Almost everyone I know is going through some personal crisis. And we are all aware that culturally and metaphysically we are engaged in a global crisis that has prompted visions of Mayan doom in 2012. The basis for these crises is our perception of our lives, the universe, and experience as undergoing immense acceleration. Newton had prophesied that everything would gradually slow down until the universe was out of energy. This was the so-called dismal law of thermodynamics. Now the Hubble eye on the universe has detected that indeed, everything is speeding up. We also have become aware that there must be matter and energy that cannot be seen, and that this mass accounts for almost 95% of the substance of the universe (dark energy or dark matter). It is this accelerating gravitational force that appears to be pulling the universe apart and our lives as well. We are not immune from the force that created us. You and I are part of the Big Bang or whatever it was that ignited conscious awareness.
Several of my friends are depressed after their great achievements and success. I know that feeling well. I know what it is to ride the roller coaster of highs and lows as you engage in creating new work. It is a cycle of success where the intensity of the moment is suddenly extinguished and you are left lost and empty, feeling that everyone has deserted you. And they have. No one can continue that intensity indefinitely. Inevitably the super nova burns out, and space is dark and empty. But the emptiness is an illusion. In riding the wave, you must inevitably pass through zero, to the silence. We all come from the silence.
In the silence is the birth of everything new. It all comes from the nothingness between the zenith and the nadir...that moment between the plus and minus, that nothingness that always precedes the "Big Bang." Probably these eruptions are continuous and infinite. That is why we are beginning to perceive that there are parallel universes that completely redefine our concepts of dimension and time. It is a reality that is both singular and plural. Gradually we have come to understand that what we call Space is just another word for Time. For the moment we appear to be trapped in Time, irreversibly caught in the endless expansion whose only direction is outward or forward, Even when we seemingly reverse directions, it is never the same space. Einstein glimpsed the reality for a moment, but never really understood it. Perhaps that is why his attempts to unify two opposing theories failed. Some think they have solved the riddle, shredded the Gordian Knot, since finally experts concluded it could not be untied because it wasn't really a knot.
Some imagine that the dark energy is consuming matter and storing it as dark matter. Although Black Holes have been thought of as the creator of new stars and solar systems, they are also being studied as converters of substance into the hidden dimension of existence. Somewhere in this equation is the secret of ourselves, is the secret of conscious awareness. Without the awareness, the universe is an empty charade.
Monday, August 15, 2011
IMPACT 2011: Creating New Worlds
What is IMPACT? It is an acronym for Interactive Multimedia Performing Arts Collaborative Technology that describes a workshop designed to promote collaboration and creative expression among international participants. It originated in the Steinhardt School of New York University and has now completed its fifth year. Every year the workshop changes, grows, and develops, and IMPACT has come to mean a process of collaborative experience that is evolving. Each year the faculty, staff, and participants come away with an understanding that has built upon the past but added new layers of meaning and interaction. Most recently IMPACT has added the layer of social networking, using FaceBook as a means of communicating all aspects of the workshop as it evolves pragmatically and conceptually.
The posters above represent three planning stages for 2011. The first poster represents the collaborative and international nature of the workshop through the hands of different cultural backgrounds working together through technology, artistic expression, and multimedia to change our perceptions of the world and bring us closer together. The second stage represents a thematic process by which the participants agree upon a theme to explore for a realization on stage combining technologies and expressive artistry in collaborative production teams. Each production team took the name of a planet and the organization of each team had as its goal to establish an interdisciplinary group that worked together to develop concepts and materials that would eventually be expressed through media and stage craft. The final poster was designed by 2011 participants giving credit and reflecting on the nature of collaboration with a focus on collaborative process.
Though the description above attempts to answer the question of "What is IMPACT?" on a basic, descriptive level, it is clear that its meaning is deeper and continues to resonate long after the workshop is completed. Many new energies and visions interlocked and worked together intensely. New personal insights came from this collaborative process, and the embryos of new ideas are still emerging and growing. We continue to interrogate the process, because at the heart of this process is the idea of artist as researcher and collaborator. At the heart of this work is how we generate new ideas and new content. Ultimately the mentors are reciprocally mentored by the participants creating a cycle of interaction where the meaning deepens with each new coming together as collaborateurs. Activity becomes active engagement generating material through documenting the action and transforming it into various iterations across media. Documenting becomes a way of capturing process and gives meaning and structure to activity as a means of exploring and developing content.
The posters above represent three planning stages for 2011. The first poster represents the collaborative and international nature of the workshop through the hands of different cultural backgrounds working together through technology, artistic expression, and multimedia to change our perceptions of the world and bring us closer together. The second stage represents a thematic process by which the participants agree upon a theme to explore for a realization on stage combining technologies and expressive artistry in collaborative production teams. Each production team took the name of a planet and the organization of each team had as its goal to establish an interdisciplinary group that worked together to develop concepts and materials that would eventually be expressed through media and stage craft. The final poster was designed by 2011 participants giving credit and reflecting on the nature of collaboration with a focus on collaborative process.
Though the description above attempts to answer the question of "What is IMPACT?" on a basic, descriptive level, it is clear that its meaning is deeper and continues to resonate long after the workshop is completed. Many new energies and visions interlocked and worked together intensely. New personal insights came from this collaborative process, and the embryos of new ideas are still emerging and growing. We continue to interrogate the process, because at the heart of this process is the idea of artist as researcher and collaborator. At the heart of this work is how we generate new ideas and new content. Ultimately the mentors are reciprocally mentored by the participants creating a cycle of interaction where the meaning deepens with each new coming together as collaborateurs. Activity becomes active engagement generating material through documenting the action and transforming it into various iterations across media. Documenting becomes a way of capturing process and gives meaning and structure to activity as a means of exploring and developing content.
CREATING NEW WORLDS
Multimedia Works in Process
Prelude: URBAN JUNGLES
Every day, we create and recreate our environments through technology, architecture and human interaction.
FULL COMPANY
Scene 1: Inner Voice
VENUS
(Ji Eun Kim, Yeji Kim, Hsuanyu I, Yoo Jeong Nam)
VENUS
(Ji Eun Kim, Yeji Kim, Hsuanyu I, Yoo Jeong Nam)
Freedom is neither white nor black, but the possibility of painting our canvas of whatever color we choose. No matter our origins or upbringing, we are free to know and to experience, to mingle and to party, to expand ourselves and to forge who we really want to be.
Music and Movie: Ji Eun Kim Cello: Hsuanyu I Dancers: Yoo Jeong Nam, Yeji Kim,
Scene 2: IMPACT around US
EARTH
(Sun-Mi Kim, Hyun Mi Jung, Chae-Won Song)
Having a trouble with artistic expression? Searching for something creative? Our video might suggest the answer for your concerns to just look around and fulfill your needs.
