Benjamin plodded along Bleecker Street headed west toward Sixth Avenue or Avenue of the Americas as it had been dubbed in 1945 by Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia. That was before Benjamin had come to New York in the 70s. Benjamin had come to The Big Apple to seek his fortune, but it isn't clear just exactly how that turned out. Clearly, Benjamin was not wealthy, and as he walked along Bleecker he noticed how much it had changed when it was the center of the burgeoning music world of jazz, folk, and rock clubs that peppered the street with thousands of visitors milling around seeking the latest acts. Now the clubs had been replaced by drugstores and banks, The Village Gate was barely a memory, and Bleecker was becoming bleaker.
As Benjamin crossed La Guardia Place, he glanced up at a place that had almost been like a second home to him, a tiny Korean restaurant named Choga, up a flight, above The Bitter End. It was closed now... not exactly boarded up, but empty and lifeless.
Benjamin paused, and for a moment he felt inclined to struggle up the steps as though this might magically make Choga reappear. Maybe something like that should happen, he thought. Maybe like Brigadoon, Choga could appear every hundred years when something magical might happen to people who came looking for adventures in the Village.
For Benjamin, Choga was a place of enchantment. The owner and cook was Mi-sook who had come to New York from Jeju Island, by way of Daegu. She added a regional touch to her Korean offerings, not that Benjamin would have known, since although he liked Korean food, he had no experience beyond Korean Barbecue and Kimchi. Mi-sook's repertoire was far more varied, and she often cooked custom dishes for her friends that never found their way to the menu.
Benjamin had been introduced to Choga by his friend and colleague, Andrei, a composer from Romania. Benjamin regarded Andrei as the first true world citizen he had ever met. Andrei used Choga as a gathering place for friends to make plans for outrageous events in the village. Now Andrei was gone. Choga was gone. Benjamin felt as though his world was disappearing.
As he looked upstairs at the empty space that had once been Choga, he noticed the name and logos were still in place although it had been closed for almost a year. October was near at hand, and the Village seemed poised for a celebration of Autumn and the end of summer. Benjamin remembered the many feasts and celebrations in Choga with his friends. He had met Mi-sook because he had been talking about someone he had heard about called Mi-sook, and the waitress told her boss that someone was talking about her at one of the tables. Mi-sook came to inquire, and all at once they became old friends as though they had already known each other from another time.
Choga had closed suddenly, without warning, and Benjamin frantically tried to contact Mi-sook, but she had disappeared. He and his friends had so many celebrations of events, happenings, birthdays, and holidays, that it was hard for Benjamin to imagine his life without his second home. Every Sunday night he would have dinner at Choga and contact his friends through his smartphone. It had become a ritual. He even documented the many different dishes and posted them on FaceBook. Mi-sook had introduced Benjamin to Makgeolli, Korean rice wine, and would often offer an especially rare brand "on the house," for special occasions.
It was very quiet on Bleecker. Night was coming. Benjamin waved at the upstairs as though Mi-sook might be looking through the window. Many times she had watched him walking on Bleecker and waved to him. He felt a rush of emotion and tears welled up in his eyes.
What had disappeared was more than a restaurant. It was a way of life, a brief reality so precious that he never realized how fleeting and transient such treasures can be. If only once he could embrace that reality, celebrate it. He tried to keep such moments vividly alive, but Time erodes such corridors of permanence.
This is how it happens, he thought. We continue to remember even as we disappear.
Even so, Choga would always be a place he would return to in his mind, a haven for remembering some of his best moments and friends. As he continued along Bleecker he picked up his pace and smiled at people passing by. Benjamin felt something was enduring there on Bleecker Street. Despite the many changes eroding our sensibilities, there is substance to the past that shapes the present. He heard an echo of Choga resonating even as it faded into history... seemingly lingering forever.
Monday, September 14, 2015
Saturday, September 12, 2015
THE WHOLE RIGAMAROLE
George was both elated and distressed as he stood on the deck of Staten Island Ferry while it pulled away from the ferry slip. He watched as the ferry churned toward toward Manhattan, away from the myserteous woman who had dominated his thoughts. He could only imagine what she must think, but the most startling development was that she appeared to recognize him! He could hardly believe his eyes when he thought she had noticed and remembered him. Yes. that was definitely a wave, he thought, and she really smiled!
His thoughts raced feverishly as to what he should do. Of course, he would catch the return ferry, but now it was evening, and the ferry crossings were fewer. She would wait for him. But would she? Maybe she would have the same idea and take the next ferry to Manhattan to find him!
But wait! What if all of this was just a fantasy? Just an illusion? George staggered backward and crumpled to the bench at the rear of the ferry. He watched as he continue to pull away from Staten Island. Hadn't he wondered if she had even existed at all...whether or not his encounter with this stranger and her butterfly in Washington Square Park was just a figment of his imagination?
