through the voice. The voice begins from the breath in the center of body and is released to the air in a moment of definition. Drawn inward, released outward to the world. Our word "personality" comes from the Latin "per sonare" meaning to speak through. The reason the Greeks wore masks in their dramas, is that they believed the true essence of the character came through the voice, hence the characters in the play were known as dramatis personae.

Somehow in hearing this voice I felt touched by the presencing of identity embodied in the sonority of singing so profound that its essence seems etched immutably in the inward chambers of my permanent awareness.