Music: Sun-Mi Kim, Chae-Won Song, Hyun Mi Jung Video: Chae-Won Song
Dancers: Hyun Mi Jung, Kyung-In Kim, Su Min Jung, Seo Youn Lee, YooJeong Nam, Yeji Kim
Scene 3: Exploring Myself
JUPITER
HyeYeun Lee, Kyung-In Kim, Perla Vargas)
Where am I? I am a stranger. Everything is going different and makes me confused. But I try not to lose myself and stick with the strange path. Then I finally meet someone else familiar. Is that an alter ego?
Background Music: "Klavierwerke" & "I Mind" by James Blake
Art Directing & Video: HyeYeun Lee Choreography & Dance: Kyung-In Kim
Actors & Dancers: YooJeong Nam, Seo Youn Lee, Su Min Jung, YeJi Kim, Hyun Mi Jung, Hwan Soo Ok Lyrics & Singing: Perla Vargas
Scene 4: Birthday Girl
SATURN
(Yulimer Almonte, Eunsong Noh, YooJin Choi)
This comedy will make you laugh and have a nice time together with the birthday girl and her friends. The Birthday girl is at a restaurant to celebrate her birthday, but nothing goes out as planned. What will happen?
Video: Yulimer Almonte, Eunsong Noh Costume: YooJin Choi Music: Yulimer Almonte
Actors & Dancers: Yulimer Almonte, Eunsong Noh, Youngmi Ha, Seo Yeon Lee, Hwan Soo Ok, Youngin Ko, Heejung Nam, YooJin Choi, Mariam Chebly
Scene 5: S.O.S. (Side-Effect Of Social-Network)
URANUS
(Kahyun Lee, Yunjin Cho, Jeemin Ha)
We can express our feelings and happenings without restriction of space by social network. However, it sometimes make people exposed to others unintendedly too much. Also people feel the sense of inferiority and isolation by watching other's privacy. "S.O.S" sheds new light on the effect of social network!
Video: Kahyun Lee, Yunjin Cho Actors: Kahyun Lee, Yunjin Cho, Jeemin Ha
Costume: Kahyun Lee, Yunjin Cho, Jeemin Ha
INTERLUDE
(YoungMi Ha, Perla Vargas, Deanna Jackson, Hsuanyu I)
Title: Pingu, Bouncy Fun
Music Making Penguins
Scene 6: A Chat with Cunningham
GUEST ARTISTS: SPACETIME
(Chingwen Yeh, Yea-Chen Wu, Sunyoung Park)
Touching your spirit I move. Watching your work I touch. Feeling your aura surround me.
Art Direction & Video: Chingwen Yeh, Yea-Chen Wu, Sunyoung Park
Choreography & Dance: Chingwen Yeh Live Music & Composer: Sunyoung Park
Scene 7: Dream Your Reality
MARS
(Deanna Jackson, Yoo Jung Shin, Hwan Soo Ok)
Imagine, you’ re who you want to be; doing what you want to do. Believe in the impossible and explore the incredible potential. Take one step and hold on to your dream.
Performed by: Deanna Jackson, Yoo Jung Shin, Hwan Soo Ok, Jee Yun Hung, Yeji Kim, Seo Youn Lee, Su Min Jung Music: Hwan Soo Ok Video and Lyrics: Deanna Jackson
Scene 8: Neptune Avenue
NEPTUNE
(Ebru Yetiskin, Seo Yeon Lee, Youngin Ko)
One flees and creates a path to become a part of a different world. We will show aquarium video. Enjoy our beautiful blue scene!
Video: Ebru Yetiskin, Youngin Ko Dancers: Seoyoun Lee, Youngin Ko, Yeji Kim, Sumin Jung, Kyung-In Kim, Hyun Mi Jung, YooJeong Nam
Scene 9: One World
MERCURY
(Whanee Choi, Su Min Jung, Mariam Chebly, Yea-Chen Wu)
The end of society as we know it has arrived. After a nuclear warfare a few survivors from different cultures take shelter in the last "Eden". How will they interact and communicate with each other?
Video: Yea-Chen Wu Audio: Mariam Chebly, Whanee Choi Choreography: Su Min Jung
Actors & Dancers: Perla Vargas, Deana Jackson, Yulimer Almonte, Mariam Chebly, Whanee Choi, Su Min Jung, Sharon I, Hyun Mi Jung, Kyung-In Kim, Yeji Kim, Seo Yeon Lee, YooJeong Nam, Yoo Jung Shin, Hwan Soo Ok, Jeemin Ha, Kahyun Lee
Music: Mozart Requiem Lacrimosa Original Music : Mariam Chebly, Whanee Choi
BOWS
FULL COMPANY
IMPACT 2011 Faculty, Staff, Guest Artists
Dr. John V. Gilbert, Director
Dr. Youngmi Ha, Music Director
Tom Beyer, Tech Director
Dr. Chianan Yen, Digital Imaging & Photography Director
Julie Song, Administrative Director
Dr. Carleton Palmer, Visual Arts Director
Jee Yun Hong, Dance Director
Kevin Pease, Theatre & Stage Director
Joellen Dolan, Assistant Tech Director
Yea-Chen Wu, Lighting Designer
Sunmin Kim, Stage Manager, Researcher
Nicholas Marchese, Tech Assistant
Yeejung Nam, Production and Administrative Assistant
Dr. Chingwen Yeh, Impact Guest Artist, Educator
Ebru Yetiskin, Guest Researcher In Sociology & Media
Sunyoung Park, Guest Artist
Restless Nights
So I have struggled to rest this weekend, and I am still waiting for sleep which somehow eludes me. Thoughts of the summer, of IMPACT, of Prayer, of Korea, of A Song for Second Avenue, urgent business, of classes, of friends, of music and beauty, all flood my mind at once... Images and sounds... Thoughts of Blogs and Logs... and songs and poems... And .... all the dilemmas secret and public that tease the human spirit ... All the temptations and fantasies... all that confounds us and conspires to sleepless nights...
But even so ... I will go in and try to transform this desperate state into something productive. There are those in my life that inspire me to transcend the way of all flesh...
Summer has been an avalanche of ideas and activity... all of it positive and promising. I have been buried in the debris of summer, a rich composite of lives and conscious awareness that now call for a reflective production of new material... some of it waiting... urgently in need of expression.
I have been absent from myself for so long... and there are thoughts and ideas waiting for words... these words started as an email and started to take on a larger life... one can get so busy that he stumbles through the night forgetting all that really matters, caught up in the dancing trivialities of virtual realities.
