A Trifecta: Duke Ellington, Bobby Short and Central Park on a Summer's Night

New York

Last night I watched 14 jazz pianists, all the calibre of Frank Owens, play simultaneously on grand pianos that had been placed back to back on stage. Behind the pianists was a full big band complete with drummer, a terrific horn section and even a percussionist.

It was a tribute to Bobby Short, the famous cabaret singer who was an institution at The Carlyle, my ultimate, all time favorite venue in town for its understated elegance and beautifully appointed public spaces. Short, who died in 2005, played piano and sang many of Duke Ellington's compositions.

July 1,1995, Short dedicated a statue of Ellington that sits on the Promenade a minute's walk from the bandshell. So, on the spur of the moment, a mix of folks including Mercedes Ellington, the eldest of Duke's grandchildren who produced the show, garnered financial support and musicians to celebrate both Bobby's genius night after night at Betelman's Lounge to the delight of New Yorkers, and Duke Ellington's magic with both lyrics and musical scores.

I was in the very front of the venue with my friend and neighbor, Michael. We arrived early and planted ourselves on my kelly green beach towel on the hard courtyard. The wonderful thing about New York and outdoor concerts in general, is the people that show up. This was impromptu, so only about 300 people gathered, sitting on benches that surround the bandshell or on the ground with us. It was almost like being a voyeur at a private party as Ms. Ellington bustled around ordering sound checks with the pianists, and chatting with photographers.

The show started late, but no one seemed to mind. It wasn't raining for one thing ( it had been raining every day for 20 days of the month of June ), and everyone had a picnic of some sort.

When the music began, it was still light out, the sun sinking overhead, the sky a Maxfield Parrish blue. I stretched out on the ground, totally immersed in the sound and the stunning beauty of the night. This same bandshell housed Duke Ellington and his band years before, and folks like us, no doubt drank in the sophisticated sound he made his trademark.

Walking home, Michael and I stopped at Bethesda Fountain. He motioned for me to follow him to the edge of the terrace. In the darkness, there were six towers of famous West Side buildings like beacons in the night framing the fountain including the San Remo and the Beresford.

Elsewhere in Central Park, Anne Hathaway and a terrific cast were in the midst of Twelfth Night and giving another 300 New Yorkers a summer evening to remember.

I mused to Michael as we walked by the
Museum of Natural History in its
grandeur that I wonder if Olmsted
and Vaux had any
idea how many people would be
enriched bytheir brilliant conception
of Central Park?

John Lennon, Michael Jackson: Where's the Center?

New York

Thursday was one of those perfect New York days with low humidity, no rain ( a minor miracle ), and blue, blue sky. I spent the morning at my little library ( where Wendy Wasserstein wrote Heidi Chronicles so I hope it rubs off ) surveying various magazines that accept short stories. My course is over at Sarah Lawrence, and I have a real, honest-to-god manuscript ready to submit for possible publication. Or so said my( published) austere faculty person as I finished reading the final pages of the story that I have crafted over the past month. I also reviewed criteria in Writer's Market 2009 that reports things like the percentage of manuscripts received that are actually chosen ( from 1% to 50% ), the magazine's rule about simultaneous submissions, and the amount of money they pay if they publish the piece.( range from two copies of the magazine free to $750 ) Oh, and the length of time you can expect before they read and respond to the submission.

Three hours of that was enough. So, I went to Times Square of all places to hand pick tickets for West Side Story, one of my favorite musicals of all times. On the way back up Central Park West, I walked through the very busy park and headed out toward the street on 72nd after passing softball games, bikers, runners, lovers, families and many, many non New Yorkers.
As I angled toward the access road near the Dakota, I could hear music beyond the bushes. I followed the sound into Strawberry Fields. The famous mosaic, Imagine, was in the middle of a small shaded area flanked on either side by green park benches only half full.

On a bench at the far side of the mosaic were four men of various ages--three strumming Gibson guitars and a drummer with his snare drums. An open guitar case at their feet signaled their hope from the crowd. An all Beetles repertoire. Surrounding the mosaic were a dozen foreign visitors posing, some inside the circle, some lying right next to the letters, some respectfully moving only along the perimeter. Lots of people were coming back and forth from east to west side on their way home from work. Some would linger, some would rush on by, some would walk slowly, humming along on their way. One wool capped, longish haired, lanky adolescent looked disinterested in the whole thing until he turned his back on his parents and suddenly began " whisper words of wisdom, let it be" before he turned back toward them, again looking detached.

