There's an upright bass standing in the corner of my mind. It leans with casual grace, balancing a black beret on the uppermost peg. I'm 15 again and I can feel my hands falter in dorian.
And then the keys melt away and the bass turns to humming and all our together comes apart and I decide to Take Five.
He used to shrug and say that no one comes to hear the bassist take his solo. It's different now. It's different when a bike gets run down on 2nd avenue and you're left with brass and clashing and no foundation.
Meanwhile, here I am, in all my 'generation me' free will and glory, indulging in the luxury of my own existence. I sit and I see and I feel. I record or I evaluate. But now I'll take my cues from you - cues to touch and affect.
Because a string is not music until someone makes it ring.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Grand Central Sundays
I opened my eyes and inhaled cathedral. A ray of white crept through a folded wooden shutter and shot back through a reflection on the wall. Bay windows consumed the once glamorous parlor in which I now sleep, and I wondered where the people sat when the artists came to play.
This is home - this strip of pre-war New York City; this strip of bodegas and flower shops, straddled by parks and synagogues; this Marais of America. I watch the passersby, their skirts worn long, their skirts worn short, their coffee-dogleash-New-York-Times-JPost-radio morning cocktails in hand, and I smile at the way my tallis crinkles in its velvet green bag as I walk along 86th street.
The high holidays have come again...the way they always do...the way they did when I ducked beneath elbows to catch a glimpse of the shofar... the way they did when I rolled my atheist teenage eyes at a mass of bowing and mumbling. The high holidays have come the way they always do, smelling of clean slates and new chances.
Submerged in the waters of belief, I bow and call out. I call out for myself. I call out for seven hundred selves. The prayer echos within me and within them and I know that this year will be different. Doubt is no longer skepticism, but engagement.
The train lurches forward and I refuse to second guess the direction.
This is home - this strip of pre-war New York City; this strip of bodegas and flower shops, straddled by parks and synagogues; this Marais of America. I watch the passersby, their skirts worn long, their skirts worn short, their coffee-dogleash-New-York-Times-JPost-radio morning cocktails in hand, and I smile at the way my tallis crinkles in its velvet green bag as I walk along 86th street.
The high holidays have come again...the way they always do...the way they did when I ducked beneath elbows to catch a glimpse of the shofar... the way they did when I rolled my atheist teenage eyes at a mass of bowing and mumbling. The high holidays have come the way they always do, smelling of clean slates and new chances.
Submerged in the waters of belief, I bow and call out. I call out for myself. I call out for seven hundred selves. The prayer echos within me and within them and I know that this year will be different. Doubt is no longer skepticism, but engagement.
The train lurches forward and I refuse to second guess the direction.
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