But even so ... I will go in and try to transform this desperate state into something productive. There are those in my life that inspire me to transcend the way of all flesh...
Summer has been an avalanche of ideas and activity... all of it positive and promising. I have been buried in the debris of summer, a rich composite of lives and conscious awareness that now call for a reflective production of new material... some of it waiting... urgently in need of expression.
I have been absent from myself for so long... and there are thoughts and ideas waiting for words... these words started as an email and started to take on a larger life... one can get so busy that he stumbles through the night forgetting all that really matters, caught up in the dancing trivialities of virtual realities.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
The Past is Present
Woody got it right, but the past doesn't only erupt at midnight. The past is a seething tsunami overrunning the seamless present. I have tried to avoid the vapors that seep through the crusting surface of moments as they become the shimmering crystals of reality, facets that glisten in the light of a shifting awareness. But the present is just as unavoidable as it is inevitable. It is all we have, even though the future seems irresistible and relentless.
I realize how much I have tried to avoid the contradictions of myself. The long intervals of silence where I let the present pass unnoticed... the sad marking of time with obituaries of restaurant reviews and other irrelevant nonsense... our FaceBook sensibility where all that matters is "hello and goodbye" and" see where I am now" or "where I was a few moments ago"... my ephemeral pathway through the present which disappears in the nondescript passing of inglorious, insignificant moments. All that matters is to twitter the present.
Yet the richness of the present is the past, if we embrace it or allow it to engage us. The new social technologies are basically tools of avoidance. We are isolated by clicks and metal surfaces that are meant for tapping and texting. Images are meant to be captured and substituted for tasting and and touching. Everything is for the eye filtered through screens meant to seduce through the illusions of imaginary worlds.
Yet the only moments that seem filled with the luster of reality, with a tangible essence of something that will last through memory and linger in the fine filters of the mind, are those vividly present through engagement in the nowness of awareness alone, or in the presence of others so engaged in the moment. This conscious engagement is the poetics of making ourselves.
So it is with deep regret that I note the passing of Now unnoticed. Such moments are undistinguished because they are unnoticed. I am saddened by my neglect of Now so often that many of my past moments are vast deserts filled with nothingness or the blurred mirages of wishful thinking. I regret those moments of absence with no tangible presence of those who have noticed me and the emptiness of my failure to seek them out, to relish the reality of their being.
Our simple joy is the noticing of Time passing and to relish how it passes, and to add to its passing. Our simple joy is to notice each other, to appreciate the unique qualities each adds to our passing moments. Within that singular appreciation is the quality of loving and hating, of regretting and celebrating... appreciating those who have touched us profoundly, loved us, changed us, and made us become someone and something different.
I realize how much I have tried to avoid the contradictions of myself. The long intervals of silence where I let the present pass unnoticed... the sad marking of time with obituaries of restaurant reviews and other irrelevant nonsense... our FaceBook sensibility where all that matters is "hello and goodbye" and" see where I am now" or "where I was a few moments ago"... my ephemeral pathway through the present which disappears in the nondescript passing of inglorious, insignificant moments. All that matters is to twitter the present.
Yet the richness of the present is the past, if we embrace it or allow it to engage us. The new social technologies are basically tools of avoidance. We are isolated by clicks and metal surfaces that are meant for tapping and texting. Images are meant to be captured and substituted for tasting and and touching. Everything is for the eye filtered through screens meant to seduce through the illusions of imaginary worlds.
Yet the only moments that seem filled with the luster of reality, with a tangible essence of something that will last through memory and linger in the fine filters of the mind, are those vividly present through engagement in the nowness of awareness alone, or in the presence of others so engaged in the moment. This conscious engagement is the poetics of making ourselves.
So it is with deep regret that I note the passing of Now unnoticed. Such moments are undistinguished because they are unnoticed. I am saddened by my neglect of Now so often that many of my past moments are vast deserts filled with nothingness or the blurred mirages of wishful thinking. I regret those moments of absence with no tangible presence of those who have noticed me and the emptiness of my failure to seek them out, to relish the reality of their being.
Our simple joy is the noticing of Time passing and to relish how it passes, and to add to its passing. Our simple joy is to notice each other, to appreciate the unique qualities each adds to our passing moments. Within that singular appreciation is the quality of loving and hating, of regretting and celebrating... appreciating those who have touched us profoundly, loved us, changed us, and made us become someone and something different.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Everything's Organic
Everything's organic at Bareburger. It has been open on LaGuardia place for awhile, but somehow I thought the angle was more of a gimmick than substance, so I passed it by, always lingering for a moment or two and scanning the menu, but then going on my way.Recently I decided to give it a try and went in on a Friday night. I was surprised by the lively friendly atmosphere and the the apparent enthusiasm of the customers for the fare. It is mostly burgers, beer, and milkshakes, but these categories defy conventional description. Not only is everything organic, but Bareburger has redefined these categories in a comprehensive context. I had the Jalapeno Express burger for which Barebuger recommended Elk. I thought I knew about burgers, but this beat everything I've had in the past. The Elk has a great texture and the taste was beyond beef or bison, a deep rich meaty taste and mellow, which made it perfect for the jalapeno touch. I ordered an organic raspberry milkshake that was the thickest and richest I gave ever tasted. Once again, Bareburger has redefined the genre. The burger arrived at the table impaled on an elegant metal shaft, almost suggesting that it had been hunted down in the wild and speared. The condiments and spices are all organic as are the sweeteners for the organic coffee. Maybe we should not be so impressed by organic, which is returning to the natural state of our habitat. But in a world that is laden with additives and over processing, Bareburger has successfully provided the staples of simplicity with a sense of elegant naturalness.
I went there thinking I would try it out as a novelty, but this is a serious venture and a place to come back to again and again. The variety of burgers and selection of meat will astound you. It is enough to make a vegetarian reconsider a chosen lifestyle. Next time I'll try the organic beer and the coffee, just to see if the same excellence prevails. The only puzzling aspect to the evening were the large monitors tuned to the Flintstones. Maybe the message was a return to primitive times before civilization managed to isolate us from nature. But it didn't work for me. This restaurant is not a place for the eyes, anyway. It is something of an art form for taste, a gallery of organic inventiveness.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Choga: A Cozy Haven
Choga is a cozy friendly haven at the end of the Bleecker Street business district in the West Village. It is a place where the atmosphere is warm and friendly and the food and drink is served with excellent attention to detail. In addition to authentic Korean food, there is a fine sushi bar where the combinations are fresh and inventive. BimBimBap in their new hotpots come out sizzling, and when several are ordered the dishes are popping around the tables like a stereo rhythm section. When the owner is there, her Seafood Pajun is unrivaled in this hemisphere. I would go there just for that. The restaurant reflects the warmth and graciousness of an owner who has transformed Choga into a memorable experience. Go there more than once, and you begin to feel like you are at the kind of establishment where "everybody knows your name."I go there to catch up on things and relax. With my iPhone I can bother all my friends or check out FB, while I often use the notepad to write a poem or two, or just sit long hours and listen to the music tapes put together by singer/composer C. J. from Korea who performed at The Bitter End while he waited tables at Choga. He has a great ear for music, and if you sit there long enough, you are bound to hear some of your favorites. I like the Soju, O.B., and the side dishes. Every entree is tempting and all ranges of spicy and non-spicy treats can make every visit distinctive. I often bring along some book of poems to enjoy at a quiet table in the corner. Sometimes, if I'm lucky, a friend will pop in and we have a go at it... almost instant partying... Truth be known, I get lots of work done while there, generating lyrics, ideas for music, researching... all of it in the end is research...