What should he do? He was now halfway back to Manhattan. He took out his phone. He was so stupid! Why hadn't he thought to take a picture? That could have proved it wasn't just a dream. Yes, he should have the presence of mind to document his adventures. He started to think on the power of these smartphones... but if they are so smart why couldn't they use the global positioning technology to identify her frequency so he could track her and find her? Yes, he thought, they could that. Suddenly he thought maybe smartphones are not smart enough. If they were smarter he wouldn't be in this predicament. Just a few clicks and he could know where she was and who she was.
All at once George began to realize that Irving Berlin had anticipated this whole smartphone revolution in All Alone. How could he have known the phone would become the basis for relationships in the 21st century?
All alone,
By the telephone...
Waiting for a ring
A ting-a-ling
I'm all alone every evening
All alone feeling blue
Wondering where you are
And how you are
And if you are
All alone too...
(Just for a moment you were mine, and then
You seemed to vanish like a dream).
Amazing, George thought, except maybe now it is "All alone WITH the smartphone." He thought about all the people walking on the street caressing their phones.
George was alone, but still clung to hope. He had been astonished to see her again against at all odds, only to watch her vanish! Irving Berlin's melody was running through his head, distracting him from his real objective. He needed to figure out how to find her.
But this mysterious woman who seemed to hold George's destiny in her hands was oblivious to his distress and unaware she had triggered an identity crisis in this strange man who seemed to stalk her, but also appeared not to be a threat. Sylvia thought perhaps they would talk, but things took a strange turn when she left the park, half afraid that maybe he was deliberately following her.
This was Sylvia's last evening in New York, and on a whim, she had decided to ride the Staten Island Ferry. It was always such fun, and this summer day had been so beautiful. The ferry would give her a last glimpse of her favorite sky-line and remind her of all the wonderful moments spent in New York City after so many years of absence.
But she did become concerned during the ferry ride. She noticed the man who had followed her into the park had now apparently followed her to the ferry and maybe really was stalking her!
As the ferry came to the landing, Sylvia panicked and ran ahead losing herself in the crowd. She could see him running after her, but looking confused and agitated. She knew he would attempt to follow her, so she ran toward the return gate for the ferry. He would assume she had come for a round-trip ride. She disappeared into the women's restrooms.
True to form, George followed her and surmised she had boarded the return ferry. It would be perfect. He would introduce himself, and they would talk. Maybe even become friends. He thought he saw her ahead. He rushed to catch up. For a moment, he went to a woman with long flowing black hair, but it turned out to be a false alarm. Then the Ferry whistle blew, the gates were lowered and the Ferry cast off. George continued to search the different decks.
Sylva had seen him rush onto the ferry and felt relieved that she had escaped. Maybe he was dangerous. But as she thought about it, he seemed intense with a certain abandonment that she found attractive. In fact, on one level she thought he might be interesting to know. Why was she always so cautious, she wondered? She began to regret that she had tricked him to get on the return ferry.
She pressed forward to the ferry entrance and watched as the ferry departed its moorings. Then she saw him looking back at the ferry slip. She caught his eye. She smiled and waved at him. She wasn't sure why, but she could see that he recognized her waving and seemed so jubilant. Now she was certain she had been too cautious and hoped she might meet him.
And this is how the whole rigamarole began. George caught the return boat to Staten Island and Sylvia headed for Manhattan. For the rest of the evening they went round and round, always out of phase, never really touching. Finally Sylvia had to leave for JFK ,and George would probably still be passing the Statue of Liberty in both directions if he thought there was the slightest chance he would find her.
He was convinced there was something magical about her. He thought Rodgers and Hart had nailed it when they created:
I'm wild again, beguiled again
A simpering, whimpering child again,
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - am I...
That was it! He knew it. She had bewitched him that day in the park, that mysterious woman who could gesture to butterflies to land in her lap.
George never lost hope of finding her. He would dance around the places where he had seen her, celebrating her existence and singing "I took one look at you, that's all I meant to do, and then my heart stood still..."
He walked around and sometimes floated on air as he continued to search for her in Manhattan. He danced along the wharfs and piers, and made a ritual pilgrimage to Staten Island every week hoping against hope that he might see her.
There was something quite innocent and magnificent about George and his imagination. The world was always challenging him to rise above the mundane. To find adventure and to make miracles. George liked that about the world.
Yet, George could not forget the mysterious woman who had so beguiled him. He thought she embodied all that he had been searching for his whole life. He continued to search. He continued to hope.
His thoughts raced feverishly as to what he should do. Of course, he would catch the return ferry, but now it was evening, and the ferry crossings were fewer. She would wait for him. But would she? Maybe she would have the same idea and take the next ferry to Manhattan to find him!
But wait! What if all of this was just a fantasy? Just an illusion? George staggered backward and crumpled to the bench at the rear of the ferry. He watched as he continue to pull away from Staten Island. Hadn't he wondered if she had even existed at all...whether or not his encounter with this stranger and her butterfly in Washington Square Park was just a figment of his imagination?
