The living room is exquisite and clean, with a white carpet, couch and love seat. A fireplace blazes behind thick glass, burning gas and controlled by a dimmer switch nearby. The "logs" never burn, they are made of a ceramic fiber. There is a very large, thin, high-definition television set, placed into an enormous entertainment center. A stack of coasters is at my feet, on the coffee table. They are all there, in a little nest made precisely for that purpose. My coffee is steaming nearby, without a coaster under it. A copy of "PC Magazine" sits in the center of the table.
From where I sit, on the love seat, I can see into the kitchen easily, and beyond that into the dining room and foyer. The affect on me is easy to guess at, given my tiny flat. It all looks big, and expensive. There are no dust bunnies or cat toys on the floor, and for that reason I'm compelled to say that the house is a bit like a museum, it's that spotless to my eye.
To my left, the never-ending fire bakes the ceramic and glass and the heat provided is not inconsiderable. I move to my right. I'm a little hot. There is nothing on the television, and I can hear a clock ticking and the occasional gust outside. It's dark out, and not much brighter in here. Besides the fireplace, four dim light bulbs glow faintly in the kitchen. My thumbs set to fiddling.
Not a damn thing is happening, and that's what I think to myself, "Not a damn thing is happening." Time goes by, but like a dream. Thoughtlessly, except for the aforementioned consideration of the lack of activity. It feels like several hours go by, but something tells me that it has only been minutes. The clock is audibly marking time, but it travels in and out of my attention.
An end table to my right, made of reclaimed barn wood, is empty except for a lamp, a pipe, and a pipe ashtray. A lighter and pouch of "butter rum" pipe tobacco are in my pocket. I'm not sure how, but I know that they are there, just waiting for me to violate the air with plumes of smoke.
The air has waited long enough, and that's what I think to myself, "The air has waited long enough." The pipe is stuffed and in my hand directly after this thought, and I'm puffing and puffing away. The lighter goes back into my pocket, and I set upon keeping the thing alive. It's alive! It breathes smoke up and out of view, and can soon be seen invading the air under the lights in the kitchen. Like a drop of ink in a large fish tank, the cloud moves to every corner. I'm pleased to have something to do, and I'm relaxed. The copy of "PC Magazine" finds a way into my hand, and I'm flipping through articles that do not interest me in the least.
Silence and pleasing isolation. Puff, puff and puff.
Suddenly, the room bursts to life. The television is on, and someone is reporting something urgently. Could be the Super Bowl, or 9/11. It's supposed to be important and that is being related well, but I'm not picking up specifics. The room is bright now. The rug seems whiter, as do the couches. But now there are people walking around on that white rug and sitting and conversing on that white couch. Color is everywhere. A young lady just beyond the coffee table is wearing a dress that comes down almost to her knees. It's a "little black dress." She is holding a glass of red wine and laughing her ass off as she speaks to a handsome man, middle aged, who is wearing an awful "Cosby" sweater. He is holding a rust-colored drink that is certainly harder stuff than wine.
But that's not all, people are everywhere, and some are looking at me. I don't see the clothes they are wearing anymore, or the drinks (if any) in their hands. People are talking and some are looking at me, as if we are in the middle of a conversation and it is my time to speak. The kitchen and dining room and foyer are all out of view now. At some point, I realize music is playing loudly, and the television has been muted.
I can't quite place it. Wait...it's Cee lo Green's Fuck You.
Now, a little about pipes.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Thursday, December 09, 2010
Madame von Meck and Tchaikovsky
Nadezhda von Meck and Pyotr Ilych Tchaikovsky never spoke to each other, even as they lived as neighbors in Brajlovo, Russia. It is said that they did meet on two separate occasions, by accident, but didn't converse. The relationship between Madame von Meck and Tchaikovsky started in 1877, flourished, and then ended in 1890. By 1894, Meck and Tchaikovsky were both gone. Meck had died of tuberculosis in January of 1894, less than two months after Tchaikovsky had died from cholera, although that remains a controversial conclusion to this day. Many speculate that Tchaikovsky had committed suicide, urged to do so by friends who were concerned about rumors of his homosexuality. These "friends" were classmates from his days at the St. Petersburg School of Jurisprudence. Tchaikovsky had once studied to be an attorney.
