protests and "peace"

Protests in all parts of the city. It is really alive. In Manhattan, the protest started at Union Square, then south to the west village, then east on Houston, and finally back on Union Square. In Brooklyn,  it began at Parkside and the Q train---now somewhere on Bedford. I have two friends at that one; that is the protest I would have joined if I was able to go---but I decided not to. Not feeling that well, and very afraid of being caught in another police action---although from today's reports, there are very few. It interesting that these protes are taking place in a city with its bars closed. The bars, in my opinion, represent the opposite of activisim---they are there for people to escape---a luxury item that exists for itself. Wonder whether there would have been any conflicts had the protesters shut down the streets that the bars were on. It is an interesting irony here. ,
  On Facebook I watched a number of black activists who are calling for really drastic measures to change things. This includes defunding the police departments of major cities and a guaranteed income. They don't just want reform; they want the whole world turned over. Can it happen? Is it possible? We will see.
   It seems a bit odd to now write a review of last night's streaming of the Met's La Sonnambula---is it kind of frivolous, but nevertheless here it is. I lasted about 40 minutes into the stream, but the concept---a rehearsal of Sonnambula in a rehearsal hall around Union Square, did not seem fully developed. The singers seemed simply to portray their characters in modern dress---very little "rehearsal behavior" to interrupt it. So when the third lead, the baritone, enters the rehearsal hall, he is wearing a modern equivalent to what his character would wear. Why? Why should not the singer come in in dungarees and  sweat shirt---then assume the character he was singing? And why should he enter just when his character does?  A water cooler and coffee place, but nobody went over for water or coffee. The director's vision, or if you prefer, conceit, seemed hollow to me.
   So while others were protesting---I spent a lot of the afternoon in "passive" Riverside Park---
96th to 108th street. A laid back, peaceful place, lots of couples, many young families with one or two year olds, learning how to walk, some loners like myself. I liked the quiet energy---a world at
"peace"--I read a lot of a play by David Adjani called Marie Antoinette. Kind of tart and vibrant.
  So there it is---time to find out the latest from the protests (if I can) and think about the
ramifications

Visions of "Onegin"

This afternoon while looking at my facebook posts, I came upon an arts group that was inviting me to watch its Opera Marathon, which is streaming this weekend. I wanted to check out what was being shown---on the list was a production from (I think) the Netherlands of Eugene Onegin, the great opera by Tchaikovsky. I watched the first fifteen minutes of the production, by a European director; the conductor took his place, then a group of well dressed party goers moved onto the stage and mingled a bit in silence, then a man wandered in, attractive, separate--he stands alone. Then the orchestra begins but not with the opening strains of the opera, no, what we hear is a fast dance from the first scene of Act III, which is in fact a fancy ball. All of a sudden a beauatiful young woman arrives on the arm of her escort---she sees the man alone, then shies away from him. Ah, I thought, this is Tatiana, the heroin of the opera,  now married, but once infatuated with the man standing apart---Eugene Onegin. Everything stops, Onegin is mired in thought, then the mid stage opens up, and the orchestra returns to the opening measures of the opera which takes place around seven or eight years before. So the narrative will all be filtered through Onegin's memory. An interesting vision from the director but not at all (at least for me) intrusive. I listened to the opening phrases---a sad love song being sung  by an old nurse--watched the young Tatiana and her sister Olga arrive and then stopped. Why? While it took me a long time to understand and like this piece, I am now overpowered by it. Somehow in the last 20 or so years, Onegin's journey has become my journey. But if I am Onegin, who is my Tatiana? And what circumstances during the time I have recounted creates a meaningful counterpoint to the story of the opera? Have I had my final encounter with "Tatiana" yet, and what would be its result? What a gift Tchaikovsky has given to me! That is all that I can say.
   It is Friday---heat! Strength in and out. Left the apartment around 5;45 A.M. for my first coffee at the deli four blocks away. Is that why I am so tired at parts of the day? And how will this energy or lack of same effect me when the lockdown is lifted and I can move around the city. Oh, how I yearn to go to Brooklyn again--Park Slope, Flatbush the Gotham Market, Cobra Club in Bushwick--anywhere that is different from the upper west side.
 Finished Curtains, a mystery by Agatha Christie that my friend Sarah got for me from her parents'
house. Very skillful---really drew me in---if I could find four or five other of her mysteries, I would
probably just stop everything and read them---they seem to have been created for "shelter in place".
But this is the only one I have---will have to make do.
Lots of classical music concerts and operas that are streaming this weekend, plus many performances of classical works simply exist on youtube. Tonight the Met is streaming its production of La Sonnambula--one that debunks the simplistic narrative of the opera by setting it in a rehearsal
room where the singers are rehearsing---well La Sonnambula. The kind of production that I like
let's see if it works. Will report tomorrow.

so I have read The Mask and the Face, by Luigi Chiarelli

and once again, I am awed by its strength and its vision. Written in 1913, and first performed after World War I, its vision of men-women relationships seems to me just as timely today. Essentially the plot revolves around an arrogant Count, who swears (this is Italy 1913) that if caught his wife in an unfaithful act he would kill her and be justified. On this night, at a party at his house, his wife is being unfaithful---he finds out and is faced with following through. He can't---he sends her away; she agrees to go, then he fires a shot and says that he has killed his wife, and that her body has fallen into the lake below their estate. He is arrested---goes to prison for nine months, then is tried and acquitted,  On his day of return, he is considered a hero--many have sent flowers, women want to meet him--but now he sees the absurdity of the whole business. Refusing to take part in all the celebrations ,he isolates himself and then---surprise---his wife returns---she understands her foolishness (the affair was meaningless to her) and she wants to be with him again. Do they reconcile? Can the Count's new understanding of the absurdity of his situation turn his rage to love?
Its done in a fascinating way, the dialogue is full of insight, and the supporting characters are sharply drawn.  I love the play.
  So what (if anything) can I do with it? I am showing it to my friend Sarah, an up and coming director who programs new groups into the theater she has just become co-Artistic Director of. I am sure she will read it carefully, but a production---even at a time when theater was happening--seems very difficult. Maybe, when the theaters are reopened again, we could arrange for a staged reading of the play---I already know the actors whom I think could give very strong readings in the leadsl--at one of the small theaters.  Whatever, I would just like as many theater people whom I know to get to know it.
Yesterday evening, spent an hour and a half on zoom, meeting with Imani, the leader of BAN and two other volunteers in preparation for doing some phone calls about getting free food to residents of Flatbush. First experience during the pandemic in which I was confronted with the "here and now".
This is about doing! The ghosts and memories of the past are made irrelevant by these tasks. It was a solid hour an a half---I signed up for an hour of work on Sunday, I will receive my instructions soon---should be a nice challenge.
What else..? I think that is all---its been a strange day---I spent most of it in the apartment reading the really skillful Agatha Christie mystery that Sarah got for me from her parents library.  It really keeps one going---will report soon.

