Information, Consciousness, Enjoyment

So I'm still thinking about my New York experience and how difficult it was for my "being" to bring about keen feelings of immediate pleasure at the moment of seeing (often great) scenes I've always heard about, read about or seen pictures of. Indeed, I often felt quite numb inside, as if I weren't quite there, like an awkward geek. Later, I thought perhaps it was a matter of too much information, like the physicist James Gleick talks about: information is everywhere, in a certain way it is what the world is made up of these days, we are all bashed up against it, inside and out, and it's hard to get away from it all, to become "innocent" again - - indeed, Yeats believed that it was important to remain innocent from too much experience in order that one could feel.

What would Yeats think now!

In his new book "Soul Dust", Nicholas Humphrey states his own belief that it is important that we are most vividly conscious of the unexpected, because consciousness is liked to curiosity and exploration. Seeing the Atlantic ocean, for instance, moved me more than the Metropolitan Museum, because I had no idea what the Atlantic Ocean looked like. I had seen so many pictures of the famous paintings in the Met - to be actually standing in front of a Van Gogh or a George O'Keefe or a Renoir or a Braque or (I'm just naming names who are popping into my head, not necessarily my favorites, just naming names) a Modigliani.....did not move me. They were not unexpected. The elderly European waiters in the delis were, for me, unexpected. I want the unexpected. I want the "je ne sais quoi" , alright, the magic of experience, but I want my experience to carry the magic of the unexpected.

Or, one could argue that my senses were simply on overload, that I'm a hopeless rube and that I was simply too numbed out, too much on overload, to be able to appreciate. But I DID appreciate the Schubert Theatre because I had never in my life imagined what the inside of the Schubert Theatre had ever looked like before. Same for Saint Patrick's Cathedral. Same for the show we saw, "Memphis". Same for hearing the licks played by the sixteen year old guitar player, Solomon Hicks. Same for Alan's Uncle Leo's sense of humor. I had no idea. That's what I thirst for.

That's why I read.

When I read a new (terrific) book, I am not a zombie. I am alive, lively, excited, filled with ideas. Or those (too few) times when I write a poem or create a piece of art - - these my consciousness becomes highly aroused because , even though the "doing" part comes from inside me, I have no idea what's going to occur, no idea about the finished state, and that's excitement, folks. At least for me. Writing anything carries that kind of color. It's something I've never seen before, even though I realize we all think approximately 98,000 thoughts a day and they pretty much duplicate each other day after day after day... still, there are always emergencies and accidents and chaos still strikes and chaos isn't always bad........

......anyway, I'm still just thinking. I don't KNOW anything, none of this is knowledge, it's all just thought, and not very deep thought, at that. Just random thinking. Oh, the allure of one's own mind, huh?

What a great place to come home to.

NEW YORK WOULD BE GREAT WITH JUST.........

............a few hundred thousand less people. At least that is my humble estimation. Because the people get in the way. You wanna see the new Alexander McQueen exhibit at the Met? Sure, go right ahead. Except all you'll see is one thousand peoples' butts. On the other hand, we were in the fourth row at the Broadway show "Memphis" (Schubert Theatre, no less) and the people we were looking at were terrific actors, singers and dancers, all terrific. And, because they were terrific, we became terrific, too. There's something about being so close to that much talent that rubs off. Excitement, zest, ability, all that, rub off. Alan and I walked out of that theatre feeling like a million bucks. The violinist (who probably played with the symphony at night), along with the bass player and somebody else I can't remember - under a bridge in Central park - were so good they made my teeth ache. Scads of musical talent in Central Park. Not to mention the incredible beauty of the place, especially, for me, the amazing basalt formations filled with mica.

We had drinks several times at the Plaza, I had a make-over at Bergdorf Goodman (unfortunately I still look like me but I did walk out of that place feeling glowier), We paid a visit to the St. James Cathedral, walked our feet off at the Met Museum, visited the Museum of Folk Art which was a big disappointment to me - come on now, folks, this is New York! You can do BETTER than this! A few quilts, a primitive painting of Abraham Lincoln....NO. You can better than this. I did steal a bunch of their advertisement-postcards and send them out because I liked them so much, so the visit wasn't a total bust. We had fabulous food - Alan ate all kinds of spaghetti, ziti, eggplant and pasta, because he's six foot one and he can do it. I ate steak and salad, knowing that the pasta would stick to my hips like mama sticks to daddy.

Times Square nearly put me into a catatonic state. I just wanted to escape. Somehow, Alan was able to keep his cool. Right in the middle of Times Square, with what seemed to me to be two thousand people going this way and two thousand people going that way and another couple of thousand people going ways nobody had even imagined going before, and they're talking and yelling and Alan's speaking to me, pointing things out, "Baby, see that bridge over there? Remember that Simon and Garfunkel lyric about.....that's the bridge they were writing about!" And I couldn't think. I couldn't respond. For hours I just couldn't respond. The only words I could think of were either ironic or sarcastic or both. Not because I felt mean, but because...what can you say when you are in a state of shock? "Wow" sounds sarcastic. "Really!" sounds juvenile. "Geeze" sounds juvenile. He kept pointing things out and I kept thinking things like, "Where is the button that turns this part OFF?" And it's not just the people, its the overhead ads. Flashing. Flashing. Don't talk to me about hell. Times Square is hell. There is no devil, there are no flames, there is no fire. There is just Times Square.

We went to the famous Stage Deli, one of the three most famous delis in New York. Sandwiches as high as three or four books stacked together. Unbelievable. I loved the waiters. European, all of them. Older gentlemen, all humorous, each of them had developed their own style, their own schicht (sp)...I asked the waiter, "How's the meatloaf sandwich?"

