Piano, upright bass, drums and trumpet. A classic jazz quartet. A small room and a table with an intimate view of the pianist's hands. Me. You. A complete surprise and delight in the middle of an already lovely day. How am I so lucky?
They played a few standards, some inspired originals. I got lost in some of those pieces. Some took me away, all took me to you.
I would have said thank you thank you thank you, do you know what this really means to me, the passing of music between us, the easy, perfect weight of your arm around my shoulder, are you really here with me, here and now, and as you say, how is that possible. But there was no room for words in that moment, no moment for words in that room, and even though you have trouble believing in things, I know you felt this too, know this to be true.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Thursday, February 22, 2007
one of three
Whatever you think about the psychology of birth order, I will tell you this: being a middle child does make you a good mediator, even-keeled and sorely lacking in expectations. It also makes you an expert in passing along sibling aggression, beatdowns, sadistic teasing and practical jokes--also known as fun to the one dishing it out. My friends and I had our share of that with my little brother, who being three years younger was easy prey.
One day, during one of my routine invasions of his privacy--ie, snooping though his room for candy, comic books, or other items I was sure he had taken from my room--I found a small diary. I remember feeling simultaneously shocked--he was only seven, and a boy, what was he doing with this thing?-- and filled with evil glee at my luck: ah, the teasing that would be had now!
I opened to a random page and began reading. The first, and only, thing I read was this: "I feel like a cat that is purring but doesn't know what the sound is." What's this? And then I felt all the weight and feeling of what he wrote settle on me like a heavy blanket, warm and familiar, and somehow I knew I must close this book and put it back, carefully, where I had found it, and never open it again.
Maybe these wonders of self are easier to see when we are younger, more open to new things, not yet formed into the hard shapes we become. I continued to tease and torture my brother for years, but it was with a little less glee, more like following a script. I wonder if he knew and what he wrote about that.
One day, during one of my routine invasions of his privacy--ie, snooping though his room for candy, comic books, or other items I was sure he had taken from my room--I found a small diary. I remember feeling simultaneously shocked--he was only seven, and a boy, what was he doing with this thing?-- and filled with evil glee at my luck: ah, the teasing that would be had now!
I opened to a random page and began reading. The first, and only, thing I read was this: "I feel like a cat that is purring but doesn't know what the sound is." What's this? And then I felt all the weight and feeling of what he wrote settle on me like a heavy blanket, warm and familiar, and somehow I knew I must close this book and put it back, carefully, where I had found it, and never open it again.
Maybe these wonders of self are easier to see when we are younger, more open to new things, not yet formed into the hard shapes we become. I continued to tease and torture my brother for years, but it was with a little less glee, more like following a script. I wonder if he knew and what he wrote about that.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
whirling dervishes
Recently, in a strange and wonderful coincidence I was reminded of Rumi, the 13th C. Persian poet and mystic. Strange because I haven't thought of Rumi in about 20 years. Wonderful because of how I was reminded and the remarkable relevance to my life right now.
Rumi's main themes are love and longing. He is writing about spiritual love, his relationship with "god" or the unknowable, but because his words are so passionate and down to earth, it's easy to relate to them personally, applying them to our relationships with other people and ourselves. If you ask me, it's all the same, just different paths to the same place, but I'm no mystic.
The longng though--I think we can all relate to the spiritual longing he expresses. Who hasn't felt the "something missing" of life, that there is "something more" close at hand but you can't quite reach it? And what exactly is "it" anyway?
Since I've been feeling connected to both of these themes recently more than I have in years, I've been re-reading Rumi's stuff with particular pleasure. Here is one that is perfect to me for right now:
Today, like every other day, we wake up empty and frightened.
Don't open the door to the study and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument.
Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.
Indeed there are thousands, but I am grateful to be experiencing just one.
Rumi's main themes are love and longing. He is writing about spiritual love, his relationship with "god" or the unknowable, but because his words are so passionate and down to earth, it's easy to relate to them personally, applying them to our relationships with other people and ourselves. If you ask me, it's all the same, just different paths to the same place, but I'm no mystic.
The longng though--I think we can all relate to the spiritual longing he expresses. Who hasn't felt the "something missing" of life, that there is "something more" close at hand but you can't quite reach it? And what exactly is "it" anyway?
