THE FRAGILE SEQUENCE BREAKS

I really have no idea how to write or what to say. I am quite close to one of my "fugue" states wherein I am not entirely captain of the ship that is me. Yes, I am sure that the extremely grey day adds to the desire to climb the hell into bed and pull up the covers, but that's not the only reason. Then again, given my inability to sleep much, not even rest and escape would be achieved and there are lots of other things that need attention.

Newtown is about twenty miles from Brewster. Louise and I passed within a mile or two of the atrocity ( from the root meaning  extremely barbaric, horrifying, brutual, cruel) on our way to upstate Connecticut. On the highway, around 1:30 or so, we noticed a flotilla of police cars heading south at great speed and wondered what might be up. Kind of like the screaming stream of siren-blaring police cars headed down Seventh Avenue on 9/11. My mom called as she thought it interestingly coincidental (or something) that I was in Connecticut the very day this occurred. Little did she know that I was closer in Brewster.

Louise and I were rather lucky. We were so focussed on getting on the road, driving up to Ledyard, and working on the Monsterwood script that we did not receive the ... are there even words to describe the events of Friday morning? ... I am at a loss to either access or formulate them, though there is plenty of touting going on in the media. We didn't hear the terrible ...  ("Extremely and shockingly or distressingly bad or serious" yeah, that's a start) story ... I hesitate to call it news ... until we landed at the Rosen's. JR is a teacher in Connecticut, so he had been apprised for the whole day. And pretty much nothing has been in focus for me since.

When I write about this, think about all of this, I just want to pass out.

Buttonshop Road in Newtown.

I didn't sleep well on Friday night, notwithstanding the warm welcome and my cozy accommodations. I dozed, but repeatedly woke thinking of the pain and mayhem to the south. The incomprehensible. I am more comfortable with that state, incomprehension, not expecting that it could make sense, that any sort of "rational" or even narrative explanation could take any edge off of the shock, pain, and sorrow. In incomprehension, I am not striving, just doing, being, staying in this sad awareness.

Lots of hot dogs in Newton. Not kidding.

JJA works at the Bridgeport, CT newspaper. He's been cranking out the hours, working 14-16 hours days, with no time off. One of his colleagues lost a child in the shooting (one of the adults, I do believe). He's still there, Sunday night.

On Saturday, I dropped off Louise in New Haven so that she could get home more directly. Connecticut is not known for its highways, and there are not a lot of direct routes, particularly east-west routes, so we rely on circuitous small roads to get from one place to another. I did not know the territory and found, too late, that Google maps routed me straight through Newtown.  I was unsure about whether to tread in that direction, but I couldn't figure out how else to get home, so I risked it.

Later that same day.

I've been pretty spacey all day, and not very productive. I did write some cards, do my editing job, and prepared the dinner of cheese ravioli in rosemary/garlic brown butter and some roasted veggies (broccoli and carrots), as well as prepping some brussels sprouts for roasting tomorrow. Gotta keep those vegetables moving. MMA is busily trying to get ready for the holidays and as I am in not much of a mood for tree decoration or cooking baking, at least I can help out with the kitchen and the laundry.

Cooder has been particularly affectionate today, and I appreciate that. She was very cuddly during the night, although she did wake me up. Even though I went to bed relatively early, I woke up for a few hours during the night. I watched Sports Night on Netflix, as I thought reading might wake me too much. I slept late this morning.

I also found out this evening that Jeff Davis passed away last night. That might have added to the general disturbances in my emotional field. I haven't heard from his sister, my close friend, Kit, for few weeks and I suppose I was hoping that he was improving. Or maybe I didn't want to think about it, as it felt too reminiscent of Carl's passing. More tears.

So three deaths in my immediate circle this week: Miranda, Terry (Echo's mom), and Jeff. And then those others.