Early Wednesday morning....

had a weird scare earlier--my computer would not go on. Tried everything but forgot to press the "on" button. For about three hours it seemed like I would be computer-less. All kinds of crazy feelings went about my brain---I had become pretty dependent on it for at least of couple of hours of surfing. Restless,  anxious, what would I do with the time? Only reading..? Anyway, it is back---I discovered the "on" button--false alarm!

  Yesterday two events of importance. Cityboy took a long walk from Amsterdam and 79th to 115th and 8th Avenue. Just as he was approaching the corner of 115th, feeling great---body strong, he slipped and fell on a small grate. Crashed down head first! Stinging! About three people came over to help, he got up, totally conscious, in control---the three good samaritans gave him an ice water bottle, a new mask, and helped him clean up the blood (not a lot of it) coming from the fall. Still, no real damage---sat for a short while, then was able to walk south on 8th then Central Park West to 100th street where he picked up the 10 bus and returned home. Pain in head and leg continued for a while, but have subsided, nicely---I think. CItyboy spent most of the rest of his day in the apartment, but did go out for food and snacks a few times, without a problem.
   The second event: Received in the mail a copy of a compilation of five plays---all written about
100 years ago. One of them, The Mask and The Face, by Luigi Chiarelli has fascinated me since I was assigned to read it in my sophmore year at Hopkins. I had owned a copy, gave it to an actor friend of mine, because I thought he would be perfect for the main male character---and he promptly lost it. Not many copies of this compilation are in print---I was lucky to find a web site where I could buy it. Very much looking forward to reading it again, then want to show it to my friend Sarah--a director---see how she feels about it---maybe collaborate with her on a reading, or produce on on my own---something I have not done in about 18 years. When I read it I will determine if my past instincts about the strength and vision of this play have been justified. Then I will report back.

Remember, Inherit the Wind

I was twelve when I saw it. That was the year my parents allowed me  take the subway from the Bronx to Manhattan; go to Saturday matinees with friends, and return to the Bronx without any parental supervision. I think that was a milestone for me---I could not believe that the ticket taker would let my friend and I into the theater without an adult, but we gave him the tickets, he gave us the stubs,  and in we were.
Inherit the Wind, by Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee was a play about the Scopes trial. Names were changed, otherwise it was accurate.  It starred Paul Muni as Henry Drummond, the character modeled after Clarence Darrow. Muni was a legend among Jewish theater goers, the idea of seeing him in person was overpowering. Ed Begley played Matthew Harrison Brady, the character modeled after Williams Jennings Bryan, who had run for President three times and lost. E. K. Hornbeck, a character modeled after H.L. Menken, a smart alec reporter was played by Tony Randall, already familiar to me from his television work.  The production, directed by Herman Shumlin was performed on a two tiered set---the back tier being the main street of the town, and the lower space, the court room.  The cast must have consisted of about 40 to 45 people, many of them playing townspeople, on the streets of Hillsboro (the name of the town) or courtroom spectators. The whole production had a kind of epic sweep to it--in the town scenes, people were constantly in motion. I bought into all of it.
   There was a revival of the play in 2007 starring Christopher Plummer in Muni's role, and I remember finding its conflict rather shallow and simplistic. It wasn't helped by the production which seemed very superficial. But as a twelve year old, watching, Muni, Begley, etc, I was totally enthralled. As I said earlier, the production's look was authentic, the flow of people as they moved through the stage, incredibly natural, and of course, "good" (Drummond defending Bertram Cates, the character modeled after John Scopes) defeated "bad" (the sheer stubborness of Brady and his followers). Muni was cool and sharp as a tack, but the more I play that afternoon back in my head, the more I consider Ed Begley's performance as Brady, the key to the play's success.In act I, Brady has much more stage time then Drummond, and Begley's portrayal, full of himself, yet sincere, a powerful speaker whose charisma reassured the townspeople, a man of strength and confidence,  solidified Act I, and gave Drummond and his followers something really to fight against.
   Act II was mostly the trial itself, and that is where Drummond triumphed and Brady fell. Much laughter in the audience, every time Drummond's questions flustered Brady and exposed a literal belief in the text of the bible in explaining the creation of the world. Tony Randall's part, E.K. Horrnbeck had no lines in Act II, yet there was Randall in the center of the stage, laughing hysterically every time Drummond shot Brady down. Very enjoyable if you saw what Brady was fighting for as backward,. Yet in the final scene of the act, all have left the courtroom but the totally humiliated Brady and his wife: "They are laughing at us, mother" Brady cries out to her---a man with great pride totally beaten down.
  Act III ties it all up. Brady is giving a final speech when he collapses and is carried off. Drummond, about to leave, hears that Brady has died. Hornbeck, who saw Brady as nothing but a deluded showman, makes a joke about his passing.  Drummond is outraged: "There was much greatness in
this man", and again, from Begley's performance, you really believed that. The play ends with
Drummond alone on stage, about to leave for the train station, holding Darwin in one hand and the
Bible in the other.  All I know was that I was enthralled.
  And so I returned to the Bronx and to my seventh grade dreams (whatever they were). The next
play that I would see on my own was The Lark, Lillian Hellman's adaptation of the play by Jean Anouih about Joan of Arc, which starred Julie Harris. More about that some other time.

Sunday evening..finding out about Bach

 This morning attended the service created by the Seven Daughters of Eve, a group headed by
 my friend  Sibyl.  A beautiful service, its leader asked the congregants to grieve over something important. Singers sang "A Hard Rain Is Gonna Fall" and a sadness came over me immediately.Written in the sixties, its idealistic demands seem to have been never met---another cause for grieving. The whole service took about 40 minutes, captured my attention and left me very moved.
Spent some of the afternoon outside, a short walk north on Broadway till about 87th street then a bench on Riverside Drive---had Lydia Davis' book of short stories with me, but also really enjoyed looking at the flow of people who passed. All ages, children, couples, seniors, etc. Ms. Davis' short stories are concise, heated and intense. They come at you with a kind of immediate fury. After one or two, had to stop just to chill my mind out. Their focus is incredible, but stylistically they are so similar that one's mind and feelings can be exhausted quickly. . At any rate, felt a little fatigued by around 4, so headed back to the apartment.
   I had received an e mail telling me that the great cellist, Yo Yo Ma was performing the six Bach unaccompanied Cello suites, beginning at 2. I felt very strongly that this was time i wanted to be out of the apartment, and when I returned, I expected the concert to be over. But it wasn't; the sixth suite was being played--I listened for a short while and was mesmerized. Here was Bach that was penetrating and really fierce. I stopped what I was doing and listened carefully--there is something almost inpenetrable about the piece. I made up my mind that in the next few days, I would listen carefully to all six of the suites---really try to get to know them. I have always seen Bach's music as "circular" that is, always returning to the same place---somehow a lot of his music leaves me very unmoved. I think listening to the suites will be a different experience. I want to challenge myself to really understand them. Will I do it in the next few days? Well, nothing much else is planned--so I have the time, but this is a tough challenge. After the Bach, I searched utube and listened to Mozart's Violin Concerto Number 3---a truly beautiful piece that the young Mozart wrote, one of five Violin Concertos written at the same time. Much easier for me to absorb---Mozart and his amazing dialogues between soloist and orchestra are always fascinating to me.
That is all for now. How many more weeks until I can visit a bookstore, or stop and sit down and have coffee, not a take out on a park bench? Hopefully soon.