The relationship between Meck and Tchaikovsky began formally, with Meck writing to the composer as an appreciator of his work. This quickly developed into an affectionate friendship, and Meck (a woman of great wealth in this period) became a patroness of Tchaikovsky. She considered him a, "great friend, " and they corresponded often.
There are currently 1203 known letters in existence; 768 written by the composer and 435 by Meck. I've read all the letters, and in my opinion, these two people loved each other. She comforted the composer during his many periods of melancholy, and Tchaikovsky responded with love and affection. In 1878, Tchaikovsky wrote his 4th Symphony ( a piece that left a considerable impression on me) and dedicated it to his, "best friend," to Madame von Meck.
If you're interested, there are many books about this relationship. I'm posting video of the first movement his 4th symphony. Enjoy.
The relationship between Meck and Tchaikovsky began formally, with Meck writing to the composer as an appreciator of his work. This quickly developed into an affectionate friendship, and Meck (a woman of great wealth in this period) became a patroness of Tchaikovsky. She considered him a, "great friend, " and they corresponded often.
There are currently 1203 known letters in existence; 768 written by the composer and 435 by Meck. I've read all the letters, and in my opinion, these two people loved each other. She comforted the composer during his many periods of melancholy, and Tchaikovsky responded with love and affection. In 1878, Tchaikovsky wrote his 4th Symphony ( a piece that left a considerable impression on me) and dedicated it to his, "best friend," to Madame von Meck.
If you're interested, there are many books about this relationship. I'm posting video of the first movement his 4th symphony. Enjoy.
Wednesday, December 08, 2010
Imagine a Bag of Corn Chips
I was trying to write something funny tonight. Something about socks and printer ink. At some point, though, melancholy set in. Maybe it's "Sunset Boulevard" on TCM, or John Lennon's, "Imagine." Earlier tonight I had a seizure that set the room rolling back and forth, cold sweats, and blinking lights. Like Times Square breaking to pieces during an earthquake. But the bulbs never broke. They settled into the rubble burning bright.
It's passing now, so I'm going to take a couple of pain pills, snack on corn chips, and watch "Sid and Nancy" with Nancy.
They didn't have to shoot John Lennon, did they? No, they didn't. Chapman didn't. The world is jam-packed with awfulness, perpetrated by people who didn't have a reason. Not one that satisfies anyone but them. Earlier today, a news report informed me of Chapman's living situation for the last 30 years. Attica. Somehow it doesn't satisfy, does it? He could be the King of Siam for all I care, it still wouldn't bring Mr. John Lennon back.
I'm of a mind to post a video of what I consider to be the greatest song of the 20th century (and the the first 10 years of the 21st). Cheers.
It's passing now, so I'm going to take a couple of pain pills, snack on corn chips, and watch "Sid and Nancy" with Nancy.
They didn't have to shoot John Lennon, did they? No, they didn't. Chapman didn't. The world is jam-packed with awfulness, perpetrated by people who didn't have a reason. Not one that satisfies anyone but them. Earlier today, a news report informed me of Chapman's living situation for the last 30 years. Attica. Somehow it doesn't satisfy, does it? He could be the King of Siam for all I care, it still wouldn't bring Mr. John Lennon back.
I'm of a mind to post a video of what I consider to be the greatest song of the 20th century (and the the first 10 years of the 21st). Cheers.
Saturday, December 04, 2010
Your Eyes as a Mirror
Warren wrote and spoke and moved, and lived, entirely for himself. Every act was self-serving, and every conversation (every single one!) was deprived of a life of its own, and was forced back to himself. And he forced it vigorously. Certainly no one else would do it for him. You couldn't converse with him without talking about him. At 40 years of age he had become a master, well-practiced and efficient, at sucking the oxygen out of a room.