I think some Ambien is in order tonight, if I can find it. And I will once again quote my touchstone poem by William Stafford:

A Ritual to Read to Each Other

If you don't know the kind of person I am
and I don't know the kind of person you are
a pattern that others made may prevail in the world
and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.

For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,
a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break
sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood
storming out to play through the broken dyke.

And as elephants parade holding each elephant's tail,
but if one wanders the circus won't find the park,
I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.

And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
a remote important region in all who talk:
though we could fool each other, we should consider—
lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.

For it is important that awake people be awake,
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;
the signals we give—yes or no, or maybe—
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.

BUT WHERE IT'S GOING

 

Emmy wants to play; Cooder wants to veg out.

There's really nothing wrong or even more amiss than usual, but I am sort of grumpy. No reason for it really. Maybe I am not thoroughly awake. I think some of the grumpiness comes from the slight discomfort of it being cold, which only means there are more things to think about and attend to, like scarves and coats and hats and the like. And let us not forget how much I complained about the heat in my Brooklyn apartments. It was always so hot, the windows were opened all winter long. And so it goes. (That should get your toe tapping.)

Louise and I are going up to Connecticut today to work with Jason on Monsterwood, which is really great news as there is much progress on that project. And we have a (winter) mild, sunny day for our excursion. This is not to say there is any money or anything attached, but we are all pleased with the current work. And who knows what the future will bring.

And so my days continue, as yours do, too. This has been  one hell of a tough year for me (and for others) and I can't remember a harder one. I need to get a move on, shower, laundry, clean-up and then pick up Louise. I'll try to write from Connecticut.

TIME AND MERCY IS OUT OF REACH

There seems to be a lot of death around. I know it is partly the time of year and partly the age in life when it becomes a more frequent occurrence, but it certainly does add to the overall cold. We lost an M from our fabulous Brooklyn reading group. EW, her best friend and the running buddy of her misspent New York City youth staid by her side for the last six or eight months, going to doctor's appointments, holding with her until the bitter end. One-of-the-Bs and I had a sad chat about it last night, but we did remember fondly an excellent meeting wherein we discussed The Radetzky March, only earlier this year. Listening to R.I.S.E, Oh Death.

'O, Death. O, Death.
Won't you spare me over 'til another year?

Well, what is this that I can't see
With ice cold hands takin' hold of me

And I was checking in on FB as another friend's mother is in the immediate process of moving on. This M and his mother were quite close and his sorrow is palpable.

Kind of hard to know what another beer might do. I've had two in 4.5 hours, so it doesn't seem as if I am headed for any kind of drunken territory. It strikes me now that I haven't really had enough water today. Where did today go, anyway?

Last night, young R's alarm went off at 4:30 a.m. (Do. Not. Ask. Me. Why.). He slept through it until 5:30. My bedroom door is generally left a bit ajar for the nocturnal comings and goings of felines so closing it seemed the quickest way to stop the noise agony. There were none in the bedroom at the time of the door shutting, so, of course, there were scratchings to get in where the food and reliable heat source were. That was kind of a no win situation, but I just didn't have the heart or energy to deal with the alarm clock, which could have well ended with me ripping it out of the wall and just destroying it in frustration that I couldn't figure out how to reliably turn it off. I've been through it with this kind of alarm clock and deeply sleeping male before.

At any rate, this led to, yes! again! sleeping rather later than I would like. Other than getting a life, I had no particularly pressing things to accomplish or places to go. The universe cooperated to the extent of bestowing a sunny, if cold, day on us. My mental list of things that need to be done is long and one of them is to write down all the things I should be doing. Well, that one didn't happen. I did return a book to the library and get an impossible-to-read-in-two weeks pile of things I had ordered. I bought cat food (which, I am reminded, is still in the boot of Lil' Carl), wandered around Trader Joe's fending off the delectable holiday cookies and candies that screamed to be bought and consumed (I did buy dark chocolate fleur-de-sel caramels ... only ate one), scrambled around in the basement (and found another box of Vera scarves before the mold got them), and lurched through the day not feeling accomplished nor satisfied.