What should he do? He was now halfway back to Manhattan. He took out his phone. He was so stupid! Why hadn't he thought to take a picture? That could have proved it wasn't just a dream. Yes, he should have the presence of mind to document his adventures. He started to think on the power of these smartphones... but if they are so smart why couldn't they use the global positioning technology to identify her frequency so he could track her and find her? Yes, he thought, they could that. Suddenly he thought maybe smartphones are not smart enough. If they were smarter he wouldn't be in this predicament. Just a few clicks and he could know where she was and who she was.
All at once George began to realize that Irving Berlin had anticipated this whole smartphone revolution in All Alone. How could he have known the phone would become the basis for relationships in the 21st century?
All alone,
By the telephone...
Waiting for a ring
A ting-a-ling
I'm all alone every evening
All alone feeling blue
Wondering where you are
And how you are
And if you are
All alone too...
(Just for a moment you were mine, and then
You seemed to vanish like a dream).
Amazing, George thought, except maybe now it is "All alone WITH the smartphone." He thought about all the people walking on the street caressing their phones.
George was alone, but still clung to hope. He had been astonished to see her again against at all odds, only to watch her vanish! Irving Berlin's melody was running through his head, distracting him from his real objective. He needed to figure out how to find her.
But this mysterious woman who seemed to hold George's destiny in her hands was oblivious to his distress and unaware she had triggered an identity crisis in this strange man who seemed to stalk her, but also appeared not to be a threat. Sylvia thought perhaps they would talk, but things took a strange turn when she left the park, half afraid that maybe he was deliberately following her.
This was Sylvia's last evening in New York, and on a whim, she had decided to ride the Staten Island Ferry. It was always such fun, and this summer day had been so beautiful. The ferry would give her a last glimpse of her favorite sky-line and remind her of all the wonderful moments spent in New York City after so many years of absence.
But she did become concerned during the ferry ride. She noticed the man who had followed her into the park had now apparently followed her to the ferry and maybe really was stalking her!
As the ferry came to the landing, Sylvia panicked and ran ahead losing herself in the crowd. She could see him running after her, but looking confused and agitated. She knew he would attempt to follow her, so she ran toward the return gate for the ferry. He would assume she had come for a round-trip ride. She disappeared into the women's restrooms.
True to form, George followed her and surmised she had boarded the return ferry. It would be perfect. He would introduce himself, and they would talk. Maybe even become friends. He thought he saw her ahead. He rushed to catch up. For a moment, he went to a woman with long flowing black hair, but it turned out to be a false alarm. Then the Ferry whistle blew, the gates were lowered and the Ferry cast off. George continued to search the different decks.
Sylva had seen him rush onto the ferry and felt relieved that she had escaped. Maybe he was dangerous. But as she thought about it, he seemed intense with a certain abandonment that she found attractive. In fact, on one level she thought he might be interesting to know. Why was she always so cautious, she wondered? She began to regret that she had tricked him to get on the return ferry.
She pressed forward to the ferry entrance and watched as the ferry departed its moorings. Then she saw him looking back at the ferry slip. She caught his eye. She smiled and waved at him. She wasn't sure why, but she could see that he recognized her waving and seemed so jubilant. Now she was certain she had been too cautious and hoped she might meet him.
And this is how the whole rigamarole began. George caught the return boat to Staten Island and Sylvia headed for Manhattan. For the rest of the evening they went round and round, always out of phase, never really touching. Finally Sylvia had to leave for JFK ,and George would probably still be passing the Statue of Liberty in both directions if he thought there was the slightest chance he would find her.
He was convinced there was something magical about her. He thought Rodgers and Hart had nailed it when they created:
I'm wild again, beguiled again
A simpering, whimpering child again,
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - am I...
That was it! He knew it. She had bewitched him that day in the park, that mysterious woman who could gesture to butterflies to land in her lap.
George never lost hope of finding her. He would dance around the places where he had seen her, celebrating her existence and singing "I took one look at you, that's all I meant to do, and then my heart stood still..."
He walked around and sometimes floated on air as he continued to search for her in Manhattan. He danced along the wharfs and piers, and made a ritual pilgrimage to Staten Island every week hoping against hope that he might see her.
There was something quite innocent and magnificent about George and his imagination. The world was always challenging him to rise above the mundane. To find adventure and to make miracles. George liked that about the world.
Yet, George could not forget the mysterious woman who had so beguiled him. He thought she embodied all that he had been searching for his whole life. He continued to search. He continued to hope.
AUTUMN IN NEW YORK
A few days after the idyllic ending days of August, Jerome walked around Chelsea and kept wishing the autumn weather would soon kick in. These first days of September were very hot and debilitating. He especially liked to wander around the city in September, and the shift in the weather that usually came energized him as he explored what has always been the new season for the arts. There were shows opening, galleries putting forth their best exhibitions, food festivals such as Madison Square Eats or the Oyster Festival, and of course City Center Dance with this year's theme of Fall into Dance. This he had gleaned by stopping for a drink at East of 8th, an intriguing place that Jerome was still trying to figure out. There he had a chance to check his smartphone to see what destinations might be the most promising.