Choga is especially great when it is snowing, and you can sit in the quiet warmth and look at the snow through the window.
CHOGA
Winter evening settling
Outside Choga
Speaks of snow
Dotting the dusk
As I sit with my Nabe Udon,
Reluctantly approaching
My inevitable departure
As a dreaded return
To some awesome emptiness
That has plagued me for days.
Sounds of music hover
Near the front window,
A vacant drone
As evening dissolves
Into night.
I cannot delay
Any longer...
Still unsure of a destination,
I descend the steps
To Bleecker
And look up
Into the swirling snow
Of night.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
The Architecture of Snow
The "architecture of snow" seems to be first iterated by Emerson in a poem called "The Snow-Storm." I later ran into this imagery in a set of poems by Chris Banks, The Cold Panes of Surfaces. He quotes a line from a Wallace Stevens' poem:
Anyone who has spent any time with me knows that snow is almost an obsession with me, which is why this poem bears so much meaning for me. This is a complex poem, full of a richness that explores the universal metaphor as winter as the end of life, and snow as the apocalypse that is an exquisite and grand demise of the beauty we have known and celebrated throughout life, dissolving into the flakes of snow swirling like some distant galaxy of oblivion.
"... Can all men, together, avengeFor Chris Banks, city in snow becomes the foundation for his poem "Winter Is The Only Afterlife" as he borrows Emerson 's line in "The Snow-Storm" to begin his own elaborate metaphor.
One of the leaves that have fallen in autumn?
But the wise man avenges by building his city in snow.''
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955)
Chris Banks : Winter is the Only Afterlife
The wise man avenges by building his city in snow.
-Wallace Stevens
The architecture of snow was quietly rebuilding January
when a young woman arrived, seeming to float down
the white sidewalks while the rest of us huddled inside
our mortgaged houses. I had been staring out my windows
watching snow fall from the invisible eaves. Passing cars
were churning up a slurry in the streets, a wet papier mâché
of burnt-out stars. She wore a red scarf and had carefully
cinched her wings beneath a cashmere navy waistcoat.
When she turned to look at me, the world was all whirlwind
and white ash, and the words, Winter is the only afterlife.
It gives back everything it takes from us, blazed for a moment
across my brain, like a lantern shining out in all directions,
which is when I knew for certain it was her, and only
for that moment, the white light of snow falling across
her shoulders, itself, a kind of blessing, as she stepped
lightly between this world and the hereafter, one minute
smiling at me and the next vanishing into an apocalypse
of snow, each flake's white galaxy, her grace her own.
Anyone who has spent any time with me knows that snow is almost an obsession with me, which is why this poem bears so much meaning for me. This is a complex poem, full of a richness that explores the universal metaphor as winter as the end of life, and snow as the apocalypse that is an exquisite and grand demise of the beauty we have known and celebrated throughout life, dissolving into the flakes of snow swirling like some distant galaxy of oblivion.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Nabeyaki Udon at Zen on 31 St. Mark's Place
What many of my friends don't realize is that I am something of a connoisseur of Nabeyaki Udon. There is one other area in which my culinary connoisseurship shines and that is the Peach Melba. For years I would sample and keep notes on Peach Melbas around the world. I noted the cultural variances in the presentation and savored every object of my research of this dessert art-form. Actually I became very well-known for this research in an informal way and was consulted by many friends. I notice that this delicacy is really rare these days, and I have wondered if my dwindling interest in Peach Melbas contributed to the demise of its popularity.About 20 years ago I was introduced to Nabeyaki Udon by a Korean friend. Although the dish has Japanese origins, I was told that the addition of a raw egg into the mix was a Korean variation which apparently became popular. In the area that I lived in at that time, I could find Nabeyaki Udon in a number of Asian restaurants, and I began to compare the texture, the ingredients, the care of preparation, the taste, the longevity (the amount of time the brew can last on the table and continue to accrue deliciousness and spicy presence), and the serving utensil, essential in maintaining a good temperature and allowing the mixture to continue to mature in taste and texture after it is served. A really good Nabeyaki Udon is consumed as though you are performing a musical work. There is an introduction, thematic ideas, and adding of nuances (dynamics) through the ground red pepper, which melds with the dish to create incredible variations of taste as you perform the act of consuming the various items. A good serving bowl extends the life of this dish so that you as the performer of this consumptive act can have an extended coda. This is an especially appropriate dish for the winter... really great in a major storm as you watch the blizzard rage outside and bask in the aroma of your Nabeyaki Udon.
But as the years progressed, I noticed fewer restaurants carrying this dish. Worse still, I would find instead Nabe Udon (often without the egg!) as I find at Choga, or a misplaced zeal for all sorts of Ramen, which although I like, I find do not deserved to be mentioned in the same sentence with a masterpiece like Nabeyaki Udon.
On some Saturdays I am given to exploring and was wandering around the East Village researching aspects as I prepare my new MoviOp, A Song for Second Avenue. I was checking all the little restaurants on St. Marks Place that are nested beneath the stairs of almost every building. This time I was reading their menus and trying to decide which one I might try. The menus were all pretty much the same. I was moving from Third Avenue toward Second Avenue on the north side of the street. Then, a little past midway, I came upon Zen Restaurant, and the first thing that caught my eye was Nabeyaki Udon.
The Nabeyaki Udon more than lived up to my expectations. It was a masterful concoction that was in the best of settings. The atmosphere inside was friendly, convivial, and outside, a light snow was punctuating the afternoon. Before me was the main attraction in a beautiful bowl that was also functional, designed to keep the broth nice and hot for quite some time. I began with a light sprinkling of the ground red pepper which is not spicy but adds several layers of taste as the broth marinates. Let it marinate and savor the moment.