Since I've been feeling connected to both of these themes recently more than I have in years, I've been re-reading Rumi's stuff with particular pleasure. Here is one that is perfect to me for right now:
Today, like every other day, we wake up empty and frightened.
Don't open the door to the study and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument.
Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.
Indeed there are thousands, but I am grateful to be experiencing just one.
Friday, February 16, 2007
resonance 201
Have you felt the way certain music enters your body--the sounds eveloping you from the outside while resonating throughout your inside until, if you're lucky, for a moment you are one with the song?
Or imagine you are walking in a lush forest in the mountains of some faraway place. You stop to catch your breath and take in the view--a particularly lovely grove of trees. You exhale just as the wind comes rustling through the high branches, and for the moment of that breath, the seemingly random imperfections of nature are revealed as a set of beautiful interlocking patterns connecting leaves to branch to limb to trunk, to all things across the forest floor, up through your feet, then flying out like spirits through the window in your chest, up to the sky.
I have these experiences most with nature, music, art, but occasionaly with objects, and even sometimes with my clumsy words. It is rare luck to find it in another person.
Since we live our lives in a world so sadly disconnected and distracted from that experience, I sometimes forget it is possible at all. Or maybe I shouldn't blame the world, maybe sometimes I close myself to it. In any case, I am profoundly grateful for those reminders, when they do happen, of the mystery and wonder that allows the universe to be contained in a blade of grass. Or as my experience with you, to feel your creative energy, gentle will, openness and laughter as well as some sad, dark parts of you that all seem to resonate in me so harmoniously and effortlessly, the echoes finding home within similar places inside of me.
So I want to thank you for this gift that maybe you didn't know you were giving. And I can only hope it is returning to you in some form that pleases you as much as this does me.
Or imagine you are walking in a lush forest in the mountains of some faraway place. You stop to catch your breath and take in the view--a particularly lovely grove of trees. You exhale just as the wind comes rustling through the high branches, and for the moment of that breath, the seemingly random imperfections of nature are revealed as a set of beautiful interlocking patterns connecting leaves to branch to limb to trunk, to all things across the forest floor, up through your feet, then flying out like spirits through the window in your chest, up to the sky.
I have these experiences most with nature, music, art, but occasionaly with objects, and even sometimes with my clumsy words. It is rare luck to find it in another person.
Since we live our lives in a world so sadly disconnected and distracted from that experience, I sometimes forget it is possible at all. Or maybe I shouldn't blame the world, maybe sometimes I close myself to it. In any case, I am profoundly grateful for those reminders, when they do happen, of the mystery and wonder that allows the universe to be contained in a blade of grass. Or as my experience with you, to feel your creative energy, gentle will, openness and laughter as well as some sad, dark parts of you that all seem to resonate in me so harmoniously and effortlessly, the echoes finding home within similar places inside of me.
So I want to thank you for this gift that maybe you didn't know you were giving. And I can only hope it is returning to you in some form that pleases you as much as this does me.
resonance 101
"Suppose that a tuning fork is mounted on a sound box and set upon the table; and suppose a second tuning fork/sound box system having the same natural frequency (say 256 Hz) is placed on the table near the first system. Neither of the tuning forks is vibrating. Then the first tuning fork is struck with a rubber mallet and the tines begin vibrating at its natural frequency - 256 Hz. These vibrations set the sound box and the air inside the sound box vibrating at the same natural frequency of 256 Hz. Surrounding air particles are set into vibrational motion at the same natural frequency of 256 Hz and every student in the classroom hears the sound. Then the tines of the tuning fork are grabbed to prevent their vibration and remarkably the sound of 256 Hz is still being heard. Only now the sound is being produced by the second tuning fork - the one which wasn't hit with the mallet. Amazing!! In fact, it is so amazing, that the demonstration is repeated to assure that the same surprising results are observed. They are! What is happening? "
from http://www.physicsclassroom.com/Class/sound/U11L4b.html
from http://www.physicsclassroom.com/Class/sound/U11L4b.html
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
a little book
Here's a little book project I was working on last night. I used to make these all the time and hopefully this is a sign of more to come. They really are one of the most perfect modes of expression to me, with the weaving together of writing, painting and drawing, plus craft of course. The title of this one is Lone Ranger.
They float and fly, an elusive buzz at the far edge of awareness, whispering praise and accusations in my ear. I listen closely, trying to learn each of their life stories by heart--where and when were you you born? What was your childhood like? How did you come to be who you are? Why do you wear a mask? Are you my friend or an enemy?