But truth be told, although Jerome kept his phone with him as a close friend, it was still more like a distant relative from a younger generation. For his younger friends, the technology hummed as part of their being. He couldn't walk around plugged in with earbuds, listening to music. This prevented him from hearing the music and sounds of the city that was as vital to him as the visual experience.
Now appeared to be a time in which those who had been closer to him in the past were more distant, their orbits ranging to other needs, demands and interests. He recognized this as a necessary evolution in relationships. But he believed that on a fundamental level they remain constant to his experience.
He had just been going through many systemic changes and wanted to share them, but it no longer seemed possible through the configurations of the past which now emerged drained of spontaneity. But the immediacy might now come from other sources.
Yesterday he had been experiencing an intense artistic breakthrough. It was an extended high as though he were on drugs. He realized part of the source was the energy of new people in his life who had imbued him with their energy and zest for living, and suddenly he was aware of new projects, ideas, major alterations. Additionally, it seemed clear that an indispensable source for writing and creating includes social media and blogging.
He had these creative binges before, especially in college, and often came crashing down. Some collapses were quite serious, but always led to positive growth. Yesterday had been a synethesia, a mixing of sensory experiences and genre. He couldn't help but think of the poets Coleridge and Wordsworth who were perpetually high on life (and heroin) and were the rock stars of the 19th Century. Jerome had always thought of himself as a poet living a masquerade, minus the heroin.
People he would like to engage more in a dialogic exchange were also not accustom to the technology providing that possibility, so there were many missed opportunities. But now there were some new friends that seemed to be more attuned to his need for exchange and didn't feel it was so much of an imposition. It was difficult to find a balance because text on a screen can sometimes the opposite of what is intended. Emoticons were not necessarily the solution to the clarity of emotions and meanings.
By now, the reader might well wonder where this story is going. Well it's headed toward Autumn, if we can believe titles. Of course, this contains an assumption that there are any readers around. I am learning that writers must assume there are readers, or I'm not sure how they could remain sane. But I am learning writers can be a closeted group, writing their stories in solitary confinement.
We can only observe that Jerome now was sorry that he didn't go into the Chelsea Square Restaurant and to join Suna and Hana when he had seen them a few days earlier. That would have been the spontaneous thing to do. They were so casual and enjoying each other's company as they sat over coffee.
If that had happened we might have had a humorous turn of events, because the trio often laughed together over the most trivial things. I think we might be genuinely happy if Jerome could lighten up a bit and trust the humor in life. Sometimes he just thinks too much. His best moments seem to be when he simply lets go and connects to the immediacy of the moment.
Well, with that in mind, as Jerome walked out of East of 8th, he heard the strains of Autumn in New York sounding in his mind's ear:
He looked west and followed his eyes to the river, and there was a hint of joy and laughter in the air. There was the thrill of a new beginning, new experiences, new friends... the turning of leaves to the colors of October ---and then the glistening snow... life is about change, he thought, and tentatively he started to let go and enjoy.
But truth be told, although Jerome kept his phone with him as a close friend, it was still more like a distant relative from a younger generation. For his younger friends, the technology hummed as part of their being. He couldn't walk around plugged in with earbuds, listening to music. This prevented him from hearing the music and sounds of the city that was as vital to him as the visual experience.
Now appeared to be a time in which those who had been closer to him in the past were more distant, their orbits ranging to other needs, demands and interests. He recognized this as a necessary evolution in relationships. But he believed that on a fundamental level they remain constant to his experience.
He had just been going through many systemic changes and wanted to share them, but it no longer seemed possible through the configurations of the past which now emerged drained of spontaneity. But the immediacy might now come from other sources.
Yesterday he had been experiencing an intense artistic breakthrough. It was an extended high as though he were on drugs. He realized part of the source was the energy of new people in his life who had imbued him with their energy and zest for living, and suddenly he was aware of new projects, ideas, major alterations. Additionally, it seemed clear that an indispensable source for writing and creating includes social media and blogging.
He had these creative binges before, especially in college, and often came crashing down. Some collapses were quite serious, but always led to positive growth. Yesterday had been a synethesia, a mixing of sensory experiences and genre. He couldn't help but think of the poets Coleridge and Wordsworth who were perpetually high on life (and heroin) and were the rock stars of the 19th Century. Jerome had always thought of himself as a poet living a masquerade, minus the heroin.
People he would like to engage more in a dialogic exchange were also not accustom to the technology providing that possibility, so there were many missed opportunities. But now there were some new friends that seemed to be more attuned to his need for exchange and didn't feel it was so much of an imposition. It was difficult to find a balance because text on a screen can sometimes the opposite of what is intended. Emoticons were not necessarily the solution to the clarity of emotions and meanings.
By now, the reader might well wonder where this story is going. Well it's headed toward Autumn, if we can believe titles. Of course, this contains an assumption that there are any readers around. I am learning that writers must assume there are readers, or I'm not sure how they could remain sane. But I am learning writers can be a closeted group, writing their stories in solitary confinement.
We can only observe that Jerome now was sorry that he didn't go into the Chelsea Square Restaurant and to join Suna and Hana when he had seen them a few days earlier. That would have been the spontaneous thing to do. They were so casual and enjoying each other's company as they sat over coffee.