Saturday morning...a dark day..

for a dark time---how responsive the weather seems to be to the demands placed upon those who are asked to stay in.  Kind of nice, earlier, now the rain is falling which eliminates any thought of a long walk or trip to another borough, or even another part of Manhattan. How will I spend my day, not sure...but there seems to be enough to do here.
  Last night---a tough night---lots of stomach cramps, which did not let up until the morning, and even are not fully gone. What does this mean---it is truly a physical statement, but when I resist going to see a doctor and take the risk of the cramps playing full out--is this an emotional statement? Earlier this morning, in my mind, I linked the cramps to the desolation I sometimes feel in the early morning hours. A fair assessment? Not sure---anyway, time to move on to another subject.
   The Met Opera web site is streaming operas from its past---this morning I came upon a 1976 televised version of their production of Don Giovanni. My history with that opera began in 1966, I saw my first performance at the Met on the same day that I "failed" my first army pre-induction physical. Given a 1 y designation because I was seeing a therapist, I celebrated by first going to Luigino's a nice Italian restaurant on 48th street (sadly no longer there) . Then, off to the Met (in its last season in "the old house" on 39th Street) to join the line for standing room tickets for the evening's performance of Don Giovanni, with Cesare Siepi in the leading role and Welsh bass baritone Geraint Evans as his servant Leporello. It was a time when I was becoming fascinated with every aspect of opera in detail, and I had probably read a great deal about the opera (which I knew to be great) in preparation for seeing it. The conductor was Joseph Rosenstock, a stand in for Karl Bohm. The latter was a well respected conductor who conducted  Mozart and Strauss at the Met often, but was not available that season.
My response to the opera which was well performed was not one of being blown away (maybe the opera is too complex for that anyway0 but more one of watchful and cautious absorbtion, I wanted to really "know" this opera--and that evening was to be my first learning experience. I must have seen it that season at least two more times at the Met---I also invaded the Lincoln Center Library to try to take out as many recordings of the opera as I could find, and compare the different interpretations of the singers, and the different tempos and visions of the conductors. It was a "heady" time for me,
getting to know the repertory that the two opera houses were performing, and also using the standing
room line at the Met as a way to meet possible dates. I was working for the Department of Welfare
in a center in the Bronx with an eclectic group of colleagues, many of them just out of college like myself, trying to figure out what to do with their lives. I think I was enjoying myself at that time
a great deal. It all ended that summer, when I decided to leave the job, and audition as an actor
(I had been studying for about a year with Milton Katselas and thought that I was ready), a move
that I guess one might call "miscalculated".  There  were not that many auditions--I found myself with
a lot of time on my hands that I did not expect to have, and I began to question whether the aspiring
actor's lifestyle was really something that I could cope with. It all ended with my getting a job
sorting mail for the U.S. post office--a job which I grinded through for seven months. Finally I was able to transition to a Social Work job around July of 67, and my world went slightly back to normal.
I've covered some of the alienation and confusion that I dealt with for those months in an earlier
post (Mozart forever)--more to come..? Perhaps...will report soon.

after a walk.....

On the subway ride back, read two very intense and focused short stories by Lydia Davis. So this blog entry may sound a lot like her.
My day:
Out of the house for coffee around 6:30 A.M. then two other trips in the next two hours. Full of energy until I had eaten an old fashioned donut, then felt tired.
Around 9A.M. decided to rest. Slept an hour, and when I woke up the body felt weak. It took me two hours to get myself together, but I knew I had to get out. By around 12, strength seemed to return to me, so I took Ms. Davis's collection of short stories, and headed for my favorite coffee place, on Amsterdam and 83rd street. Got my coffee then moved to a bench a block away to figure out my next move.
Got up, began to walk north. To my surprise, my whole body seemed with it,  gave me the message to go to 96th street and maybe beyond.  At 96th. felt I could make it to 110th easily, and then at 110th, decided that 125th was a normal goal.
So I did it---very proud of myself---as I walked the weather got milder.  Between 79th and 110th on Amsterdam, a normal amount of people on the street---almost every store on those blocks seemed open, selling food or drink to go. The energy seemed good--one could almost feel an upbeat beginning to the holiday weekend that approaches. Between 110th and 125th, far less people, passed the Hungarian Pastry Shop, doing "to go" orders,  a place that loomed "large" in my life between
88 and 92.  After 118th street, I was almost the only person on the street, until I reached the 125th street intersection at Amsterdam, and then walked west one block to Broadway, passing many people outside.
  Much of my thoughts on this walk centered on my memories of watching After the Fall, the play by Arthur Miller that opened the Lincoln Center theater in early 1964. I replayed scenes, lines, memories of performances, even remembered a little bit of David Amram's music for it. Miller's play is completely autobiographical--in the first act, the central character of the play named Quentin looks
back on his relationhsips with friends, family and his ex wife whom he left. The second act is almost
completely devoted to his second wife, the amazing and frightening "Maggie", a character that all
assumed was modeled after Miller's late second wife, Marilyn Monroe.
  I saw the play four times; I think at that point I found a lot to identify with Quentin. He was the
quintessential "good Jewish striver" who had found success as a lawyer, but desperately wanted to
see some moral purpose to his life beyond his success. Jason Robards originated the role of
Quentin, and I saw him do it once; the other three times I saw his replacement, Hal Holbrook.
The four performances stretched from late March of 64, to April of 65--Barbara Loden played
Maggie in all of them, and she was truly amazing---catching Maggie's innocence at the
beginnng of her time on stage, and the moving easily into the vicious, self devouring
(according to Miller) creature she had become. The second act was really a descent into
hell for the two protagonists. Miss Loden, of course became the second wife of Elia
Kazan, the play's director, and wrote and directed Wanda, a much praised movie
of its time, about a  young drifter (woman) who moves from incident to incident, man to
man, without much purpose.
   What else could I tell you about After the Fall? The other characters, the cast changes,
the look of the staging--the theater, then off Washington Square, while the Lincoln Center
theater was being built--was constructed like an amphitheater--the stage was deep and went
lsoway back, giving characters an awful lot of ground to move on.  Also, the space between
performances that I saw represented a time in my life when everything shifted. In March of
64, I was completing my last year at Hopkins, a very successful one,  and by April of 65,
I knew that my one year at Yale Drama School had been a disaster---that once I left
there in a few weeks, my life would be going into unknown territory that I would
have to work out myself.
So it was, back to the real world---will report soon on the rest of the day.