Some day, I know there is a poem that will come of this rendezvous with Nabeyaki Udon. In the meantime, if food be the music of love, eat on!
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Favela Cubana
Out the window
Last week's snow
Sleeps a fitful winter nap
As leafless trees watch and wait.
Inside, infectious Brazilian rhythms
Punctuate Latin brass and vocals
From another world.
In spite of this,
There is a quietness in my mind
Listening for another song.
Words sound and then fall silent,
Waiting for the enchantment
Of discovery...
Life is too beautiful
To ever let a moment
Go unnoticed...
And yet, we do.
Slivers of Time
Slip into forgotten corridors
In the relentless push of the present...
Even when we pause
In the envelop of Now,
The past eludes us.
But this moment resonates
Because of all that was
And all that might have been.
Last week's snow
Sleeps a fitful winter nap
As leafless trees watch and wait.
Inside, infectious Brazilian rhythms
Punctuate Latin brass and vocals
From another world.
In spite of this,
There is a quietness in my mind
Listening for another song.
Words sound and then fall silent,
Waiting for the enchantment
Of discovery...
Life is too beautiful
To ever let a moment
Go unnoticed...
And yet, we do.
Slivers of Time
Slip into forgotten corridors
In the relentless push of the present...
Even when we pause
In the envelop of Now,
The past eludes us.
But this moment resonates
Because of all that was
And all that might have been.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Glenn Gould and My Own Retreat
In a recent recording session at NYU Dolan Studio, one of the artists brought up a description of Glenn Gould "playing" the recorded sound at the mixing console with the same detail that he brought to his performance at the keyboard. This was the first time I had thought about Glenn Gould for quite some time. By chance, I had picked up a book of poems, Everything Else in the World, by Stephen Dunn. To my surprise, I came upon a poem about Gould, "The Unrecorded Conversation" in this wonderful volume of poems. Surprising, because it came on the heels of our discussion about Gould and made me realize that elements of Gould's temperament resonated with my own experience. At the beginning of the poem, as an epitaph of sorts, Gould is quoted: "Isolation is the indispensable component of human happiness." Having made it this far in life as a loner, I find it something of a revelation to discover that my loneliness is the source of my satisfaction.
Of course I do not possess the genius of Gould, but I do understand the self imposed quarantine that may be necessary for contemplation and sustained fulfillment. Stephen Dunn creates a golden glimpse of Glenn Gould who disappeared into his private world of art and thrived in that secret, sequestered habitat:
The studio inside my head seems connected to some interior world that illuminates my muse. Retreating to my studio has been a refuge in time of doubt and when I have needed inspiration and spiritual sustenance. Somehow things have changed from the journey begun this past year that has taken me to this new place. There was no reason to believe things would continue on the same miraculous trajectory that launched this new adventure. Sometimes retreat represents a falling back. But a retreat is also a place of solitude for working through a dilemma. Somewhere in the isolation of this personal pause, is the spark of renewal.
Of course I do not possess the genius of Gould, but I do understand the self imposed quarantine that may be necessary for contemplation and sustained fulfillment. Stephen Dunn creates a golden glimpse of Glenn Gould who disappeared into his private world of art and thrived in that secret, sequestered habitat:
Maybe genius is its own nourishment,
I wouldn't know.
Gould didn't need much more than Bach
whom he devoured
and so beautifully gave back
we forgave him his withdrawal from us.
...Gould retreated to his studio
at thirty-one, keeping his distance
from microphones and their germs.
He needed to control sound, edit out
imperfection. His were the only hands
that touched the keys, turned the dials.
(Stephen Dunn, "The Unrecorded Conversation" from Everything Else in the World)
The studio inside my head seems connected to some interior world that illuminates my muse. Retreating to my studio has been a refuge in time of doubt and when I have needed inspiration and spiritual sustenance. Somehow things have changed from the journey begun this past year that has taken me to this new place. There was no reason to believe things would continue on the same miraculous trajectory that launched this new adventure. Sometimes retreat represents a falling back. But a retreat is also a place of solitude for working through a dilemma. Somewhere in the isolation of this personal pause, is the spark of renewal.
Sunday, January 09, 2011
An Astonishing Poet: Stephen Dunn
In a bookstore of forgotten books, I came across a book of poems, Everything Else in the World by Stephen Dunn, a poet that I didn't recognize but who has won a Pulitzer prize. I feel that in general we don't read enough poems. Poets have a way of noticing the world that enables us to calibrate our awareness of reality. Sometimes when I feel things spinning out of control I like to enter the world of some poet, preferably someone I have never read. I picked up Dunn's book with about five other volumes of poems.
I finally submersed myself in his poems this weekend and was astonished to discover that this poet was someone who seemed in tune with my own work. The very first poem was something I have thought and written about, but done with such elegance that I was energized and inspired. The first poem struck home:
I finally submersed myself in his poems this weekend and was astonished to discover that this poet was someone who seemed in tune with my own work. The very first poem was something I have thought and written about, but done with such elegance that I was energized and inspired. The first poem struck home:
A SMALL PARTThe only difference is that I never got over it.
The summer I discovered my heart
is at best an instrument of approximation
And the mind is asked to ratify
every blood rush sent its way
was the same summer I stared
at the slate gray sea well beyond dusk,
learning how exquisitely
I could feel sorry for myself.
It was personal---the receding tide,
the absent, arbitrary wind.
I had a small part in the great comedy,
and hardly knew it. No excuse,
but I was so young I believed
Ayn Rand had a handle on truth---
secular, heroically severe. Be a man
of unwavering principle, I told others,
and what happens to the poor
is entirely their fault. No wonder
that girl left me in August, a stillness
in the air. I was one of those lunatics
of a single idea, or maybe even worse---
I kissed wrong, or wasn't brave enough
to admit I was confused
Many summers later I learned to love
the shadows illumination creates.
But experience always occurs too late
to undo what's been done. The hint
of moon above an unperturbable sea,
and that young man, that poor me,
staring ahead---everything is as it was.
And of course has been changed.
I got over it. I've never been the same.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Midnight Snowing
When I walked to the studio, the blizzard of December 26th was in full fury. It was afternoon and already accumulations promised something of epic proportions. I have been working in the studio into the night. At around 9 p.m. I walked to the Space Market for some take out. No one was about. There were no footprints, no tire tracks. There was only the wind and the street lights filtered through gusts of snow. Trudging through the snow in the night storm for only a block was a struggle. Waverly Place had become a wilderness. Returning to the studio was also an adventure. The door to the building was blocked with snow even though I had been gone less than thirty minutes. I cleared the snow and opened the door.