If that had happened we might have had a humorous turn of events, because the trio often laughed together over the most trivial things. I think we might be genuinely happy if Jerome could lighten up a bit and trust the humor in life. Sometimes he just thinks too much. His best moments seem to be when he simply lets go and connects to the immediacy of the moment.
Well, with that in mind, as Jerome walked out of East of 8th, he heard the strains of Autumn in New York sounding in his mind's ear:
Autumn in New York...
Why does it seem so inviting?
Autumn in New York...
It spells the thrill of first-nighting
Glimmering crowds
And shimmering clouds
In canyons of steel
They're making me feel,
I'm home...Friday, September 11, 2015
WAS IT 'WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN?'
Elysa was busy being about New York pursuing her usual departing adventures before she left her fairytale land and returned to the real world of responsibility. She couldn't resist the many elixirs and balms of Farmer's Market and Union Square. She liked the freedom of this morning. She was still angry about Jerome's canceling their appointment.
New York had been a productive time. She had worked on an experimental production that had been brought into being under the duress of so little time and so many demands. Although she had known Erick from the past, she hadn't realized how much energy and how demanding it would be because each had quite different ideas. A remarkable performer and musician, Erick was the clearly the focus of the production. He had been working on this material for more than five years, helping Jerome recover his past through this profound artistic gesture. It was an act of artistic friendship to insist on involving Jerome into working on the production. This was a gift of restoring Jerome's work, enabling him to undergo a renaissance of discovery.
Elysa knew Jerome and his preference for hanging back and not asserting his presence. She knew that his friendship with Erick was so deep that he feared his ideas and actions might destroy their rapport and deep sharing.
Well, the reader should understand that the creation of new work is always an adventure and the experiment fails as often as it succeeds in making a difference in the precious passing of time in our small interval of existence in the world. It is always risky.
Now it was over and clearly Jerome had been touched by the level of of Erick's work and Elysa's choreography and dancing. As the work developed, Jerome started to understand the relationship of the songs to the context of their creation and saw distinctly three characters, a trio if you will. But it was a moment of triumph that was not entirely free of personal damages.
Elysa sighed as she walked around Union Square. August ending was spectacularly revealing how beautiful a summer day in the Village might be. Her trek to the Farmer's Market had become a yearly ritual. It somehow brought closure to the year. And it did seem as if the year was ending, and she was off to a new beginning.
She had texted Suna and asked if she wanted meet soon since she would be leaving New York, abandoning her creative retreat, returning to the glare of schedules, meetings, and administrative crisis upon crisis.
Jerome had always thought that Suna and Elysa would be great friends. The moment he introduced them he could feel the bond between them. Deep. Like steel.
A while later, they were meeting, immersed in urgent details of life, relationships, of hopes, and dreams and frustrations. I wish I could go into greater detail, but the reader should understand there are just some places we cannot go. There is a certain expectation of decorum for godsake. And maybe you shouldn't be so nosy.
But you should know that Jerome considers women to be creatures further developed in the evolutionary chain than men. This is true when they mingle among us men. But when women get together they seem to devolve to an earlier tribal stage, creating code that no man can decipher. Now this is not a politically correct observation, so rest assured I will be looking over my shoulder these next few days.
But Elysa's triumph in New York City, there in Greenwich Village in the summer of 2015 is something to celebrate. But nothing occurs in a vacuum. Without Erick and Jerome, it would be empty indeed. No doubt what happened there in the Village will continue to reverberate for some time.
Maybe.
New York had been a productive time. She had worked on an experimental production that had been brought into being under the duress of so little time and so many demands. Although she had known Erick from the past, she hadn't realized how much energy and how demanding it would be because each had quite different ideas. A remarkable performer and musician, Erick was the clearly the focus of the production. He had been working on this material for more than five years, helping Jerome recover his past through this profound artistic gesture. It was an act of artistic friendship to insist on involving Jerome into working on the production. This was a gift of restoring Jerome's work, enabling him to undergo a renaissance of discovery.
Elysa knew Jerome and his preference for hanging back and not asserting his presence. She knew that his friendship with Erick was so deep that he feared his ideas and actions might destroy their rapport and deep sharing.
Well, the reader should understand that the creation of new work is always an adventure and the experiment fails as often as it succeeds in making a difference in the precious passing of time in our small interval of existence in the world. It is always risky.
Now it was over and clearly Jerome had been touched by the level of of Erick's work and Elysa's choreography and dancing. As the work developed, Jerome started to understand the relationship of the songs to the context of their creation and saw distinctly three characters, a trio if you will. But it was a moment of triumph that was not entirely free of personal damages.
Elysa sighed as she walked around Union Square. August ending was spectacularly revealing how beautiful a summer day in the Village might be. Her trek to the Farmer's Market had become a yearly ritual. It somehow brought closure to the year. And it did seem as if the year was ending, and she was off to a new beginning.
She had texted Suna and asked if she wanted meet soon since she would be leaving New York, abandoning her creative retreat, returning to the glare of schedules, meetings, and administrative crisis upon crisis.