I didn't realize at the time that Michael Jackson had died in LA earlier that afternoon.

These two men and their lives couldn't be more different except for their exceptional talent and their impact on the music of generations, The thing is though, I think both of them paid dearly for their contribution. It's tough to be gifted, no question.
It's hard to be the center of all people's expectations, I'm told. That from Lily Tomlin a decade ago when I was running a major fund raiser for the homeless, and Lily was the featured guest/performer. Before she went on, we were chatting in a makeshift green room in Philadelphia. I said something about how much the audience was going to love her no matter what she did. To which she replied: " Don't believe it. the public expects alot of performers."

I guess that's true. But they both paid a high price for that fame, for meeting up to those expectations. The situation is more complex than one quick blog, of course.

But I came away from Strawberry Fields amazed at how Lennon lives for many people as if his death were yesterday. And when I found out about Michael Jackson, I felt a deep sadness. Another Elvis? Marilyn Monroe? It is as if he could not sustain his center. Or find it.


MC

Choosing Between Two Goods

New York

I have been woefully neglectful of this blog for the past two weeks. I can either write to you, dear readers, or write my short story. Both are good things but I cannot seem to do both at the same time. At least I can't for right now. Let me explain.

Several weeks ago, I was bemoaning the fact that I was not writing on a daily basis toward my goal of publishing a short story in some yet to be named journal. But, in order to be published, one must complete a story, submit it, and, finally, receive acknowledgment that it has been accepted for publication.

So, I decided to enroll in a course at Sarah Lawrence, the esteemed Seven Sisters school in Bronxville that has a reputation for having a fine writing faculty ( among a string of other "fine" attributes).

Two weeks ago, I began my first class. Those of you who have followed my blog for the past four years know that this is not the first writing workshop I have attended. Last year I attended Rosemont College's Writer's Retreat in June which opened up possibilities for me through working with other writers over a week's time. And I attended an NYU course a couple of years ago with alot of 20somethings who, when asked to write about their most exciting memory, wrote alot about sex in the backseat of the proverbial Ford.

However, this experience has been different from the very start. First of all, there is a substantial commute considering that it takes me 20 minutes to got to Columbia or, going the other direction, NYU. This commute includes the subway to 42nd Street; the Shuttle to Grand Central; then taking the Metro North for 35 minutes to Bronxville. Finally, walking the mile to the Sarah Lawrence campus.

But how bad can it be emerging from the shuttle with the rest of the mass of humanity and walking up the ramp to the central hall of Grand Central Station. Every week, as I approach the massive room, the four sided art deco clock anchoring the center of the room, I stop to remember where I am. I stop to look up at the amazing green blue ceiling with all sorts of constellations, and silently thank Jackie Kennedy Onassis for throwing her considerable weight behind its rescue from decay and possibly the wrecking ball.

Even Metro North is different. The ticket taker actually answers questions, and, occasionally smiles as we zoom past stops at 125th Street in Harlem, Fordham, Botanical Gardens, and, finally Bronxville. Walking to Sarah Lawrence involves up and down gentle hills through residential neighborhoods that could be anytown USA ( except this town is pretty upscale). The shops and cafes near the station look like a scene from It's A Wonderful Life.

I must admit that before my first class, I was intimidated. What will I bring to read? Is it any good? Will everyone else have completed at least three short stories, with one already accepted for publication in 2009? Nevertheless, I read a couple of scenes from my story. I am happy to report that they did not throw things after I finished. Indeed, the encouragement that I got from both Sarah Goodyear, our (published) faculty, about what was working in the piece, inspired me to keep truckin'. Whew!

And there is more good news. I loved the other writers' work, too. All 11 writers are struggling to authentically communicate their voices, their point of view. At times, I could see the mental angst of one or the other as she tried to tell us why she used a particular phrase, a specific strategy to move the arc of the story along. I could learn something from every one of these writers--something I cannot say about the past experiences in these settings. This is a serious group of writers. Hooray!

And these stories are not about backseat Ford scenes ( although there's nothing wrong with that ). They are about siblings who are found dead in their beds on an ordinary school morning, or cross-cultural marriages that scream with conflict, or poignant stories in a mixture of Spanish and English of a Latina mother who simply cannot nurture her incredibly sensitive, lonely child. Or, in the case of the youngest writer ( who reminds me somehow of the author of the book about the pregnant girl who ends up living in, and delivering her baby at KMart ) whose scenes evoke young adulthood with absolute resonance.