I will work so hard to know everything about them so that maybe I will know one thing about myself, and an inkling of something about you. And then when I'm ninety I will realize that I've lived my life backwards, that our insides are like mirrors--showing us only golems made of reflected light--and if only I had looked outside of myself, facing you squarely and open, I might have seen something wonderful.
Monday, February 12, 2007
patience
As I watch this pile of ashes, waiting for something to rise out of it besides smoke and soot, I am pondering the difference between patience and passivity. I mean, I don't mind waiting and sometimes even enjoy a good line. When you're waiting for something good, there's the anticipation to savor of course. It gets trickier when you're waiting for what may end up being nothing at all. But even in that there's a unique opportunity for observation--it's amazing what floats by you when you sit still in the water, resisting the tide. And you may also notice that the persistent forward march of waves--with the exhilarating, frightening weight of all that liquid--is an illusion of motion. It's just the same water in the same place undulating up, down, up, down.
If you're feeling sleepy, you can see how easy it is to slip into the slumber of passivity and how welcome and wonderful that bed sometimes feels. Or this is all just yawningly boring. In any case, I guess that's it--intention, awareness, mindfulness, whatever you want to call paying attention is the key to patience.
There's a side to patience that's all about stubbornness too, and I have a feeling that my own talents for waiting are rooted in that--because I am the gd world class champion of stubborn. Ask anyone. Especially my ex. It all makes me wonder if I have framed up the wrong question here, lecturing myself on the virtues of waiting, when the choice is not patience versus passivity, it's action, creation, and movement versus not.
If you're feeling sleepy, you can see how easy it is to slip into the slumber of passivity and how welcome and wonderful that bed sometimes feels. Or this is all just yawningly boring. In any case, I guess that's it--intention, awareness, mindfulness, whatever you want to call paying attention is the key to patience.
There's a side to patience that's all about stubbornness too, and I have a feeling that my own talents for waiting are rooted in that--because I am the gd world class champion of stubborn. Ask anyone. Especially my ex. It all makes me wonder if I have framed up the wrong question here, lecturing myself on the virtues of waiting, when the choice is not patience versus passivity, it's action, creation, and movement versus not.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
song
seduced by
resonating vibrations
afraid of the space
between the notes
do you hear this song
or is it just me
resonating vibrations
afraid of the space
between the notes
do you hear this song
or is it just me
old things
It's my weekend without the girls (yes, I'm mentioning them again--some boundaries cannot be re-crossed I've found). Dropped the younger at my ex's place this morning. It was my first visit there and an odd experience--to see so many of our old things in an alien context, and also interspersed with new old things, boon and booty from the new s.o.'s life, their history unknown.
Old things are infused with old feelings, memories. Isn't that the meaning of sentimental value? But what of sentimental debt, in which the feelings are not wanted, are merely liabilities? How are those paid off and by whom? And how long does it take? All these unanswerables bundled up neatly in the discomfort of a single unnoticed twitch of the eye. Or am I flinching now?
Needless to say, I rushed through my farewells and skedaddled on out of there, back to my own alien space, my own old things.
Old things are infused with old feelings, memories. Isn't that the meaning of sentimental value? But what of sentimental debt, in which the feelings are not wanted, are merely liabilities? How are those paid off and by whom? And how long does it take? All these unanswerables bundled up neatly in the discomfort of a single unnoticed twitch of the eye. Or am I flinching now?
Needless to say, I rushed through my farewells and skedaddled on out of there, back to my own alien space, my own old things.
Thursday, February 8, 2007
resolve
I had resolved not to write about my girls here, for my own internal notions of appropriateness and boundary-keeping, but I will say this: there is nothing more painful to the heart than watching your children suffer and feeling powerless to help them, or worse that you are contributing to it through your own inability to be a fully present, whole person when it is needed most. I need to do better than this. I need to cry and then smile and do better. It will be okay. It will be okay. Repeat it until you believe it, believe it until you know it, know it until you become it, become it until you transcend it.
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
interactions
My friends, known here as Elf and Gnome, left yesterday for home after four days of extraordinary companionship and care, helping me set up my new home, and keeping me sane and happy, well-fed and entertained for the duration.