Jerome had always thought that Suna and Elysa would be great friends. The moment he introduced them he could feel the bond between them. Deep. Like steel.
A while later, they were meeting, immersed in urgent details of life, relationships, of hopes, and dreams and frustrations. I wish I could go into greater detail, but the reader should understand there are just some places we cannot go. There is a certain expectation of decorum for godsake. And maybe you shouldn't be so nosy.
But you should know that Jerome considers women to be creatures further developed in the evolutionary chain than men. This is true when they mingle among us men. But when women get together they seem to devolve to an earlier tribal stage, creating code that no man can decipher. Now this is not a politically correct observation, so rest assured I will be looking over my shoulder these next few days.
But Elysa's triumph in New York City, there in Greenwich Village in the summer of 2015 is something to celebrate. But nothing occurs in a vacuum. Without Erick and Jerome, it would be empty indeed. No doubt what happened there in the Village will continue to reverberate for some time.
Maybe.
Thursday, September 10, 2015
GOTTA DANCE!
George stared down at the churning water in the wake of ferry as he tried to collect his thoughts. He couldn't understand what had happened in Washington Square Park with the mysterious woman with the butterfly that he had followed, hoping to meet her. He had started to dismiss it as a fantasy, but knew it had to be real. Now it was too late.
He became discouraged to continue searching for his mysterious sorceress and wandered from the park walking south toward the financial district and Freedom Tower. She remained a mystery, but someone he would remember. Maybe if he went back tomorrow, he would find her with her book and her butterfly. He remained astonished that she could make the butterfly land on her book. He wasn't sure how, but he thought somehow she had bewitched him.
Now here he was, the sun was setting, and he crossed the harbor toward Staten Island. He loved the wind in his face and the sound of the ferry slicing through the waves. As he stood at the rear of the ferry he watched city skyline recede, gleaming like a beacon in the approaching night. As The Statue of Liberty loomed on the left, he saw that the lights illuminating the grand lady had just flicked on. Such a great night to be alive and here in this moment, he thought.
As they passed the statue, George turned and walked inside the ferry. He liked to look at all the people riding the ferry. Most were on their way home probably after having some drinks or dinner after work in Manhattan. But some were sight seers, and George found them interesting because of all the nationalities apparently visiting New York.
Suddenly Bernstein's New York, New York..it's a hell of a town... started playing in his head, and George imagined himself to be Gene Kelly out on the town searching for the girl he had seen in a picture on the subway. He imagined his footwork was more lithe as he tapped his way to the front of the boat, taking a flower from an old lady who was selling them to passengers and presenting it to the first girl he saw who was sitting reading a book. She was surprised, but also somewhat embarrassed, but George danced on 'til he was at the front of the boat.
The ferry was slowing, bumping its way into the landing that would receive the passengers. There was a rush of people onto the deck where they watched the ferry crash its way to its mooring. "Welcome to Staten Island" the sign read. People crowded around and angled for the front of the boat to be the first to depart. George felt himself being pushed backward further and further. Things were getting out of hand, George thought.
Then the gates opened and people flooded into the station.
It was at that moment George saw her, his mysterious stranger that he had followed into the park. She was on this ferry! He couldn't believe his good fortune. But she was disappearing into the streaming crowd that appeared almost running into the station.
He tried waving to get her attention, but she was focused on leaving and had no idea he was trying to catch up with her.
"Miss! Miss! Don't leave! Wait for me!" George was almost in tears, but it was much too noisy and chaotic for her to take notice. There were so many people struggling to get away, and he was trapped in the turmoil.
In what seemed an eternity, George broke free and found himself in an immense station with hundreds of people milling about. Many sight seers who had come just for the boat ride were running to the departure side of the station to return on the ferry to Manhattan. George wondered if that might include his mysterious lady. He ran with the crowd and saw the gates open with passengers starting to board the return ferry. Was that her? He ran up to a woman with long black hair walking rapidly onto the boat. It wasn't her! He struggled through the crowd, searching desperately.
He didn't even know her name! After a few minutes the gates were lowered and the ferry pulled out of the ferry slip slowly. George continued to search and went to the front of the boat. Was that her standing there... flowing black hair and such lovely arms. He approached her. She was looking ahead trying to see the very distant NY skyline.
"Miss, were you in Washington Square Park today?"
The woman turned and looked at him as though he were from another planet..
"I'm sorry," he muttered. "I thought.. " he shook his head. "I hoped you were someone else."
He retreated to the back of the boat and then for a miraculous moment he saw his mysterious phantom standing in the Staten Island station watching the ferry depart. He waved at her. She stood there and looked at him, and then smiled. She waved back! It was her! George was ecstatic, but also mortified as he stood and watched the ferry take him further and further away from his mysterious stranger, his muse, his reason for living.
He became discouraged to continue searching for his mysterious sorceress and wandered from the park walking south toward the financial district and Freedom Tower. She remained a mystery, but someone he would remember. Maybe if he went back tomorrow, he would find her with her book and her butterfly. He remained astonished that she could make the butterfly land on her book. He wasn't sure how, but he thought somehow she had bewitched him.