Get out and Walk!

That's the message my body is giving to me this morning---walk and free yourself from the torpor and rage of the night before. It is a brisk morning, you can feel the wind hitting you as you walk, but it seems ideal for walking. My first trip is usually to the corner grocery on 72nd street and West End for some coffee (I never make my own). I moved slowly, but as soon as the coffee was absorbed by me, the energy began to build. Walking east towards Broadway, I could feel some pain in my back that I had in the apartment dissipating and some strength building in my legs. Don't go back to the apartment, they urged me, we need "action". But here I am, back in the apartment, writing this blog. For how long? Not sure---one plan is to take the subway a little later to my bank on Union Square to make a deposit. The bank is sadly, only open on specific days of the week, so it is usually packed with long lines outside. If I go at 10:00, I am betting that the lines will have stopped, But i don't have to do it---there are other ways of making the payouts that I have to make. But out I must go!!
   What about last night? You mentioned "rage", cityboy a few lines up, what "rage"?
   I guess that is one way of defining it---being up around 3:15 A.M. not tired, but my eyes too tired to browse on the computer---and just feeling a general sense of being trapped. What did I do, I turned to Mozart--that is I went to the web site of the Chamber Music Society of Lincoln Center where I knew I could find some interesting choices if I just wanted to absorb some chamber music. There it was right in front of me: Mozart's String Quintet k. 515. It seemed to be just what I needed, I chose it and listened, also watched the interaction of the five musicians, Mozart gives the melody in that movement to the first violin and later the cello. The other instruments just help out. It is a long first movement, about 13 minutes, filled with the usual inventiveness that Mozart puts into his chamber music pieces. By the time it was over, my body relented, it was tired. I originally wanted to hear the complete quintet, but as the movement approached its end,  I knew I had to stop there. Will I continue today...? Not sure, it seems like a good idea, but have to see how things turn out.
   So, time to move on to the next part of the day. Probably go to facebook for a little while, then maybe browse, then listen to the radio, and finally leave the apartment. That's all I can say now, will
report soon.

pretty late Monday night...(and Sondheim)

what is there left to say An "ordinary" day---took a walk north to 106th street and bought a much needed towel and pillow case. Also, got some reading done on The Expecctations, the novel written by Alex, husband of my good friend Sarah  Also did  a lot of napping, at least twice during the day. This is hard for me to explain--the tiredness seems to simply come upon me, with very little warning. When I got up from the last nap, around 7:10, I felt very weak, yet I was able to go to the nearby drug store for some food and cold drinks. Since then, my strength seems to have returned: no fatigue at this point---it is around 10:05. My sleep patterns have been crazy---what can I say--I am a slave to my sleep patterns. Now that I have got my strength back, I will probably stay up as long as it continues.
   Browsing on youtube, I came across some short videos of scenes from the Encore production of
Anyone Can Whistle. That musical has memories for me, I saw a preview of it during my spring vacation from Hopkins in 1964. It is a strange piece---very inconsistent, yet it has some brilliant moments. There is a love story in it, between an uptight nurse and a visitor to the town she works in, which I find very moving.  The original producton had two non singing actors, Harry Guardino and Lee Remick, in those roles. They brought a tremendous honesty and a very strong erotic quality to their relationship. The other lead was Angela Lansbury, playing a corrupt Mayoress---her role stood outside the other story, yet she had plenty of stage time. The two stories never jelled.
   The musical was in three acts; I remember during the second intermission trying to put my thoughts together about what I had seen, and trying to make some prediction of the musical's fate. I knew this would not be "a hit!" it was far too wild and wacky, not to mention disorganized, but I hoped that the critics would isolate some of the brilliant stuff, praise those moments a great deal, and admit, that even if the overall musical was a mess, there were some great numbers in it worth seeing. If that had happened, I thought maybe the musical could run for about two months. But it did not---the critics, and certainly the Times critic Howard Taubman,  simply ridiculed it. It closed in about a week.
   For me, the song, We've So Little to be Sure Of, sung by the two lovers as they realize they have to split, is an amazing song, much deeper, and far more complex then, say Being Alive, from the more
popular Company. At Sondheim's 90th birthday party, and actor named Brandon Uranowitz did a
brilliant job singing it, catching its sadness and pain. Also, the concerted ten minute number that ends Act 1, I feel is a work of sheer genius. A total protest song, bathed in satire,  far ahead of its time, it is basically forgotten now. Other moments in the show are really telling as well, but in the end, its plot
just does not hold.
   That is my Anyone Can Whistle memory---sleep seems to be coming upon me, perhaps this blog took the energy from me that will be needed to let me have a nice sleep. Well, we will see, will report soon.
sheer genius.

Sunday evening...

No memories today--an odd quiet day. Actually it began late last night. At 12:30 A.M. felt hunger and the need for a cup of coffee. Only thing to do, was to walk the four blocks to my neighborhood deli-grocery and pick up some stuff. Of course, i am not in love with walking around West End Avenue that late, but there was no other way. Trip both ways was quick and uneventful--most of the buildings that I pass have doormen on at the front,  so that makes me feel pretty secure.  A few people on the street---some dogwalkers, and one or two couples. Made it back to the apartment successfully with a quarter pound of roast beef and a coffee. Did not sleep for two hours (I had slept earlier) but by 2 could fall asleep.
   Today, some walks on the west side and a lot of time reading Alex's novel---it reads well and I am getting through it. On my second trip to Riverside Park to find a bench to read, had two nice encounters. The first was an accidental meeting with three members of the Friends class of 10: Steve, Jukie and Jack. They were playing baseball in the park and on their way out. Spoke to them for about 5 minutes, some nice memories,  they all seem to be doing well.  Walked from 72nd to about 84th street and found a bench. Lots of children out with families. Watched one 22 month old chase pigeons with his dad. Very well coordinated. Then met Jen, a teacher at Friends who I have been friends with since she started at Friends in 2007, walking through the park with her boy friend Robert. Yesterday was Jenn's birthday, she had a party on zoom, and I had attended---so it was a bit of a surprise to see them in the flesh. We talked for about 15 minutes---very copacetic, and they moved on. In the nine weeks of the lockdown,  these two encounters were only the second and third encounters I had had.
All my other contact has come by phone.
   I think that is it---7:00 approaches so the cheering for the health care workers and the essential workers should begin soon. Lots of people out in the park today, it is cooling down in the next four days, so that might mean less people out,  but next weekend, with its extra length should be interesting. The streets of the upper west side no have more stores opened, more take out places
available---so the energy should continue to go up. We will see what happens...