Yesterday, we spent our time split between the Cooper Hewitt design triennial and good food. At the exhibit, Gnome and I were fascinated with one piece in particular, the true depth of which we had initially missed until Elf pointed it out. It's called Panelite and it's a sandwich of acrylic panels with light-transmitting tunnels between. The tunnel openings were diffuse (so as to glow) little squares on the panel's surface, so that if you held your hand over squares on one part of the panel, adjacent tunnel-connected "pixels" on another part of the panel would go dark as well. The effect is a sparkling of pixelated light and shadow that reacts to your movements.
If you are saying "so what", I'm not doing this thing justice and you need to just go see it.
Gnome and I were inspired, seeing immediately the possibility of more complex effects using fiber optics to tunnel light into interesting and varying imagery. One more project for for the list, eh?
There were a lot of installations at the show that featured "interactivity"--almost it seemed for the sake of itself--from the motion-detecting light sculpture on the stairway to Carpenter's LED sampled window view to first-generation androids--virtual and robotic.
Is our persistent fascination with all this technology-driven interaction some kind of proxy for the lack of human interaction that pervades our culture? Is it a reaction to the prevailing sense of anomie and alienation that makes us desperate for someone or something to react to us, to listen, to acknowledge our real live presence? In this way, these installations are to me cut from the same cloth as reality tv, tell-all talk shows, online social networks, and yes, blogs. But they are also part of an exciting evolutionary moment in art and design where technology is allowing us to become part of our built and designed environments in ways we never imagined possible or desirable.
Yesterday, we spent our time split between the Cooper Hewitt design triennial and good food. At the exhibit, Gnome and I were fascinated with one piece in particular, the true depth of which we had initially missed until Elf pointed it out. It's called Panelite and it's a sandwich of acrylic panels with light-transmitting tunnels between. The tunnel openings were diffuse (so as to glow) little squares on the panel's surface, so that if you held your hand over squares on one part of the panel, adjacent tunnel-connected "pixels" on another part of the panel would go dark as well. The effect is a sparkling of pixelated light and shadow that reacts to your movements.
If you are saying "so what", I'm not doing this thing justice and you need to just go see it.
Gnome and I were inspired, seeing immediately the possibility of more complex effects using fiber optics to tunnel light into interesting and varying imagery. One more project for for the list, eh?
There were a lot of installations at the show that featured "interactivity"--almost it seemed for the sake of itself--from the motion-detecting light sculpture on the stairway to Carpenter's LED sampled window view to first-generation androids--virtual and robotic.
Is our persistent fascination with all this technology-driven interaction some kind of proxy for the lack of human interaction that pervades our culture? Is it a reaction to the prevailing sense of anomie and alienation that makes us desperate for someone or something to react to us, to listen, to acknowledge our real live presence? In this way, these installations are to me cut from the same cloth as reality tv, tell-all talk shows, online social networks, and yes, blogs. But they are also part of an exciting evolutionary moment in art and design where technology is allowing us to become part of our built and designed environments in ways we never imagined possible or desirable.
Saturday, February 3, 2007
sluggish
Friday 2/2
Kuh-chunk click crack kuh-chunk whirr. the gears and motors that rotate the giant telescope are creaking to life, doing a slow 180 after receiving the signal, the alarm, that there has been an excess of internal stargazing, hasty careless naming of unknowable planets. Time to focus again on the known universe happening at eye level and below.
The move took its toll, which I completely underestimated--probably some sort of mental trick to enable me to actually get it done. Today it's hitting me. Hard. I feel like a salted slug turned inside out, except there's no pain, I'm only tired and a little bored with the show in my head starring me, produced, written and directed by me. even the commercials are about me. My brain is yawning just writing this.
I look outside though and all I can think is, will it snow today? I hope so. Not sure why.
Kuh-chunk click crack kuh-chunk whirr. the gears and motors that rotate the giant telescope are creaking to life, doing a slow 180 after receiving the signal, the alarm, that there has been an excess of internal stargazing, hasty careless naming of unknowable planets. Time to focus again on the known universe happening at eye level and below.
The move took its toll, which I completely underestimated--probably some sort of mental trick to enable me to actually get it done. Today it's hitting me. Hard. I feel like a salted slug turned inside out, except there's no pain, I'm only tired and a little bored with the show in my head starring me, produced, written and directed by me. even the commercials are about me. My brain is yawning just writing this.
I look outside though and all I can think is, will it snow today? I hope so. Not sure why.
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