Through the window in my studio, I saw the swirling snow, thick and turbulent, buffeting the street lamps, relentlessly screening the light in surging, shifting patterns. The intensity seemed to be escalating, ominous and fierce. Bursts of wind rattled the windows. It was as though the storm were demanding my full attention. I improvised a few answers from the keyboard as the blizzard blustered and bellowed in reply.
My earlier impression of the snow as I came to the studio in early afternoon was of the quiet stillness all around me, sounds muted by an eloquent mantle of silence. Midnight moved me to the next day, and now the night and the storm seemed to wait in ambush for me to venture outside. The snow had packed around the door. In addition, the doors had frozen. I pushed hard and broke the seal. Then I gradually cleared the snow by pushing the door like a shovel to clear a path.
Stepping outside I entered a tumultuous tempest that stung my face with icy blasts of snow. The wind was so strong that snowflakes felt like pellets. I tried to look ahead and could see only a few feet. There were no tracks in the snow. It was 12-14 inches deep. I moved forward and felt my boots sink into the snow. I couldn't even distinguish the steps to the ramp. so I clutched the railing and eased myself down to the snow-covered sidewalk. It was difficult to see where the sidewalk ended and the street began. I started toward home with some difficulty. Walking required more strength and energy than I had anticipated because of the depth of the snowdrifts and the strident wind and ice-like snow pellets stinging me in the face. Suddenly this setting that was so familiar became an alien terrain, and I felt lost and disoriented. I seriously began to wonder if I could actually make it to the apartment only a few blocks away.
Washington Place seemed to be like a canyon in a blizzard and the visibility was at best 20-25 feet. I walked in the middle of the street as I made my way toward Washington Place. Overhead, I could hear the wind ripping at the NYU Steinhardt flag. I heard thunder punctuating the sound of wind through the trees and corridors between buildings.
"So this is what it would be like if I were miles from civilization and trapped in such a storm with no shelter. There would be no way out." My apprehension grew as I made extremely slow progress toward Bleecker Street. No one was outside. There were no cars on the streets. In a city of millions I felt suddenly alone as though I were a stranger on an uninhabited planet, or maybe come upon a vanished civilization that had built these buildings and mysteriously disappeared.
The sounds of the storm became mesmerizing, and I labored with each step... the bitter cold was beginning to penetrate my coat and my face was freezing. My eyebrows became icy. Now it was becoming increasingly impossible to see. My glasses had iced over. They were useless. As I removed them, the blowing snow attacked my eyes. I stumbled and fell, but the snow cushioned my fall. I realized how foolish it was to think I could easily walk through such a powerful and hostile storm. Now my beard was frozen, and I was utterly exhausted. I managed to pull myself erect and continued on.
As I finally arrived at Bleecker Street, I thought how the elements had distorted my sense of time and space. A few blocks became an adventure in the twilight zone. My midnight encounter with the snowstorm reminded me of the awesome power of nature that challenges our artificial sanctuaries and fortresses of civilization. All of our achievements can be confronted and extinguished in the blink of an eye. The universe can be exceedingly cold and hostile.
Through the window in my studio, I saw the swirling snow, thick and turbulent, buffeting the street lamps, relentlessly screening the light in surging, shifting patterns. The intensity seemed to be escalating, ominous and fierce. Bursts of wind rattled the windows. It was as though the storm were demanding my full attention. I improvised a few answers from the keyboard as the blizzard blustered and bellowed in reply.
My earlier impression of the snow as I came to the studio in early afternoon was of the quiet stillness all around me, sounds muted by an eloquent mantle of silence. Midnight moved me to the next day, and now the night and the storm seemed to wait in ambush for me to venture outside. The snow had packed around the door. In addition, the doors had frozen. I pushed hard and broke the seal. Then I gradually cleared the snow by pushing the door like a shovel to clear a path.
Stepping outside I entered a tumultuous tempest that stung my face with icy blasts of snow. The wind was so strong that snowflakes felt like pellets. I tried to look ahead and could see only a few feet. There were no tracks in the snow. It was 12-14 inches deep. I moved forward and felt my boots sink into the snow. I couldn't even distinguish the steps to the ramp. so I clutched the railing and eased myself down to the snow-covered sidewalk. It was difficult to see where the sidewalk ended and the street began. I started toward home with some difficulty. Walking required more strength and energy than I had anticipated because of the depth of the snowdrifts and the strident wind and ice-like snow pellets stinging me in the face. Suddenly this setting that was so familiar became an alien terrain, and I felt lost and disoriented. I seriously began to wonder if I could actually make it to the apartment only a few blocks away.
Washington Place seemed to be like a canyon in a blizzard and the visibility was at best 20-25 feet. I walked in the middle of the street as I made my way toward Washington Place. Overhead, I could hear the wind ripping at the NYU Steinhardt flag. I heard thunder punctuating the sound of wind through the trees and corridors between buildings.
"So this is what it would be like if I were miles from civilization and trapped in such a storm with no shelter. There would be no way out." My apprehension grew as I made extremely slow progress toward Bleecker Street. No one was outside. There were no cars on the streets. In a city of millions I felt suddenly alone as though I were a stranger on an uninhabited planet, or maybe come upon a vanished civilization that had built these buildings and mysteriously disappeared.
The sounds of the storm became mesmerizing, and I labored with each step... the bitter cold was beginning to penetrate my coat and my face was freezing. My eyebrows became icy. Now it was becoming increasingly impossible to see. My glasses had iced over. They were useless. As I removed them, the blowing snow attacked my eyes. I stumbled and fell, but the snow cushioned my fall. I realized how foolish it was to think I could easily walk through such a powerful and hostile storm. Now my beard was frozen, and I was utterly exhausted. I managed to pull myself erect and continued on.
As I finally arrived at Bleecker Street, I thought how the elements had distorted my sense of time and space. A few blocks became an adventure in the twilight zone. My midnight encounter with the snowstorm reminded me of the awesome power of nature that challenges our artificial sanctuaries and fortresses of civilization. All of our achievements can be confronted and extinguished in the blink of an eye. The universe can be exceedingly cold and hostile.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Song of Winter Solstice
Having passed through the immense darkness of December, winter solstice sings to me of such hopeful anticipation. The metaphor of the triumph of light over darkness is a melody that deepens with each phrase, harmonies of some distant realm flow in cascading counterpoint.
It begins so simply. I leave my office. The day has been a bright, pristine winter day. I have sought the presence of friends on the Internet, but everyone is away, engaged in the last minute hysteria of Christmas Eve in the midst of so much unfinished business that needs attention and the last minute shopping forays to stores rushing to close in early afternoon.