Yet, to paraphrase our Scarlett, tomorrow is another day ...

In other news, I finished my the Christmas mix for TLB and am making progress on the RT selects mix.

And it is killing me that the title should be "Time and mercy ARE out of reach ..." Now I feel a little better.

LIKE A STRAY RIVER FROM ITS COURSE

Decaying spikes, Christopher Park (aka Sheridan Square).

Felt as if today were not as productive as I would have liked. (Gosh, what passive tenses I utilized in that sentence!) And, as it is getting late, I don't want to stay up too late to write, although perhaps I should.

It was rainy and I don't believe I ventured even as far as the basement, so forget about actually getting outdoors. My attraction to music compulsion continues (even as I write I am "proofing" a mix), but I did manage to tear myself away to do a little reading and make dinner (a huge rutabaga -  that was scary to cut up as I thought I would cut myself with the giant knife - covered in olive oil and black pepper then roasted, roasted brussels sprouts with parmesan, shallots, red onions, bread crumbs, balsamic vinegar and olive oil, sauteed kale with miso sauce and sesame oil, black and brown rice.) 'Tis true the meal was not well modulated as to flavors, but it was quite appreciated and no roasted vegetables made it to the leftover state.

When I arrived home yesterday, there was a big ol' pile of books that the Blessed M had acquired for me from the library. Yay! Having completed the Louise Erdrich, I jumped right into The Holy or the Broken: Leonard Cohen, Jeff Buckley, and the Unlikely Ascent of "Hallelujah". As I alluded the other day, I have a penchant for cover versions and am delighted to spend hours comparing them. (There are lots of versions included on that link.)

"The notion of a "standard" — a song that is freed from its original performance or context and seeps into the general consciousness, where it is interpreted frequently and diversely—defined American pop music for decades. Songs from Broadway shows or Hollywood movies were the basis of most singers' repertoire, from giants like Bing Crosby or Frank Sinatra to local saloon singers. But this structure was pretty much crushed in the 1960s by the advent of the Beatles and Bob Dylan. Of the numerous upheavals these artists set in motion, perhaps the greatest revolution was the idea that singers should also be songwriters, and that their work expresses something specific and personal to them." — Alan Light, The Holy and the Broken

Sounds like the auteur theory all over again.

I spent some of my writing time posting a Poem of the Week so I will include it here, although most of you will have received it as an email. Meanwhile, click on this link and listen to Jake Shimabukuro's version of Hallelujah while you read.

Poem of the Week. 275 (12/9/12)

Yeah, well, time does go by and poetry does not often get read. But here, I read some so I will share some. When I was recently in California, I dug out a poetry compendium I missed of out my storage space, The Antaeus Anthology, edited by Daniel Halpern. I took it along with me recently on a trip and just started reading from the beginning.

“THIS CRUEL AGE HAS DEFLECTED ME . . .”

This cruel age has deflected me,

like a stray river from its course.

Strayed from its familiar shores,

my changeling life has flowed

into a sister channel.

How many spectacles I’ve missed:

the curtain rising without me,

and falling too. How many friends

I never had the chance to meet.

Here in the only city I can claim,

where I could sleepwalk and not lose my way,

how many foreign skylines I can dream,

not to be witnessed through my tears.

And how many verses I have failed to write!

Their secret chorus stalks me

close behind. One day, perhaps,

they’ll strangle me.

I know beginnings, I know endings too,

and life-in-death, and something else

I’d rather not recall just now.

And a certain woman

has usurped my place

and bears my rightful name,

leaving a nickname for my use,

with which I’ve done the best I could.

The grave I go to will not be my own.

But if I could step outside myself

and contemplate the person I am,

I should know at last what envy is.