Memories of Spitz

I met him sometime in my sophmore year at Hopkins; he was one year ahead of me, had a motorcycle, and was considered very "cool". His name was Arnold Spitz, and he was pre-law at Hopkins. Actually, he was as very nice guy, welcoming and interested in things and people outside himself. I remember him pointing out to me two freshmen---two of the oddest freshmen I had ever encountered in the Hopkins community. They lived in the dorms, but the seemed to have created a world for themsleves that excluded just about everyone.  They spoke only to each other, in almost their own language. To me, they were silly, but Arnie (as he will be known for the rest of this post) found them interesting and unique. Their names were Walter Murch and Matthew Robbins---I will say no more. Once when he saw that I was upset about a girl I was dating who lived with her family in Baltimore,  he put me on the back of his motorcycle, and we went to her house for an unexpected visit. Did not turn out great, but he was nice enough to see that something had to be done.
   In his senior year (my junior) he had an apartment in one of the residence hotels right off the campus. I visited him many times there that year---we had many talks about women we were dating---there always seemed to be some girl from Goucher who was interested in him. The year was 1963, and in the middle of one of our conversations about women he told me that, though he enjoyed the heavy necking that he had with his girlfriends, he expected to be a virgin until his wedding night. He wanted the woman he married to be his first real lover. I remember thinking as he told me this: "Well, that seems normal". I suppose you might call 1963 or thereabouts a "cusp" time---too early for the frenetic and free love vision of "the sixties" but moving away from the "normality" of the late fifties. At any rate, our  friendship remained until he graduated; I forget what law school he was accepted into, but that was going to be his next move.
   Arnie lived in Queens (Jamaica Estates) and I spent the summer with my family in the Bronx, so it was easy to remain in touch. The last time I saw him was a Sunday in August of 63. He invited me to spend a day with him (and possibly some of his family) at one of the beaches in either Queens or Long Island. So I took the subway from the  Bronx and met him there. My last memory of him is the two of us running along the shore of the beach, full of late teen age, early twenties excitement. I remember feeling very happy that I was with him, and glad to be alive.
   I left the beach around 5, found a subway in Queens and took it to the 34th and sixth avenue station. I got off and walked to the Martinique hotel a few blocks away. Off the lobby of the hotel was an off Broadway theater---playing there was a much praised production of Six Characters in Search of an Author, by Pirandello.  I bought a ticket, then saw the play. in an extremely imaginative production, directed by William Ball, a young director making a name for himself with his strong visions.The play, itself is about a six "characters"--with real identities and feelings, who have been abandoned by their playwright and come upon a group of actors rehearsing another play by Pirandello. They urge the actors to abandon their play and perform the characters' story. It is a great juxtaposition---the fierceness of the characters pain, played off against the bewildered actors, who feel invaded; they have no idea what to do with this group. If done well, it can be an very strong work; Ball's vision confronted the audience in a small space, and was performed by an amazing ensemble cast. including the late
David Margulies, who would later become a friend of mine. . I left the Martinique feeling so excited by what theater had to offer---then took the hour subway trip back to my family's
apartment in the Bronx.
       I never saw, or heard from Arnie again. We had a great time that afternoon, yet
 he never made any attempt to contact me during my last year at Hopkins, and I never reached out to him. To this day, I am stunned by that--no contact since that Sunday afternoon in 63---only the memory of the two of us, running along the beach, feeling so full of life---time had stopped---no future, no past, only the energy of the moment.

A day like no other...

And so the heat came--by 11:00 A.M. I was in short sleeves. A piece of climate never seen before, so out of character with the weather of the last few days. The universe changed. What did it mean? I was sitting on a bench at Riverside Drive and 147th street, reading The Expectations, the novel written by Alex, the husband of my friend Sarah. Enjoying it, the story of a new ninth grader beginning his life at a very prestigious Boarding School in New England. Who he is friends with; what is happening in the life of his family back home, the whole ethos of the Boarding school for the wealthy. Still, the heat defined itself, later at Riverside and 83rd, watched the runners and the couples in their summer outfits---new clothing never seen before. How long will it last? Well, tomorrow is supposed to be only slightly cooler (around 75) and then Sunday reverts to the days of the past, as it dips into the 60's.
My first impulse was to try to get to Brooklyn-Berry Street between north 12th and Broadway is closed to traffic. That is my home "turf'---how many times did I walk that street as I came to and left South fourth. If only it had been open this morning---Jimmy, the great morning bartender waiting to give me a cup of coffee---but wait---it would have only been take out. Still, worth the trip. But today I had to settle for a morning trip to Broadway and 146th---to get a coffee from Hamiton's the place where I usually go before and after teaching at the library. Of course they only had take out as well, but the barista there made me feel very welcome.
Later, returned home and watched the full play Pipeline, presented at the Newhouse at Lincoln Center some years ago. A very strong and powerful play, dealing with black identity, black rage, social norms, etc. Beautifully acted, I stayed with it the whole time. First time in the social isolation days that i have been able to commit to following a full length play. More in the future? We will see, will
report soon.

Thursday: early afternoon.

Have to get ready for a web program in which my niece, Natalie, will be the guest star. Just an interview, but should be fun. Just back from a long walk. Began at Broadway and 76th, then to Amsterdam, north on Amsterdam until 109th street. Legs felt incredibly relaxed. The whole walk seemed effortless. Stopped off for some yogurt and 106th and Broadway, then walked over to Riverside Park and remained there for about a half hour.
  While there, my brother David called me. He lives in California---we went through some memories--for some reason he wanted to find out what high school our mom had attended. Funny, she never spoke of that experience. She was living in Brooklyn with her older sisters and mom at the time, but her schooling experiences were a blank. David said she once told him, but he does not remember. I can contact  cousin of mine, now living in Sanfrancisco, whose mom, still living, wa my mother's niece. Does she remember? Who can say.
 My brother, who has MS, has not had much problem with the quarantine, except he is passionate about baseball and has had to settle for the many replays that he can get on his tv. I am amazed at how easily he deals with his problem; during my high school and college years, we went to many plays and movies together, leaving the apartment in the Bronx and heading dowtown. He had great energy then (and a great sense of humor)---difficult for me to think that he can't do that anymore.
    The walk has tired me, so I will probably rest until my niece comes on. Tonight I have the option of visiting the Theater Mania trivia game; I have followed (but not played) that game for the past
two weeks. I enjoy the questions, but the hosts: Oy, talk about trivia---I can't imagine a more self loving duo. Nevertheless I will probably listen at home.
   Beautiful day for a walk--many more people out in the streets today then in my past walks. Tomorrow 82, Saturday, 75---I think there will be a lot of people out. Behavior? Well, lets
just say that "social distancing" may receive its greatest test.