So, do you see why I have not been posting? I have been living in a dreamworld, that space where only ideas live. Where the world is transformable into whatever I want it to be ( as long as it moves the story along, of course ); where there are no rules about what one can feel or think or believe. Where the challenge is to create a structure, a form to offer the story, a platform to present the words so that they can be understood.

And so, for the next week, I will stay in that ether of imagination, floating in and out of consciousness, solving the problems of plot, place, presentation until the protagonist in my story tells me she is finished whispering in my ear.

So, I'm busy talking to my imaginary friend.

I'll be back here in a week. See you in my dreams.
MC

Memorial Day, 2009...Forever Young

Philadelphia

May you always be courageous
Stand upright and be strong
And may you stay... forever young.
Bob Dylan

It's all of our hope, isn't it?

 I sit in the stillness of the early morning listening to Joan Baez sing the Dylan classic while the rest of the house is asleep wondering about the world today.

I know this is the day to remember those who fought for our freedom. The ones who will never grow old, who will be forever young.

The Vietnam War was the war of my generation. And spending nearly two months in SEAsia brought back all of the memories. Through the magic of television, it was the first war with extensive, nearly immediate coverage. So, the nightly news showed horrific videos of monks burning themselves alive in the name of peace. There was the now famous image of a young Vietnamese man on his knees, hands tethered behind his back, while a soldier from the opposing army put an automatic weapon to his temple, pulled the trigger, and the world watched as he slumped then crumbled to the pavement. There was the nightly report of the number of American soldiers who died that very day somewhere fighting in the land surrounding the same Mekong River I journeyed up just two months ago. 

During my time in Vietnam, the War Museum in Ho Chi Minh City brought more of the war back to me. Two downed US fighter jets and a US rescue helicopter are the mainstays of the entrance to the museum, emblematic to the Vietnamese of their conquest of the invading American forces. Inside there are display cases lined up with artifacts of war such as the specific types of hand grenades used by both sides. Or various types of land mines including a graphic description of the destruction they levied on their victims-- both Vietnamese and American.

I was opposed to that war but never to the soldiers who had to fight in those days of conscription. And after spending nights sitting in the dark on the Mekong, riding in longboats through the narrow channels that led to villages deep in the jungle, I have more compassion for those soldiers than ever. I cannot imagine what emotion must have swept over them as they were airdropped into the jungle--especially as the war went on and it was clear that this was not going to be as easy as the administration had billed it to be.

This is a different time. With wars in Iraq and Afghanistan in the midst of a worldwide recession and palpable fear that the War on Terror will again strike American soil is certainly a reason for angst.

I think that is the challenge. To hold the fear as a reality and still live with the hope of solution, resolution, possibilities for dialogue.

That, I think, is what those men and women before us fought ( and are fighting ) for. A chance for us to do a little bit better at remembering the difficult but immensely moving examples of Gandhi and ML King, of the peace treaties that have succeeded. 

That is my hope today. That one day, we can all be home for Memorial Day. 

Then all of us, warriors and peacekeepers, can dream together the dream of remaining forever young.

M.C.

In Gratitude

New York

Yesterday was a perfect day in Central Park. Every element that that magnificent landscape designer, Olmstead. did to create a diverse, visually interesting, and people friendly place was evident.

I had started taking the M68 crosstown bus back to the west side. I guess I felt a little tired by mid afternoon of a busy day because normally, I would have walked the mile or two. As the bus approached Fifth Avenue, preparing to take a right turn on the 68th Street transverse that runs deep under the footpaths of Central Park, I hopped off impulsively.

Entering the park, I couldn't believe the number of people: tourists swinging Metropolitan Museum or Guggenheim bags, nannies pushing sleeping toddlers along the shaded path, a forty-ish man in a wheelchair pausing next to the benches while his partner rested her feet.

I walked under the first bridge, and, for the first time noticed all of the bas relief on its archway, the work of artisans a hundred years ago. Walking toward the Mall, I stopped for a minute on Literary Walk to read the inscriptions under the statues
of Robert Burns and Shakespeare.Strolling down the Mall the angle of light against the massive trees created a stippled walkway like cutout shades of light and dark.