                                    - Leningrad, 1944

—           Anna Akhmatova, translated by Stanley Kunitz with Max Howard

from Poems of Akhmatova, Little Brown, 1967

TERMINATIONS

Sometimes the celestial syrup slows

into vines

stumps, rock slopes,

it’s amazing in fact how

slow it can get—diamond:

but then sometimes it flows

free in a flood

and high

so procedure drowns out

perception

practically, a house roof showing

here and there

or a branch bobbing:

as skinny

wind it recalls

and promises everything

but delivers nothing

except the song that

skims the mountains

and makes no sense

(except all sense)

to us

slowed discrete

out of following.

— A. R . Ammons, from Diversifications: Poems by A. R. Ammons, W.W. Norton & Co., 1975

MISTY BLUE

Entering Central Park.

Very odd taxi driver. I knew I could beat her across the intersection.

If anyone knows the mechanism, please share it with me, okay? Why would the glimpse of the George Washington Bridge in the mist make me cry, and this time, it was not just started to tears, there were drops running down the face.

After three (fun) nights and days in Queens and Manhattan, I got up this morning to go to therapy and then head upstate again. It has been foggy in the mornings for the last week or so, and this morning was no exception. Except that I was driving up the West Side Highway and Henry Hudson Parkway. Although I have driven that road many many times, I had never seen it the fog, with only the spiny, spidery-fingered trees, still flecked here and there with autumnal gold in views. New York City was gone, a moistly grey candy cotton backdrop. Modern life drops away except for the bullet you are driving. It was magnificent and I wished I could have filmed it for you. Or even photographed it, but alas, I was in the throes of rapid, forward motion.

And now, after a short session of RT compulsion and some other internet catching up, I am going to retire to cuddle with Cooder and finish The Round House.

Here are some cats I visited with:

(Ms.) Doc. 

Cosmo Grimmelmann-Gikow.

TRIP

So you are standing on the platform
having gotten off at the wrong (damn) stop,
eating valuable time,
yet staring at the raised rubber dots, yellow,
on the stairs
worrying about fleas, chemicals, the future,
whether you should just end it,
why not here?
Another train comes,
sooner than you expected,
the doors open
and you get on.

Decaying subway girder.

LET US NOW PRAISE

See? This is why I try not to listen to music too much. I have been sitting here for two hours obsessing over Richard Thompson versions. And crying. Just some little twang or touch here or there in an unexpected place, a fresh bass line from Danny Thompson, an unusually soft and tender syllable of a word in a song I know well, just stops me. Goosebumps. Tears. Awe...

And here's where I really miss my younger brother, Carl. He was always available and enthusiastic about deconstructing songs and music. If I didn't know or understand how or why something sounded some way, or what the difference was that someone was playing a '55 Les Paul on one song and then changed to a Strat or a custom guitar on another song, he could explain, in plain English, what were the nuances and my (quite burning) curiosity would be soothed.

Not sure who took this, so no permission.

Now, my friend Kim will sit for hours and deconstruct and compare arrangements, nuances of tempo, distances from mics on vocals, recording technology, and all that stuff, although she is not as much of a guitarhead as Carl was. I visited one afternoon with a pile of cds and we spent four or five hours listening to things repeatedly, in utter communion, and that was lovely. I think we got the most hung up on RT's Guns are Tongues. Now, I suggest you really stop and check out that link. Turn up the speakers and listen at least three times. Plus, the comments on this are good and true, my favorite being "This song shows how overrated Dylan is..." I mean, I don't actually think of the mandolin as a rhythm instrument but somehow it is both lead and rhythm in certain passages of this song. (This should come as no surprise as it is RT himself playing mandolin and he plays a bass line and lead utterly uniquely.) Yeah, passages, phrases, phases. 