48 hours.....

It all began waking up around 12, Tuesday morning. Pain! Pain in my back! Pain in my legs! Such as I had never experienced before. It began in the small of the back, then made its way down to my foot in both legs. A burning sensation, plus when I transferred from standing to sitting, or vice versa the pain increased. What did it mean? What could I do? Not much, since I did not want to go to an emergency room at the moment. I decided I would wait day---give myself 24 hours and see what would happen. Turned out to be a good idea. Starting at around 6, Tuesday morning I took some short walks and what I noticed was that very quickly into the walk, my back pain seemed to disappear. The pattern continued with my legs--by the middle of the morning I had regained much of my leverage as I was going from sitting to standing,  if anything, the legs seemed to be getting  stronger. Then a much needed ap in the middle of the day, and by the evening, it was all clear. Today, the legs seemed fresh and eager, as if they had transformed by this "catastrophe" into a world where anything was possible. And so it has remained during the day---we will see what happens when the body moves into tomorrow.
   I spent today's morning, responding to e mails by two of my friends, then headed to the Spectrum store on Broadway and 146 street to pay my bill. Took the one train from 79th street, the trip was uneventful---the car had around 5 people in it, everyone properly spaced. Paid my bill---then decided to enjoy being in a different neighborhood for a while---did some shopping, had a roast beef sandwich and took the one back to 79th street. A feeling of contentment came over me on this trip back, as I read some chapters of The Expectations, a novel written by the husband of Sarah, a close friend of mine. All good, right? Then I arrived at the apartment, took out my chocolate cup that I got from the nearby drug store and BOOM! I could not find the receipt and three page statement that I had taken to Spectrum. Where was it?; where had I left it?  I retraced my steps in my head---the drugstore, the subway station, the convenience stores And what did it mean for the bill and all my information on the bill to fall into someone else's hands. Maybe it had just been picked up and put in
a nearby garbage bag, that was my hope, but the bill had my address on it and some id's for the spectrum account. What could I do? Well, just retrace my steps---go back to all those places, I certainly had the time for that. And that is what I did--two more uneventful trips on the 1 train--
and of course, I found nothing. I did stop in at the Spectrum store, where the very kind
salesman whom i had paid in the first place assured me that the idea on the bill did not mean
someone could penetrate the account. So I returned home.
  Amazing, I never lose anything! But it happened today. No repercussions, hopefully, but I
will be checking in on my accounts more often, just to see that they are all right.
 That's the story of the last 48 hours, let's see what the next 48 will bring.

memories of "The King"

A Facebook friend posted that she and her husband had watched The King and I this weekend (the London production, streaming) and it made me think of my own history with this play.
  December 1, 1951, a Saturday, at 11:00 in the morning, I am down in the small yard outside the cellar of our apartment house in the Bronx, playing Running Bases. As I run, I think to myself: Is it possible that at 2:30 you will be far away from here, watching The King  and I at the Saint James theater? So I play for a about a half hour more, then go up to the apartment to get dressed and leave with my father for the Saint James. We arrive (by subway) in plenty of time; our tickets are in the first row of the second balcony. At that time, the entrance to the second balcony was separate from the theater's main entrance---it was just a small, unassuming door a little to the right of it. We climb the stairs in the dark---a long trek, and finally arrive at a little lobby that leads to the seats. As we enter the lobby a sign greets us: Gertrude Lawrence is ill, today, at this performance the role of Anna Leonowens will be played by Constance Carpenter. Wow! An understudy for the lead! I had heard so much about Gertrude Lawrence, would her understudy be up to the task?  I had seen a lot of theater before, but this was the first time I would be watching an understudy in what was the musical's central role. Miss Carpenter did not disappoint--she gave it her all, and the young actor playing the King---Yul Brynner --truly worked closely with her and complemented her. His was a terrific performance, but one that never called attention to itself---I always felt watching the musical then that I was watching Anna's story. For an eight year old theater lover, a great afternoon.
   The next time I encountered the musical was not at a professional production, but one at JHS 98 in the Bronx, about two years later. Why was I there? Because my dad was  close friend of the two drama teachers at 98, one of whom,  Paula Reibel, had directed this production. And what made being there more important was that my father, in his third year as drama counselor at Camp Merrimont, would be directing his version of the musical as a Counselor-Camper show, and that I would be playing the Crown Prince. So I watched carefully.
    Two things that I noticed that evening that I still remember. Act I's final scene is a dialogue between Anna and the King, and she instructs him on how to plan for the British ambassador
and his party. Who took the lead? I had always assumed Anna, but the young man playing the
king, was far better then this Anna---he basically made the scene about him. This was a
revelation to me: it showed me that if a scene was cast differently, the color and tone of
the scene could change. I still remember sitting there in astonishment.
  Point 2; Naturally I was watching closely the student playing the Crown Prince. He was a stocky
kid, looked very "neighborhoody" and when his monologue came at the play's end, I watched
carefully. He truly "banged it out" that is, he gave it his all--I remember thinking that he was
not very specific but was very intense---he really wanted to show that he would be a strong King,
and a strong actor.  Now here is the amazing thing about that moment. In 1977, the New York
Times, Magazine has Al Pacino on its cover. He is currently performing on Broadway in
The Basic Training of Pablo Hummel. In the article is a picture of him from a junior high
school production of The King and I. Yep! That young intense actor whom I was watching
turned out to be Al Pacino.  (I think---when i met up later in life with Paula Reibel,she
remembered him play Louis---must find that out)
   Oh yes, and how did my performance at Camp Merrimont compare to the "young intense
actor" from JHS 98?  Is that question really worth asking?
  One last note: 98 at the time, was mostly Jewish, as the kids in the neighborhood came from
working class Jewish families. It was about to undergo a major transition to a mostly hispanic
neighborhood---five years later it would be very different.
   that is all for now---will report soon.