"Ahh," he said, "I dona like the meataloaf."
"You don't?" I asked.
"Nah," he said. "Maybe you lika the meataloaf here, I dona like it."
"I'll take the meataloaf," I said.
"Yeah?" he said. "You're not from America," he said.
"Where are YOU from?" Alan asked him."
"I'm not saying," he said to Alan.
Alan ordered chopped liver.

We didn't order any of those huge disgusting sandwiches, but the sandwiches we did order were more than we could handle. Later, he did tell Alan where he was from but I can't remember now (it's early Saturday morning) where it was.

That evening, we went to Junior's for cheesecake. I have never had such cheesecake. It was like swallowing the entirety of Marilyn Monroe. Oh my God. If Times Square is Hell, Junior's Cheesecake is Heaven.

We stayed at the Warwick Hotel, where Cary Grant lived, for twelve years. Other famous people lived there too. The Beatles stayed there. I can't remember the rest. We stayed there. That's good enough for me. The weather in New York was warm to hot. Every day we were there. It was a miracle. We went to Central Park again a few days later but we didn't go through Times Square to get there this time, so I had my adjectives back and I could exclaim about the beauty of the place. Alan said he liked me much better with adjectives.

And then, New Jersey. Home of the foot long hotdog (I gobbled mine right up), the famous thin crust pizza (Alan once - well, twice) - ate two large pizzas and each time won a tee shirt for his magnificent feats (I think I could have done the same but I CHOSE not to)..... home of the gorgeous boardwalk which cuddles right up next to the great Atlantic ocean. We stayed in a hotel right on the ocean, drank our drinks in a Tiki-like place right on the beach, stayed in a fabulous hotel with a spa (I had a facial, he had a very fancy foot massage, we both had hot stone massages)....and then there was the day we were walking on the boardwalk and strayed into one of the many shops there, looking for something to bring home to Aleister. A very nice looking older woman helped us. Alan, who is extremely friendly, paid for whatever we bought, and exchanged words with the sales-lady. "Where are you from?" she asked him. "Washington State," he said, "but I used to be from here. From Jersey." "From here?" she said. "What's your last name?" "Schein," he said. "My dad owned a gas station a couple blocks from here." "And your name is Alan," she said. "And you're my cousin." "Oh my god!" he yelled and they threw themselves into each other's arms. She was his cousin Shirley. He was her cousin Alan. She was just a tiny bit of a thing who, in her eighties, decided that, to make ends meet, she needed to find a job, and so she did. Oh my God, indeed. It was wonderful, to see that. If you're looking for examples of people who love family, like Alan does, like all his family do, you should have been there to see that. AND then they all get on the telephone. "Now, who can I call?" she said. I don't know how many times I heard that said during the Jersey part of the trip. "Now, who can I call?" Telephones, "real" ones, are still good for something, let me tell you. Telephones are still alive and well in Jersey.

I met his eighty-some year old next door neighbor (from childhood) Lydia, who stood up for Alan when his parents were disappointed in him. We paid a visit to her. She walks with a walker, but otherwise seems to be in good health. They knew about each other's families, their children, grandchildren, and, at the end of the visit, she teared up and said, "Alan, I always thought of you as my own child. Now. Who can I call?"

I met several of Alan's best male friends and their wives.His friends have several names. Barry is called Punky and Harold is Byrde and Froggy is...I'm not sure who Froggy is other than he is, unbelievably if you met him, the coach at Mammoth University, and we ate dinner at Byrde and ALice's house and Barry and Laurel's house and onenight we went with some of these friends to a blues club and heard some blues and suddenly a large black woman sat down beside me and we locked eyes and I said, "Who ARE you?" and she tossed it back, saying, "Well, who are YOU?" and I said, "You want the true story or the other one?" and she said, "Tell me your Soul story," so we talked back and forth for a bit and then a young man, her sixteen year old son, dressed in a white tuxedo jacket and black slacks, got up from her table and went up on stage and played some of the best blues/jazz guitar ever. Ever. Sixteen years old and he plays at New York's Cotton Club. And his Mama and I were holding hands and moving back and forth and when that kid was done he got the first standing ovation that club has ever seen or given. Solomon Hicks is his name. Watch out, America. Solomon Hicks is gonna be part of America's soul story.

I need to go back around now and tell about our first two days in Jersey (we hit Jersey first and then left for New York) where we stayed with Alan's older sister Fran and her husband Leo. And,to my wide-eyed delight, they were delightful. Alan and Fran seemed to forge an even-tighter relationship, Fran is as honest and gracious a hostess as they come and Leo couldn't be more charming or more humorous. He comes from that same part of town and that same time that gave birth to Woody Allen and Carl Reiner and, although his hearing is going, he's superb fun. We were wined and dined and, on Mother's Day, their daughter Amanda came home to celebrate which was especially nice. Two friends rounded out dinner on Mother's Day and I fell in love with the entire family. I gave Fran my blog address but I doubt she will read this...if she does, thanks, Fran, you're terrific. You too, Leo. You're the mensch. You're the Brooklyn Bridge.

My blog is giving me signals that they are about ready to close me down or shut my shutters or something...so I'll shut my own shutters ("you can't fire me, I quit!") and leave for now. Oh and I haven't even said a word yet about airports. I've got a whole blog in me about airports. Oy.

So. While we were gone to New York I had my entire house painted in seven or eight different colors. I'd hired a project manager to oversee everything and keep sending us pictures so that I wouldn't freak when I got home - - and I didn't freak - - but it will take a week before I find my Q-tips or my shoe horn. I love the colors. Some may find the marigold color of the downstairs hallway too....much...but not me. I think it's great. I think it gives one the feeling of being crushed by one of Van Gogh's sunflowers. One by one.

And what could be better than that?