Here's a bit about it from RT's blog:

Hi,
I have been very moved by ‘Guns are the Tongue’s on the new album. It seems that Carrie is using her charms to recruit new members into the IRA. Is / was Carrie a real person, or based on several females that actually worked this way? I downloaded the album from ‘iTunes’ so I have no liner notes. Brilliant Album. Thanks, Richard Sanders

"Guns Are the Tongues" is as fine a song as any you've written (no mean feat, as you know much better than I). I've yet to encounter a less dogmatic, less simplistic portrait of the tragic seductiveness of terrorism. Though I'm normally loath to ask an artist to explain his work, I was curious whether the song is based on an IRA incident or whether the Carrie and Little Joe characters are entirely your own creation. Either way, thanks for opening a door that we normally don't get to see past. Jim Scheiner

This song is fiction, and not based on any real characters. Put it in Ireland if you like, but I left the setting a little vague. The politics is supposed to be more of a backdrop to the human drama.

Actually, I have to include two more little Q&A's from that installment:

Dear Richard: Have you always had the guitar-playing abilities you have now? In other words, if You in your ‘Human Fly’ days had met the You of today, in Borges-like fashion, would the younger You have been able to play songs like "Beeswing" and "1952" or would you think "How the heck did he (me) do that?" Just wondering, because your playing sounds brilliant from all eras. Thank you for the great show in Cleveland last week! Seeing a song like "One Door Opens" performed live is a real treat. Very best wishes, David Fedan.

I think I play better now – better technique, better harmonic ideas, better feel. On acoustic, I really developed some new techniques in the 80s, that my younger self could definitely not play. He can back me on rhythm, though…and I’d like to have a word with that young chap, talk some sense into him.

Richard, is it possible that, in this life, we can expect to see you and Neil Young together on stage? If not, why? hopefully, Peter Dees

Well, one of us is an unrepentant old hippie with a slightly crippled guitar style – and the other one is Neil Young! We don’t seem to move in the same circles. 


I swear RT's playing shoots sparks and lights. At least they go off in my head.

Okay, now we are at 2.5 hours but at least I digressed into writing. Now on listening to an RT/David Byrne version of Psycho Killer ... yeah, read that and weep. Killer indeed. If any of you are burning to hear my RT Faves mixes, let me know. It will be a couple of weeks before they are anywhere near finished. I just uploaded another 2 hours of RT material this morning.

Now we're on to an updated version of Phil Ochs' I Ain't Marching Anymore which RT updated after speaking to Phil's sister. Damn him. Crying again.

I've gotta gotta get busy to get ready to get down to Queens and that means laundry. Our dryer is out, so I'll have to trek out to dry it. 

Don't miss this either: Tam Lin.

Don't know if I'll be writing from New York City, but at least my ocd focus on music will have been broken.

Not sure who took this, so no permission.

TENDERNESS IS ALWAYS AFLOAT

I am back to music, just in case anyone is wondering. For those few of you who might not know, I have been making music mixes for about thirty years and have made hundreds, all documented in perfect OCD style. I made a mixtape of all the versions I could find of My Funny Valentine. You ready to hear that song for 45 minutes? I love it, and many others did too, so I made a Volume 2. I do not have current access to my CD collection so I am relying on my iTunes, only 23, 667 songs. For years I belonged to a mixers collective and got turned on to amazing stuff, of which I have not listened to all of it. Mixing is probably my finest unmarketable skill (or maybe petting cats?). I will sit still in a chair, not eat or anything else, for upwards of 10 hours when I am on the music hunt.

I say this to explain why I am so sleepy now ("No, the bourbon has nothing to do with it!") as I staid up way past my bedtime to complete a mix for my old friend Terry. Right now, I am making a mix of my favorite Richard Thompson cuts. But wait! I have 769 RT songs which will take me 2.5 days to listen through. Right now I am going through the 16 versions of 1952 Vincent Black Lightning (and the official release from Rumor and Sigh is not among them). A May 1993 version from Bloomington, Indiana with Danny Thompson is current front runner. The song was new then.