A day of friends

Is it possible to write a blog post that is not full of angst,  or does not challenge me to look back and describe a feeling or event from many years ago?  I guess so because that is the post that I want to write tonight, as the afternoon moves into the evening.  Morning began with the usual restlessness, finally got out around 1:30 and walked north on Amsterdam, stopped for a cup of coffee at a grocery on that block, then headed to Joe the Juice, where I indulged myself with a large strawberry banana shake. Really good. Wandered west to the park on Riverside and 93rd, and then just sat and observed people. Received a text from Tom K, an actor friend of mine who lives in the area. We had texted early in the lockdown, but this was the first I had heard from him since then. Really nice of him to check in; he is a terrific actor in his seventies; he actually was in a play at the Public when the virus struck. I was greatful that he checked in, and will make an effort to stay in touch a little more frequently. So the vibes were good.
  Then my friend Sarah called. She and her husband were visiting his parents in Connecticut, and on the way back they were passing my apartment. Yesterday I had spoke to Sarah about some books that she had, that she might lend to me. In the past few weeks I have done so little reading;I really wanted to get something going away from the computer.   They included a new novel, written by Alex, her husband, another novel, and a book of short stories. Sarah had the books with her, so she and Alex stopped near the apartment and gave me the books (6 feet away, of of course). Then they continued to to their apartment house in Brooklyn--i think that the upper west side was not a stretch for them to stop at, but still, it was really nice of the two of them to make the effort to give me the books now, rather than mailing them to me, which was the original plan. I really was anxious to get into Alex's book so now I can.
  And that is it. Feeling kind of mellow and wanted. What next? Will report soon.

constriction and art

A strange day---the temperature outside is easily in the 30's, and the wind is intense. So, except for my forays outside to buy food, and to bring and take back my laundry (yay, cityboy, got to keep clothes clean) I have been in the apartment. Again, limited options, a longing for release from this pandemic, but in spite of that did accomplish one special thing. I read, actually re read the play A Memory of  Two Mondays, a long one act play by Arthur Miller, all but forgotten now. An ensemble play, taking place in a factory of auto parts in Chelsea in 1933, it is beautifully written, no where near as galvanic as some of Miller's other work at that time, but in its control, detail, and beautiful character study, it is very effective. What is its story?   In 1955 it was produced on Broadway as part of an evening of two one act plays (both very long). This was Miller's first project after The Crucible. Memory was followed by a play that took place in Red Hook, Brooklyn entitled, A View From the Bridge. Both plays were written for a cast of about 11 men and 2 women, and with one or two exceptions, actors doubled in both plays. The evening was entitled A View From the Bridge, since if one stood on the Brooklyn Bridge, one could look either way, north into Chelsea, or south into Eddie Carbone's world, by the docks of Red Hook. The second play was itself entitled A View From the Bridge; I don't think that Miller has ever explained why. Maybe he thought it just fit. The run of the two plays was not long, and for a while, both plays disappeared.  For a production in London, Miller expanded the second play, and that is the version that is performed now.  Still, it was "underground' for quite a while--by the early sixties  some colleges were performing it, and a movie, directed by Sidney Lumet, came out in 1963. But it was not until the 1965 off Broadway production, directed by Ulu Grossbard, and starring Robert Duvall as  Eddie, that the play was praised by critics and audiences alike. and moved
into its trajectory which now finds it a classic.
   All of which has some importance, but what i want to get at was how reading A Memory of
Two Mondays, worked against my sense of isolation in the apartment.  I was so moved by the
piece, so absorbed by it--I was transported out of the rage and disappointment that is part of what
i feel now, into a kind of joy and excitement at having experienced the play through reading it.
I had "lost myself" in a very good way. Afterwards, spent a lot of time thinking about it, also,
looked at this first version of A View From the Bridge and made some comparisons in text to
the version that is performed now---Miller changed Alfieri's final speech; it is much more
down to earth now--I would love to compare the two speeches in front of an audience--Miller's original ending is more poetic and has stronger images then then newer version.
   So that is it. Tomorrow is supposed to be much milder, more chance for moving around outside,
maybe, depending on my "tired" factor I can actually take the subway somewhere.  It's all
up for grabs, will report soon.

early morning blues..

I write this before 7A.M. Never have done this before. For the last two days, my body was tired, this morning, I feel I am shot out of a cannon. What's the occasion? Well, the plan is that in about an hour I will leave the apartment, walk to the 72nd street subway, and take the train to 14th street. There, I will either walk or take the bus two blocks and find my bank the "great" Amalgamated Bank,  and get on line to make a deposit. Why should something as simple as that evoke in cityboy such great energy, which is really a kind of anger Well, the deposit is necessary to back up an important check, and the bank is only open, during the lockdown, on Mondays and Fridays starting at 9. Amazing! This is a full service bank, with many customers in NYC, and all they can give their customers is two days. So if they open at 9, why am i leaving at 7:50. Because I want to get there at 8:10, or close to that, so that I can be near (if not first) in the line.  That means about 50 minutes in the street where the temperature is near 50, but chilly. Two weeks ago, I got there about 8:25, only to find myself 7th in line. These customers know their stuff. and even if the first hour has been granted only to senior citizens, I am sure I will not be alone (for long). So there you have it. I have been up since 4, maybe earlier, anger fueled, but to my surprise, the energy has been strong. Still about 40 minutes to go---let's see how it plays out.
    Not much else to report. Last two days I have been rather self-sufficient. Yesterday played theater trivia produced by Theater Mania. Out of 60 questions, must have gotten about 45. Of course, that would not have put me near the winning team. The "hosts" (if you want to call them that) are two
musical comedy performers (they both have Broadway credits). I wish I could tell you that I like them, but the two are so self-indulgent that often I am shouting back at the computer: "Shut up, already!" Well meaning as they may be, they seem to be so in love with everything they say.  Still, if you can sift through their "genius" some of the questions are challenging.
  I think we will leave it for now. Tomorrow, Saturday is predicted to be very cold for this time of
year. (real feel 40's). That should be great for the "stay at home" crowd, but for me, it probably means
less walking time. I still want to check out the designated spaces where traffic has been shut
off so citizens can walk, but have not been able to do that yet. Maybe this weekend.

two different nights....