Not a bad looking fellow, well-dressed and quick with a smile, he attracted a bit of attention at social gatherings. From a distance, he appeared to be engaging and earnest, almost passionate. And in a way he was, but only about his opinions, experiences, observations, thoughts and actions. His own cheerleader, before, during and after the game. A booster club. A Ladies' Auxiliary. An appreciation society.
If you study a thing, the thing changes. If you study a person, the person changes. The thing changes in the mind of the person doing the studying. But a person changes in two minds. If you care enough to consider a fellow like Warren, he is best considered obliquely. From an angle, you could remove yourself from the spectacle of narcissism. But if you spoke to him directly, he would mercilessly hold you there. The outstretched hand of a beggar. He made you feel not only rude, but cruel, if you didn't let him use you. He mistook pity for the attention of an inquiring mind.
There is a nurturing sort of person, almost always a woman, who feels the need to comfort men like Warren, by pretending to find them fascinating. He took and they gave. And gave and gave until there was nothing left to give. The tit was sucked dry. Eventually, these women would withdraw out of a need for self-preservation. As instinctual an impulse as running from a fire.
He thought of these emotional wet nurses as lovers. Charity was mistaken for commerce. Over time, the list of women grew. None of them stayed with him for more than a year or two at most. The absence of one created a void that drew another.
He would never know that no one ever loved him. Not the way he thought, anyway.
Not a bad looking fellow, well-dressed and quick with a smile, he attracted a bit of attention at social gatherings. From a distance, he appeared to be engaging and earnest, almost passionate. And in a way he was, but only about his opinions, experiences, observations, thoughts and actions. His own cheerleader, before, during and after the game. A booster club. A Ladies' Auxiliary. An appreciation society.
If you study a thing, the thing changes. If you study a person, the person changes. The thing changes in the mind of the person doing the studying. But a person changes in two minds. If you care enough to consider a fellow like Warren, he is best considered obliquely. From an angle, you could remove yourself from the spectacle of narcissism. But if you spoke to him directly, he would mercilessly hold you there. The outstretched hand of a beggar. He made you feel not only rude, but cruel, if you didn't let him use you. He mistook pity for the attention of an inquiring mind.
There is a nurturing sort of person, almost always a woman, who feels the need to comfort men like Warren, by pretending to find them fascinating. He took and they gave. And gave and gave until there was nothing left to give. The tit was sucked dry. Eventually, these women would withdraw out of a need for self-preservation. As instinctual an impulse as running from a fire.
He thought of these emotional wet nurses as lovers. Charity was mistaken for commerce. Over time, the list of women grew. None of them stayed with him for more than a year or two at most. The absence of one created a void that drew another.
He would never know that no one ever loved him. Not the way he thought, anyway.
Friday, December 03, 2010
Double Clutch
The film, "Knock On Any Door" was on the television, and the room began to sway. The edge of the couch became very important, and I held onto it. Bits of pipe tobacco that I had spilled seemed to float in my mind, creating the impression that I was looking beyond them to the floor below. A space opened up. My eyes were turned downward, and I was afraid to look up for fear of losing my balance and falling off the couch. Distance became very hard to reckon. The brown flecks moved this way and that, like looking down on a cloud of confetti from a great height. But those little bits never settled. No gravity pulled them down, and no wind stirred them. They were just there, those machine cut scraps of tobacco were hovering, fixed in an impossible place. The floor seemed so damned far away, and I gripped the hand rest of the couch as hard as I could.
The silver aluminum mullions of the Empire State Building were pierced by a B-25, lost in the fog. The skyscraper shook, but I held fast. The sound of one of the plane's engines breaking loose and falling into an elevator shaft made me sick to my stomach. Everything shook. Fantastic distances separated everything, the planes and the buildings and the people and the steam pouring from a manhole cover 100 floors below. But all those things gathered together, like bits of driftwood that come together in the sea. All that empty space, but they came together. The sea met the city and they both met the sky, like a T-square. If I could have looked west as well as east, land and sea and the streets and buildings would have merged hundreds of feet below, then shot upward to where I was standing, like a geyser or stalagmite. But I couldn't see west, just horizon down and up through me to the sky.