At any rate, I am a bit other focussed, though I should not be. I did manage to tear away from the computer to make Garden Vegetable Soup and Golden Potato-Cauliflower Soup as well as carmelizing onions and some brown rice, too. (We are working through all the vegetables we didn't use at Thanksgiving.) Tomorrow, I will be roasting brussels sprouts (balsamic, olive oil, garlic) and possibly doing something with some kale. But then I am headed down to Brooklyn again after dinner for three nights.

This by way of saying I am not thinking much. Nor am I doing much. Although it was a balmy 64 degrees today, I did not so much as open the front door. I haven't been out of the house since Sunday. I guess that happens when you hang out in the cold climes.

Maybe this return to music mixing is a good thing and perhaps I will return to reading and posting poetry again.

I have been meaning to share this little email from Iris for a couple of weeks:

Nice blog, amazing photos, as usual.  Good to have talked to you yesterday on my sloooow way to BAM.  The performance (Donka: A Love Letter to Chekhov) was…amazing…brilliant…extraordinary in every way.  A love letter to Chekhov conceived with sharp sensitivity and profound intelligence. What I learned from it, which I realized I had already learned from Chekhov: We are, from birth to death, inmates in one asylum or another.  But tenderness is always afloat. (November 15, 2012).

PASSING THROUGH THE PROBABLE

This song always makes me want to get up on a countertop and table and do the pony. I can only hope that I am orders of magnitude thinner and wearing something with rows of fringe: Liar, Liar. It's a good song with some cross between the open reverb surf sound and something slightly mystical.

Cooder tucked into her new heated cat bed.

But what has that got to do with a very foggy morning not in London town? Nothing except when I opened up iTunes dj in order to get busy with my morning editorial gig, that was the song playing. I am making a mix of songs I think should get great cover versions and that would be one of them. I could imagine RT doing something really interesting with it. (Okay, I think RT could cover just about anything and do something interesting with it, but that is kind of beside the point.)

The next day - Monday, December 3rd.

Aarrgh. I have been trying to update and post this all day long. Instead, I have been working on upgrading my computers to the Snow Leopard operating system. It wasn't a wasted day, but it's dark now, almost 6:00, and not as much was accomplished as I had hoped. For instance, going outside. For instance, getting some exercise for real since it was at least sunny and dry out. For instance, make dinner. But nada but computer stuff and long conversations with Apple about this and that, that and this. Well, some days are like that I guess. And I did do the dishes and unload the dishwasher, too.

So, Brooklyn was good, but I was telling you about that iridesence. It's my life. It's not my life — anymore. It's familiar. It's strange. Well, all those things are even true to some degree when you live in New York City. But living and being away threw different lights on what had been the quotidien. So, being back in town was good, but it was also emotional (wait, wasn't it like that when I lived there?). All right then: I am confused. Or more, I continue to be confused about life, where to live, and more importantly, how to live. (CB and Yoda intone: "There is no trying to live, just living.")

Saturday afternoon, upon returning to the Northlands, I joined M and J and friends up in Pawling at the Akin Free Library. Actually, there I go again not telling the truth. I met them at a nearby church which was having a bazaar. Fortunately, there wasn't anything terribly compelling although I did buy a book on bread making since I still plan to pursue that pasttime even though I shouldn't be eating any. I didn't even make it into the library, but it was waaaay cool and I will get up there again on some Saturday (only open that day from 1 - 4).

I suppose the end of the year, when there is not much movement in my industry (okay, we all acknowledge that is a fairly indistinct category at this point), is a good time to focus on clean up. And, I am not sleeping too late or plopped in front of the tv. I am working towards something ... even if it is just more clarity and general organization in my domain.

S sent me this quote today, which he found in the Talk of the Town section of this week's New Yorker:

'I think the impossible may be moving to the inevitable without ever passing through the probable,' Bob Englis, (R, South Carolina).

I think lots of things happen this way. And I certainly hope it happens to me back in New York City with an amazingly and surprisingly awesome job.