Night has descended unannounced, and I walk along Washington Place toward the park. Church bells chime from the north and others echo somewhere to the south. From a distance, I hear carolers singing "Fast away the old year passes..." and the air seems filled with singing. The singing originates from the brightly lit Christmas Tree framed by the Washington Square Arch. Their singing echoes against the surrounding buildings, and the texture blends with the city sounds, the music of New York settling into the night before Christmas.
Everything seems so magical in the moment. I wonder if I really exist, or if I am just some character walking in Washington Square in an O. Henry short Christmas story. Maybe I dwell in this moment as part of the Gift of the Magi. That would be just like O. Henry: to have me discover at the end that I am really just a character in one of his stories.
I turn the corner and head toward Bobst Library as the music resonates and resounds around me and within my mind. It is the song of solstice. Music becomes the source of light and I see the music in some fantastic array of media celebrating the consciousness of awareness that we are the witness of life and the universe.
It is media unlike anything I have ever known... vibrations articulating reality oscillating and forever pulsating with the stuff of life. Music is light shining and Light is the radiance of all sound, of all music. We are the pulsing awareness of our defining source.
We are the substance and light of the universe. We are the light that translates the darkness, the sound that interprets the silence.
That is the song of solstice.
We are the Song of Winter Solstice.
Saturday, December 04, 2010
Darkness in December
It is a source of amazement to me how much difference a year can make in how we relate to the world about us, our friends, and those we hold in close and intimate regard. As I sit at the computer and watch the darkness invade the city at 4:30 p.m., I feel like some lonely wanderer at Stonehenge waiting for winter solstice. This darkness is a source for melancholy and in some instances, despair. What a difference a year makes.
At this same point last year, winter solstice was a cause for hope and inspiration. I was bolstered by a new energy which countered my usual dismal December demeanor. That new energy came from connecting with friends who created an open space for sharing and collaborating that was new to me. Solstice was discovery... the anticipation of light... a rebirth and renaissance.
This solstice awakening took me to new places of awareness and energized my thinking and creative ideas. It was more than a revival, it was the birth of a new sensibility, an intense consciousness that filled the silence with ineffable beauty infused with radiance. These inspirations were concretized into new work. There was a sense of invincibility about this aura that embraced me so completely. Nothing was impossible. Every manifestation was effortless. I felt that everyone around me was imbued with imagination, energy, and a zest for life. My own world was enriched by the interpenetration of overlapping spheres of energy and vision. Every moment led to new expression, new destinations, new accomplishments.
But that was then. Now in these bleak December days approaching the longest night, I find myself visited by the demons of despair. Something tells me that this is a necessary plunge into "the jaws of darkness," the acherontic abyss of inevitable emptiness. It is not the silence. Silence is beautiful. This dark emptiness is sinister and hideous. This darkness is the oppressive anguish of sorrow and despair. The sorrow stems from the unspeakable regret that all of us must suffer through the limits of our humanity although we glimpse the hem of something astonishing and full of wonder just beyond our grasp. The despair is beyond all sighing. Its heaviness is paralyzing, debilitating.
But in the midst of this destructive descent, I sense outstretched arms and and life-lines flung from those who share the journey... who whisper that despite all appearances, you are not alone. Of course I realize this is the fiction of hope. Objectivity tells me to lie down and die. It isn't that those who included me last year have gone on to other things and left me alone. It is that I have somehow blindly abandoned the interior paths of discovery that others helped illuminate.
But there is this moment of intense night which seemingly has extinguished the light.... there is this infinite moment of darkness when I realize that the darkness is only a shadow. Light envelops the darkness, defines itself through the eloquence of its presence. In the precise moment of winter solstice, I listen to the night giving birth to some new possibility. The dawn that awaits is unique and unlike any other. That is the lesson of the cycles of infinity. All repetition is fiction. Only new moments exist, arcing inexorably through conscious awareness. We are not the repetition of the past. We are not the repetitions of ourselves.
At this same point last year, winter solstice was a cause for hope and inspiration. I was bolstered by a new energy which countered my usual dismal December demeanor. That new energy came from connecting with friends who created an open space for sharing and collaborating that was new to me. Solstice was discovery... the anticipation of light... a rebirth and renaissance.
This solstice awakening took me to new places of awareness and energized my thinking and creative ideas. It was more than a revival, it was the birth of a new sensibility, an intense consciousness that filled the silence with ineffable beauty infused with radiance. These inspirations were concretized into new work. There was a sense of invincibility about this aura that embraced me so completely. Nothing was impossible. Every manifestation was effortless. I felt that everyone around me was imbued with imagination, energy, and a zest for life. My own world was enriched by the interpenetration of overlapping spheres of energy and vision. Every moment led to new expression, new destinations, new accomplishments.
But that was then. Now in these bleak December days approaching the longest night, I find myself visited by the demons of despair. Something tells me that this is a necessary plunge into "the jaws of darkness," the acherontic abyss of inevitable emptiness. It is not the silence. Silence is beautiful. This dark emptiness is sinister and hideous. This darkness is the oppressive anguish of sorrow and despair. The sorrow stems from the unspeakable regret that all of us must suffer through the limits of our humanity although we glimpse the hem of something astonishing and full of wonder just beyond our grasp. The despair is beyond all sighing. Its heaviness is paralyzing, debilitating.
But in the midst of this destructive descent, I sense outstretched arms and and life-lines flung from those who share the journey... who whisper that despite all appearances, you are not alone. Of course I realize this is the fiction of hope. Objectivity tells me to lie down and die. It isn't that those who included me last year have gone on to other things and left me alone. It is that I have somehow blindly abandoned the interior paths of discovery that others helped illuminate.
But there is this moment of intense night which seemingly has extinguished the light.... there is this infinite moment of darkness when I realize that the darkness is only a shadow. Light envelops the darkness, defines itself through the eloquence of its presence. In the precise moment of winter solstice, I listen to the night giving birth to some new possibility. The dawn that awaits is unique and unlike any other. That is the lesson of the cycles of infinity. All repetition is fiction. Only new moments exist, arcing inexorably through conscious awareness. We are not the repetition of the past. We are not the repetitions of ourselves.
Saturday, September 04, 2010
A Meeting At Noon
"Thanks for meeting me like this." His words came haltingly as though he was searching for an opening to reveal some secret.
"You know I would always come. I rearranged things the moment I received your message."
"I had hoped you would meet me, but I half expected that you would reply you already had an appointment."
He took a sip of his café con leche. He had always loved this restaurant, which seemed to combine the worlds he loved, the Mediterranean, the Brazilian, the Cuban. On the wall was a huge picture of a 4 door version of the Chevy coupe he had driven in college. Same model and exact color. Somehow the coffee always reminded him of travels in Italy and Portugal. Those were idyllic times for him when his closest friends were still alive, and the future loomed fresh and exhilarating. Now time had taken its toll, and the last few years had led him toward the Hemingway solution which he calculated would be a year from now, on this last day of the cycle.