Now here he was, the sun was setting, and he crossed the harbor toward Staten Island. He loved the wind in his face and the sound of the ferry slicing through the waves. As he stood at the rear of the ferry he watched city skyline recede, gleaming like a beacon in the approaching night. As The Statue of Liberty loomed on the left, he saw that the lights illuminating the grand lady had just flicked on. Such a great night to be alive and here in this moment, he thought.
As they passed the statue, George turned and walked inside the ferry. He liked to look at all the people riding the ferry. Most were on their way home probably after having some drinks or dinner after work in Manhattan. But some were sight seers, and George found them interesting because of all the nationalities apparently visiting New York.
Suddenly Bernstein's New York, New York..it's a hell of a town... started playing in his head, and George imagined himself to be Gene Kelly out on the town searching for the girl he had seen in a picture on the subway. He imagined his footwork was more lithe as he tapped his way to the front of the boat, taking a flower from an old lady who was selling them to passengers and presenting it to the first girl he saw who was sitting reading a book. She was surprised, but also somewhat embarrassed, but George danced on 'til he was at the front of the boat.
The ferry was slowing, bumping its way into the landing that would receive the passengers. There was a rush of people onto the deck where they watched the ferry crash its way to its mooring. "Welcome to Staten Island" the sign read. People crowded around and angled for the front of the boat to be the first to depart. George felt himself being pushed backward further and further. Things were getting out of hand, George thought.
Then the gates opened and people flooded into the station.
It was at that moment George saw her, his mysterious stranger that he had followed into the park. She was on this ferry! He couldn't believe his good fortune. But she was disappearing into the streaming crowd that appeared almost running into the station.
He tried waving to get her attention, but she was focused on leaving and had no idea he was trying to catch up with her.
"Miss! Miss! Don't leave! Wait for me!" George was almost in tears, but it was much too noisy and chaotic for her to take notice. There were so many people struggling to get away, and he was trapped in the turmoil.
In what seemed an eternity, George broke free and found himself in an immense station with hundreds of people milling about. Many sight seers who had come just for the boat ride were running to the departure side of the station to return on the ferry to Manhattan. George wondered if that might include his mysterious lady. He ran with the crowd and saw the gates open with passengers starting to board the return ferry. Was that her? He ran up to a woman with long black hair walking rapidly onto the boat. It wasn't her! He struggled through the crowd, searching desperately.
He didn't even know her name! After a few minutes the gates were lowered and the ferry pulled out of the ferry slip slowly. George continued to search and went to the front of the boat. Was that her standing there... flowing black hair and such lovely arms. He approached her. She was looking ahead trying to see the very distant NY skyline.
"Miss, were you in Washington Square Park today?"
The woman turned and looked at him as though he were from another planet..
"I'm sorry," he muttered. "I thought.. " he shook his head. "I hoped you were someone else."
He retreated to the back of the boat and then for a miraculous moment he saw his mysterious phantom standing in the Staten Island station watching the ferry depart. He waved at her. She stood there and looked at him, and then smiled. She waved back! It was her! George was ecstatic, but also mortified as he stood and watched the ferry take him further and further away from his mysterious stranger, his muse, his reason for living.
Monday, September 07, 2015
The Four Million
Jerome walked out of the building on 23rd Street having just finished physical therapy. It was a brilliant August day, shimmering and alive with energy. The morning sun chased Jerome into the shade. He paused and looked east. Sixth Avenue was intensely clogging up with traffic, and Jerome knew if he went that way he would leave Chelsea. There was something about the day and Chelsea that enticed him westward toward the Hudson River.
When he first came to New York, Jerome would hear about Chelsea, but he couldn't locate it in his mind. It was as though people were talking about someplace in England. Everything that happened there seemed so distant and foreign. But he was from Texas, and everything outside of Texas was foreign. That was long ago.
When Jerome was a young boy, he had dreams of being a composer, of going to New York, of becoming George Gershwin. He improvised and composed songs, shows, and ballets. His father always thought that Jerome's music was a waste of time. "Jerry," he would say, "You should become a writer. It's what you do best." But Jerome stuck to his dream. He followed it all the way to New York, but somewhere along the way he floundered. He got side tracked. It was the story of The Natural all over, the baseball player who had it all and was tricked and lost his world. Now Jerome pondered his similar fate. Everyone had been convinced of his great promise, so what diverted his destiny? Who was the trickster? Look in the mirror, he thought.
Now as he walked along 23rd street in the mecca of the New York art scene, Jerome paused. Across the street was the Chelsea Hotel, the home of some of New York's greatest artists, writers, musicians, performers, and ne'er-do-wells. He crossed the street and walked up to the entrance. The hotel held its age well, going back to another century, another era. Jerome had heard that O. Henry may have lived there, but always under a pseudonym, as he was always dodging bill collectors. George thought it was odd, because O. Henry wasn't his real name any way.
