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
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