He had just learned about this nine-year life cycle from his dear friend who had agreed to meet with him on this final day.
"You are in the eighth year of a nine-year cycle," she explained. This declaration suddenly made perfect sense to him, and why he had chosen September 4, 2011 as his final day. But in the past year, he had dismissed this calculation after meeting new friends who broke through the barriers that had blocked his creative work. He entered a personal renaissance based on this deepening awareness.
He looked out at the trees of September. Today they were splendid in their radiant green presence. The air was fresh. It was the September of his dreams, of his latest venture, of his idyllic narrative that somehow was the summation of all that he held precious.
He looked across at his friend, a friend that had seen him through more than a decade of experience and hardships. Such friendships distill the present and are to be savored like a rare and fragrant liqueur. This insight had escaped him for months in a period of doubt and self-denial.
"Today seemed like it would be so bleak that at the last moment I thought of you as someone who might come to my rescue... someone to share the day that I usually experience alone with such dread." The words came slowly. He was searching for a pathway, a direction that might divert his despair. "I am really grateful that you would come."
"We are similar," she said. "We share much in common." She smiled. "But I am hurt that you would not consider your younger friends in your equation. That isn't fair. I want you around for at least the next cycle and beyond."
"On one level, I know you are right," he admitted, "but most of my closest confidants that were my contemporaries have vanished from my life. On that level, I feel quite alone and disconnected."
Yet, even as he spoke, he knew there were contradictions. He had simply shifted so much of his faith into new projects that when the prospect of their unraveling became apparent he was thrown into despair. He had not prepared himself that he might be betrayed by his own blindness.
She spoke of her own struggles. She had lost so much and had been challenged for her own survival, but she had persevered, and from her anguish, new experiences had led her to refreshed places that now shaped a better juncture. Although she knew her own journey could not serve as a prescription for his, she hoped that somehow he would see through the illusions that held him captive.
The wind swept gently through the trees overhead. The sunlight through the branches shimmered like an incandescent projection of patterns through the leaves, leaving shadows on the sidewalk that looked like swirling distant galaxies. This was September. He was entering his favorite time of the year, but now he faced it with a fear that seemed to grow in the silence and accruing doubt.
It was September. The days were lingering in the fullness of summer, bountiful and beautiful in their splendor. This was a time to harvest all that had been sewn in spring and summer. This was a time when the promise of all he had worked for was pregnant with possibilities... it was a time to open the dream for others to experience and to invite their collaborations. Yet, even as he understood this, fear gripped him that he might not be equal to the challenge.
"Remember these days..." he thought, half singing the words to himself, "They're passing so fast. Just look for the ways to make these days last. Remember these days."
He wanted to capture this moment with his friend sitting across from him on this final day of his year. He wanted to hold it forever as part of the recurring dream that haunted him when a stranger meeting him for the first time tried to explain relationships in the Land of Forever, where a rendezvous at noon was more than marriage.
"You know I would always come. I rearranged things the moment I received your message."
"I had hoped you would meet me, but I half expected that you would reply you already had an appointment."
He took a sip of his café con leche. He had always loved this restaurant, which seemed to combine the worlds he loved, the Mediterranean, the Brazilian, the Cuban. On the wall was a huge picture of a 4 door version of the Chevy coupe he had driven in college. Same model and exact color. Somehow the coffee always reminded him of travels in Italy and Portugal. Those were idyllic times for him when his closest friends were still alive, and the future loomed fresh and exhilarating. Now time had taken its toll, and the last few years had led him toward the Hemingway solution which he calculated would be a year from now, on this last day of the cycle.
He had just learned about this nine-year life cycle from his dear friend who had agreed to meet with him on this final day.
"You are in the eighth year of a nine-year cycle," she explained. This declaration suddenly made perfect sense to him, and why he had chosen September 4, 2011 as his final day. But in the past year, he had dismissed this calculation after meeting new friends who broke through the barriers that had blocked his creative work. He entered a personal renaissance based on this deepening awareness.
He looked out at the trees of September. Today they were splendid in their radiant green presence. The air was fresh. It was the September of his dreams, of his latest venture, of his idyllic narrative that somehow was the summation of all that he held precious.
He looked across at his friend, a friend that had seen him through more than a decade of experience and hardships. Such friendships distill the present and are to be savored like a rare and fragrant liqueur. This insight had escaped him for months in a period of doubt and self-denial.
"Today seemed like it would be so bleak that at the last moment I thought of you as someone who might come to my rescue... someone to share the day that I usually experience alone with such dread." The words came slowly. He was searching for a pathway, a direction that might divert his despair. "I am really grateful that you would come."
"We are similar," she said. "We share much in common." She smiled. "But I am hurt that you would not consider your younger friends in your equation. That isn't fair. I want you around for at least the next cycle and beyond."
"On one level, I know you are right," he admitted, "but most of my closest confidants that were my contemporaries have vanished from my life. On that level, I feel quite alone and disconnected."
Yet, even as he spoke, he knew there were contradictions. He had simply shifted so much of his faith into new projects that when the prospect of their unraveling became apparent he was thrown into despair. He had not prepared himself that he might be betrayed by his own blindness.
She spoke of her own struggles. She had lost so much and had been challenged for her own survival, but she had persevered, and from her anguish, new experiences had led her to refreshed places that now shaped a better juncture. Although she knew her own journey could not serve as a prescription for his, she hoped that somehow he would see through the illusions that held him captive.
The wind swept gently through the trees overhead. The sunlight through the branches shimmered like an incandescent projection of patterns through the leaves, leaving shadows on the sidewalk that looked like swirling distant galaxies. This was September. He was entering his favorite time of the year, but now he faced it with a fear that seemed to grow in the silence and accruing doubt.
It was September. The days were lingering in the fullness of summer, bountiful and beautiful in their splendor. This was a time to harvest all that had been sewn in spring and summer. This was a time when the promise of all he had worked for was pregnant with possibilities... it was a time to open the dream for others to experience and to invite their collaborations. Yet, even as he understood this, fear gripped him that he might not be equal to the challenge.
"Remember these days..." he thought, half singing the words to himself, "They're passing so fast. Just look for the ways to make these days last. Remember these days."
He wanted to capture this moment with his friend sitting across from him on this final day of his year. He wanted to hold it forever as part of the recurring dream that haunted him when a stranger meeting him for the first time tried to explain relationships in the Land of Forever, where a rendezvous at noon was more than marriage.
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