Monday and Tuesday, two different experiences. On Monday, I fell asleep at 9, slept strong for about 5 hours, waking up at 2A.M., feeling totally relaxed in my body. I needed those 5 hours. This was odd for me---sleeping five hours without a break. Why? Maybe because I was proud of my last post on this blog. Maybe because I was just relaxed at the time. I also remember waking up in the middle of that stretch carrying a dream with me. In the dream, I received an e mail, telling me I could take the test for the virus--or maybe telling me I did not have the virus. All I had to do was to mark a circle in the e mail, and it would be done. These were short spells within the five hours stretch, but they seemed very real.
   So how does that explain yesterday. Not a bad day,  actually got a nice compliment from a friend whom I had asked to read the last post. So sleep should have been easy right? Well, it wasn't. From about 1:00 on, don't know whether I slept at all. So frustrating---my eyes are tired, so no computer---my body is tired, but my brain does not want to give in. Its almost like i need a new word to represent what happened lasts night, and other nights during the virus "stay home". Call it "non-sleep", because that is what it is--the complete inability of my body to give in to sleep. Of course, I know at some point I will make it up, and what's the big deal---today is "planless", so no matter what time I crash (if I do crash) I am not missing anything.
   Memory becomes my friend in this pandemic. Today's memory, the ballet called Suite Number 3, by Balanchine, to music by Tchaikovsky.  Four parts,each led by a different man and woman couple. ---the first Elegie, is one of my "autobiographical" ballets. That means the hero and his adventure are something that I identify with deeply. All of Balanchine's ballets are about men with women, the second part of the piece has a man being very protective of a woman, as they dance through the night. The third part is jocular, athletic and  upbeat--no hint of the pain of rejection or separation--as the man and the woman jump around to very playful music.
And then, finally, a remarkable piece of theater. The lights go down on part three, for a moment the audience is in darkness. All three of the previous parts have been lit in dark blues--a sense that these
moments are taking place in a dream, or not truly a real world. The lights come up on a fully lit stage,
full of couples, ready to begin Part 4. It is a complete reverse from the previous scene---the dancers, lead by a couple, begin performing the Theme and Variations portions of the suite. All of a sudden there is no "story" no mood,  no pain, simply dance. The reality  of dance itself. Can you visulize it
 from my description?  Probably you have to see it to corroborate it. And of course, the music tells you so much about what is going on.  But I have tried to give some
sense of what experiencing this ballet is.
   The rest of the day? Your guess is as good as mine. No plans, I can do whatever I want, within these restrictions of "social distancing"  This is the "freedom" of the pandemic. To live with no obligation in a world of nothingness. Remembering a walk along a street in Brooklyn; it won't happen for a while.
That is all for now. Time to serf. Will report soon.

of Beethoven and Pinochiio

An odd couple if there ever was one. But in the space of an hour, they were juxtaposed in my life. How? This afternoon on youtube i was able to find a performance of Beethoven's first piano trio, Opus 1, number 1. It is a truly beautiful piece, very controlled, hardly an "early' work. I love the dialogue between the three instruments as they act off each other. Beethoven wrote two more in that group (opus 1). I should really make an effort to hear the other two.
     Later, I was shaving, prior to my going out for a cup of coffee. All of a sudden, a song "Little Wooden Head" from Pinnochio crawled into my head. How? I had sung it when I was cast as Gepetto, the puppet's father at Camp Towanda, as a nine year old, in the summer of 1953. I remember standing on stage, with the camper playing Pinnochio, his name was Johnny Mage--he was very bright--lived in Manhattan, and was a high end achiever. I think he ended up a very successful lawyer (hopefully an idealist)  So there was my seventy something self, looking into the mirror, feeling vulnerable, and out of that came this tune. I also remember getting applause for the song, which took me by surprise. That was a fun summer for me--I liked this camp better then Camp Merrimont, where I had been for the last two years. Of course, I had no choice but to attend the camp, my father was its dramatic counselor, and my mother the nature counselor. As a child, I longed for a full summer in the city, every day being able to sit in front of the television set and watch baseball, or attend some games at the Stadium or the Polo Grounds.  But it was not to be. Although I liked Towanda, my parents were unhappy there, and so they returned to Merrimont for the next two years, and I of course, reluctantly went with them.  Amazingly, it was not until the summer between my Sophmore and Junior year at Hopkins, that I actually spent a full summer in the city. (And that was a one with plenty of upheavals).
  Just one more thing about the summer of 53. Among the campers was an 11 year old girl named
Joan Lacey. She was beautiful for her age, and it was as if the whole camp fell in love with her.
She played Jiminy Cricket in my Pinnochio play, so I had some scenes with her, but my most vivid memory of her was at a talent show and the song she sang. It was from the movie Moulin Rouge.
It began; Whenever we kiss, I worry and wonder,
               Your lips may be there, but where is your heart?
That was enough to conquer us all, but it is the middle section that stays with me.
Its a bridge with four lines. I only remember the last one, but can't get it out
of my head;  Oh why must I--------------------
                     Pretending I am someone else.
As she sang it, she seemed to know exactly what it meant---but what does that line
  mean for me?
Why have I held on to those words, and that vision of the elusive but beautiful Joan, standing
on stage, singing it. I simply can't get that moment out of my head.
  Pretending I am someone else...? Let's end here.

from "darkness" into...

light---that would be a good title for today's post. Yesterday, all things that could go wrong did. By that I mean I was tired, during most of the day, ate little, had stomach cramps, and generally felt trapped in the apartment. Then around 7:00 something happened. I stumbled upon a streaming of a Carnegie Hall concert from the Fall. It was the Schubert song cycle Wintereise, sung by the mezzo-soprano Joyce Di Donato, accompanied by the Met's music director, Yannick Nezet-Seguin.  The song cycle is brutal, it begins with the narrator being rejected by the young woman he loved, and descends into a kind of lonely horror. What warmth there is in the cycle comes in in short phrases that interrupt the coldness of the music. But Schubert's music is brilliant, yet frightening to absorb all at once. When I stumbled upon it  I thought, maybe I will just hear the first few songs, but once into it, I decided that I wanted to experience the whole thing--even if it meant "descending into hell" with the protagonist. And that I did, mostly riveted for the next hour and fifteen minutes. The narrator of the cycle is a young(maybe middle aged) man, Miss di Donato created the dramatic vision of a woman reading the notes or diary of the young man. This worked brilliantly--she was deeply moved throughout, as she read the story of the man's terrible journey Nezet-Seguin, her accompianist, was totally with her---a partner all the way, always in sync with Miss di Donato. Watching the song cycle, and committing to its sadness focused me in a way that I had not been all day. By the end I felt centered, and that made it easier to continue my own journey into the night.
  This morning I discovered a blog my a movie expert who also happened to be raised in the Bronx. One post is a study and remembrance of all the Bronx neighborhood movie theaters from the 40's, 50's and 60's---yet many of them lasted into the 70's. That was the time the neighborhoods changed, yet the movie theaters mostly continued their "establishment" features. As usual, I was fascinated byt the street addresses of the movie theaters. Again, trying to understand the past. Should visit that blog many more times.
     So I am experiencing a kind of optimism this morning--a nice day ahead, will try to go out
for much of it. Will report soon