Jerome's father had given him a copy of O. Henry's The Four Million, a book of short stories about every day New Yorkers. The book was a rebuttal to a remark of a rather stuffy wealthy gent who observed there were four million people living in New York, but there were only about three or four hundred of the wealthy elite that were worth knowing.
Jerome held the The Four Million tightly as though his grip might empower him to absorb the substance of being a New Yorker. At this point, this was the closest he had been to New York even though he had been trying to get there most of his life.
Jerome stood by the Chelsea Hotel feeling the energy of the past, hoping to find some thread of meaning to why he stood on this historic spot. It seemed he was always searching, looking for some clue to explain his life. Was there something here in this old, historical building, now a relic from a past that almost no one remembered?
He walked further west toward the river. There were so many wonderful places he thought he might like to visit, the restaurants, coffee bars...and especially the galleries. As he approached 9th Avenue, he saw the red trim of the Chelsea Square Restaurant, a landmark for him because he liked to go there. He could order coffee and a roll, and they never bothered him or hurried him to leave.
Suddenly he noticed Suna and Hana. They were sitting at a table near the front. Jerome paused and watched. Hana seemed animated and was laughing, and Suna was listening and nodding. It was like watching a silent film. He was tempted to go in, but he thought better of it. He loved seeing them through the window as though they existed in another dimension. As he looked at them he noticed his reflection on the window. He was looking through his reflection to their images inside...a kind of trio.
But he had another destination... galleries that he had neglected so long that he was out of touch with the energy that young artists were launching. Jerome moved on, flooded by images of so many young people around him headed to their own destinations... in the midst of their own adventures.
Everyone he saw had their own story. Now it was The Nine Million creating and pursuing their own narratives, their own happenings. They were tapping out messages on their smartphones, snapping pictures as they passed by, taking selfies and snapshots of their latte, gatherers of moments chronicling their own stories.
Who needed O. Henry now?
When he first came to New York, Jerome would hear about Chelsea, but he couldn't locate it in his mind. It was as though people were talking about someplace in England. Everything that happened there seemed so distant and foreign. But he was from Texas, and everything outside of Texas was foreign. That was long ago.
When Jerome was a young boy, he had dreams of being a composer, of going to New York, of becoming George Gershwin. He improvised and composed songs, shows, and ballets. His father always thought that Jerome's music was a waste of time. "Jerry," he would say, "You should become a writer. It's what you do best." But Jerome stuck to his dream. He followed it all the way to New York, but somewhere along the way he floundered. He got side tracked. It was the story of The Natural all over, the baseball player who had it all and was tricked and lost his world. Now Jerome pondered his similar fate. Everyone had been convinced of his great promise, so what diverted his destiny? Who was the trickster? Look in the mirror, he thought.
Now as he walked along 23rd street in the mecca of the New York art scene, Jerome paused. Across the street was the Chelsea Hotel, the home of some of New York's greatest artists, writers, musicians, performers, and ne'er-do-wells. He crossed the street and walked up to the entrance. The hotel held its age well, going back to another century, another era. Jerome had heard that O. Henry may have lived there, but always under a pseudonym, as he was always dodging bill collectors. George thought it was odd, because O. Henry wasn't his real name any way.
Jerome's father had given him a copy of O. Henry's The Four Million, a book of short stories about every day New Yorkers. The book was a rebuttal to a remark of a rather stuffy wealthy gent who observed there were four million people living in New York, but there were only about three or four hundred of the wealthy elite that were worth knowing.
Jerome held the The Four Million tightly as though his grip might empower him to absorb the substance of being a New Yorker. At this point, this was the closest he had been to New York even though he had been trying to get there most of his life.
Jerome stood by the Chelsea Hotel feeling the energy of the past, hoping to find some thread of meaning to why he stood on this historic spot. It seemed he was always searching, looking for some clue to explain his life. Was there something here in this old, historical building, now a relic from a past that almost no one remembered?
He walked further west toward the river. There were so many wonderful places he thought he might like to visit, the restaurants, coffee bars...and especially the galleries. As he approached 9th Avenue, he saw the red trim of the Chelsea Square Restaurant, a landmark for him because he liked to go there. He could order coffee and a roll, and they never bothered him or hurried him to leave.
Suddenly he noticed Suna and Hana. They were sitting at a table near the front. Jerome paused and watched. Hana seemed animated and was laughing, and Suna was listening and nodding. It was like watching a silent film. He was tempted to go in, but he thought better of it. He loved seeing them through the window as though they existed in another dimension. As he looked at them he noticed his reflection on the window. He was looking through his reflection to their images inside...a kind of trio.
But he had another destination... galleries that he had neglected so long that he was out of touch with the energy that young artists were launching. Jerome moved on, flooded by images of so many young people around him headed to their own destinations... in the midst of their own adventures.
Everyone he saw had their own story. Now it was The Nine Million creating and pursuing their own narratives, their own happenings. They were tapping out messages on their smartphones, snapping pictures as they passed by, taking selfies and snapshots of their latte, gatherers of moments chronicling their own stories.
Who needed O. Henry now?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)