Bethesda's Fountain, the crown jewel of the park, was in its glory, the fountain teeming with tourists, their faces turned up to catch all of the warm sun, he boaters in the distance slowly dipping their oars in the moss colored water.


Walking through the Ramble, I was amazed at how quiet it was. I think alot of tourists are a bit afraid to take it because it IS a ramble and it is easy to get lost in the maze. So, I sat awhile, listened to a cardinal sing, and imagined how long it took to create this hilly, rocky space. On the Ramble's edge, there were two Asian couples posing for wedding pictures under a giant oak.

Finally I could see the mighty Dakota. When the Dakota was built, it was so far away from the center of New York City, that it was the laughing stock of the city. No one ever thought the city would spread north as far as 72nd street!

I realized after I arrived home, that I had seen the park with new eyes. Maybe it was the fact that it was one of the first warm, truly seasonal days we have had in weeks. Maybe it was the lure of the park where there is always an adventure. Maybe it was the thrill of seeing hundreds and hundreds of people embracing the day. Maybe it was entirely metaphysical.

I don't think it much matters. I'm just grateful.
M.C

...And I Shall Have Some Peace There

Philadephia

Ten years ago, I saw the stream in the adjacent photo for the first time. Today I sat by the water for a minute to rest from trimming the holly, thinning the newly sprouted lettuce crop, and arranging the salmon geraniums ever so carefully in the terracota pot on the edge of the deck.

Sitting there, I noticed a wild hyacinth, a wildflower I've never seen before tucked under the rough trunk of the maple tree. The spot was beautiful in the afternoon light. In the still, clear water I could see a young bass swimming aimlessly back and forth.

It made me remember why I wanted this respite, my secret weapon against urban burnout.

When I moved in, I would read Yeats' fine poem over and over. Ten years later, I will share it with you, dear readers.

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, 

And  small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; 

Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,

 And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, 

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; 

There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

 And evening full of the linnet's wings. 

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore:

While I stand on the roadway or on the pavements gray,

I hear it in the deep heart's core.

--W.B.Yeats

Free To Be

New York

Everyone knows intellectually that each child in a family constellation is an individual with his or her own special gifts, characteristics, and, of course, personality. In fact, in my family, I am always amazed that my siblings( both of whom are older) even came out of the same womb sometimes.

So, it is no surprise that Edward, my second grandson,well, is different from his big brother, Ethan, who is special and a delight in his own right--and my first grandchild. Recently, Edward and I have been going to the library--our version of Grammie Time. I pick him up after breakfast and slowly, ever so slowly, he gets on his shoes and jacket while nestling in his dad's chest. I think Edward may not be a morning person. We walk four blocks to the bus ( although he was negotiating hard for the stroller ) and he hops on, the steps easily 10 inches each-- a real stretch for his small legs. By the time we reach Central Park West, he is starting to warm up to this adventure, commenting for all the fawning elderly women on the bus about the tunnels that we sweep under on the trip across the park. Along the way we see a front loader, a fire truck, its siren blaring, and an ambulance. "There's somebody in there, Grammie. And they're sick." Edward doesn't talk necessarily to see what I think. He makes a statement, a conclusion. I find it amazing.

We get off the bus at Madison and 79th. Edward is carrying his yellow felt bag decorated with a duck face and stumbles off of the bus muttering to himself about the books he wants to get on this trip.


As we cross the busy 79th street to the library, I point out the flower boxes near the library. "Do you think the flowers smell good"? I asked. " Maybe," he replied somberly. The box of purple pansies with tiny yellow centers was his first smelling test. We saw ( and smelled ) rhodedendron, too, along the way.

There was no one else in the children's room of the library when we arrived. "What kind of books do you want to take out today," I queried. In his husky voice, he replied: " About submarines, Grammie. And...boats." For the next hour, we selected and read at least ten books that fit his nautical theme.

When it was time to go, the librarian smiled warmly as Edward hiked his precious books up to the counter, his eyes lowered shyly when she talked to him. Six books were stamped and handed back to him.

And we were off to get the bus again, have a snack, count the tunnels on the road that traverses Central Park back to the west side.

" I really had a good time, Edward," I said as I held his hand while we walked along Riverside Drive. " Did you have a good time?" Looking straight ahead, he nodded.

I'm hooked.
MC