The stairs were dusty, and speckled with little dried spots of coffee. With cream and sugar. My left hand was flat against the wall, and my right held the banister. Upward I climbed, carefully avoiding the acrylic painting of flowers set behind a gold frame, purchased at a flea market or Salvation Army store. I couldn't remember, but it cost no more than $5. I'd brushed it off the wall before, and didn't want to do it again. My eyes were still set downward. To look up the stairs or to the left or right would have sent me spinning. Fourteen stairs to the top, the second seven were a blur.
A faux antique umbrella stand on the landing. "Paris, 1889," but the second floor was as wide as the first. My neighbor scolded her child, Jay, I could hear her through the wall. A muffle, but the tone was stern and familiar. She has been my neighbor for years, and I saw her son so often, playing alone outside in the courtyard, that he never seemed to age. But he must be 10 now. I've known him for half his life. I spoke softly to myself, although I didn't feel like I was in the room, "Listen to your mother, kid." But I knew he would. A single mother and her child, from another country. American children run roughshod over their parents. But Jay didn't need to hear from his mother twice. All was quiet again.
The silver aluminum mullions of the Empire State Building were pierced by a B-25, lost in the fog. The skyscraper shook, but I held fast. The sound of one of the plane's engines breaking loose and falling into an elevator shaft made me sick to my stomach. Everything shook. Fantastic distances separated everything, the planes and the buildings and the people and the steam pouring from a manhole cover 100 floors below. But all those things gathered together, like bits of driftwood that come together in the sea. All that empty space, but they came together. The sea met the city and they both met the sky, like a T-square. If I could have looked west as well as east, land and sea and the streets and buildings would have merged hundreds of feet below, then shot upward to where I was standing, like a geyser or stalagmite. But I couldn't see west, just horizon down and up through me to the sky.
The stairs were dusty, and speckled with little dried spots of coffee. With cream and sugar. My left hand was flat against the wall, and my right held the banister. Upward I climbed, carefully avoiding the acrylic painting of flowers set behind a gold frame, purchased at a flea market or Salvation Army store. I couldn't remember, but it cost no more than $5. I'd brushed it off the wall before, and didn't want to do it again. My eyes were still set downward. To look up the stairs or to the left or right would have sent me spinning. Fourteen stairs to the top, the second seven were a blur.
A faux antique umbrella stand on the landing. "Paris, 1889," but the second floor was as wide as the first. My neighbor scolded her child, Jay, I could hear her through the wall. A muffle, but the tone was stern and familiar. She has been my neighbor for years, and I saw her son so often, playing alone outside in the courtyard, that he never seemed to age. But he must be 10 now. I've known him for half his life. I spoke softly to myself, although I didn't feel like I was in the room, "Listen to your mother, kid." But I knew he would. A single mother and her child, from another country. American children run roughshod over their parents. But Jay didn't need to hear from his mother twice. All was quiet again.
The second floor landing and my sweaty, cold forehead met. It was soothing. My feet rested on the tail end of that B-25, allowing me to rest for a moment. The sky was spinning abo
ve me, but I was comfortably below it now. A fog settled in, and it brought some peace with it. So tired. So weak. Concealed in mist and alone in my flat, the seizure could now be gauged without becoming self-conscious. My exhausted unease was safe from discovery. I would sleep now, deeply and without a dream or nightmare to ruin it. The sky and the sea and the stairs and that flower painting and Jay and the fog-lost B-25 met within me and rose. Moving, but not going anywhere. A rumor of an invisible central point brought everything together.
ve me, but I was comfortably below it now. A fog settled in, and it brought some peace with it. So tired. So weak. Concealed in mist and alone in my flat, the seizure could now be gauged without becoming self-conscious. My exhausted unease was safe from discovery. I would sleep now, deeply and without a dream or nightmare to ruin it. The sky and the sea and the stairs and that flower painting and Jay and the fog-lost B-25 met within me and rose. Moving, but not going anywhere. A rumor of an invisible central point brought everything together.
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