20110410

A Mythic Day, A Mythic Life ...





















"Everything at a distance turns into poetry: distant mountains, distant people, distant events ; all become Romantic."  -  Novalis

I saw that quote this evening at a stunning exhibit at the Met, Rooms With A View : The Open Window in the 19th Century.  It brought to mind my recent preoccupation with living a mythic life, with elevating the things we do and turning our days and nights into the stuff of story, the stuff of legend.

When the time comes to look back on it, I won't actually have to try that hard to mythologize this day.  Even as I was living it, one foot in front of the other, there was something going on, a looseness, a sizzle in the air, which culminated with ... well, I'm getting ahead of myself.

This morning started off with the usual sturm und drang.  I hadn't slept well, and I was missing her, and it was 9am and I was honestly trying to figure out how I was going to spend the next 15 hours or so before it would be okay to go to bed again.  Not good.  Not good at all.

A random mailing list email from the Met reminded me that I hadn't yet seen Cezanne's Card Players exhibit, which is set to close in a few weeks.  I started to think about how very much I would love to go to the Met, where I'd not been since that magickal day with Phillie in mid January.

With money being what it is, and having just dodged a serious financial bullet a few days ago, there didn't seem to be any way to justify the cost of driving in, parking, admission (since I still haven't renewed my membership).  It seemed like an idle fancy, and I tried to let it go.

About half an hour later, another seemingly random bit of wandering around the Crimethinc site reminded me that the NYC Anarchist Book Fair was today.  Alright now.  Two things I really wanted to do.  The Fires were burning.  This is so rare in these days of longing.  I had to make it work.

It's a funny thing, making it work.  Sometimes, you just have take action, do something, throw your hat over the proverbial fence and GO, even if you don't quite know how to deal with the consequences.  At least I do.  And so, at 130, I was driving along Route 80, feeling free.

The Mighty Hudson was lovely, and from minute one, I was really enjoying driving in The City, which is weird coming from me.  The West Side Highway, crossing town via 96th and the Park, down Fifth to park under the Met.  It felt like a dance.  Just like that magickal night back at Christmas ...

Walking across Central Park at 3 o'clock on a gorgeous Spring afternoon was such a joy, even for a Winter kid like me.  The people were out, walking and biking and playing games and it felt like a macro T.A.Z. in the green oasis at the heart of our mad 21st century.

Picking up the C outside the Science Museum on 81st, I headed downtown, surer of my steps underground than I ever remember being.  I wasn't even deterred by the garbled voice on the speaker saying something about construction and missed stops.  Just keep moving.  Take action.  Go.

Coming up into the sun again on West 4th St., I wasn't sure which direction Washington Square Park was, so I just guessed.  No stress.  No thinking.  Just instinct.  I ended up being right, and eventually found myself standing outside of Judson Memorial Church, right across from the park.

There were strange people lingering on the steps.  This must be the place, I thought.  Making my way inside, it was packed full of all sorts of people, punks and radical queers and dreadlocked activists and the occasional person (like me, I suppose) who didn't look like the target demographic.

There were tables set up with literature and information, mostly peopled by smiling folks who seemed like they wanted to prove that not all anarchists are bomb throwing miscreants.  (Not that there is anything wrong with miscreants.  Or ne'er-do-wells, for that matter.)  It was a great vibe.

I did a few circles around the room, talking to people, picking up a few zines and stickers and a marvelous looking book by Ursula K. Leguin.  I was a little disappointed that the Crimethinc people weren't there, as I wanted to talk with them.  Another time, I suppose.

There was no radical magick presence, which surprised me, though there was a group called The Icarus Project (which stopped me in my tracks, as you might imagine) and which talked a bit about shamanism while taking a fresh look at mental illness.  They were good people.  I liked them a lot.

I was starting to get a bit hungry, and wanted to have enough time for a decent length Met exploration, so I headed out a little after 5.  Walking through Washington Square Park, where I had somehow never been, was just delightful, another T.A.Z. this time on a neighborhood level.

There were people congregating in small groups playing music.  There was a guy doing a giant sand mandala.  There were people dancing and playing competitive hacky sack, of all things.  There was a beautiful woman who looked just like my Muse (who I knew for a fact was in Montclair).  Sigh.

Before allowing any melancholy to take root, I kept moving, along West 4th to Broadway to Astor, to the 6 all the way back up to 86th and Lexington, one block from the best hot dog stand in the world, Papaya King.  It'd been so long since I'd been there.  I had three.  Joyously.

The walk down 3rd Avenue to 79th was gentle, as evening began to settle in over the great City, which I continued to love, strangely.  Arriving back at the Met a little after 6, I knew I wasn't going to have one of my epic visits, but that was alright.  Just being there would be enough.

Taking my usual route, from Greece & Rome through 20th Century, saying hello to Dionysus and the Elements in the European Sculpture Court (which had the same jazz trio playing as the afore-mentioned day with P) then through the French Period rooms before passing through Byzantium and back to the stairs.

The Cezanne exhibit was exactly as I'd figured, small, yet tremendously focused.  It was nice to see more examples of what I've always thought of as Cezanne's "peasant" paintings, which feel different than his landscapes and still lifes to me.  I waved to The Soulful Peasant (my title) and imagined him smiling, softly.

Heading back to the Lehmann Wing, to say hello to the wayward Chagall that they hide back there, I was lured downstairs to the Guitar Heroes exhibit, which was nice if not spectacular.  Retracing my steps, which I never like doing, I made my way upstairs to Rooms With A View, which started this whole amazing day.

The work of Caspar David Friedrich was featured, as was that of his contemporary and friend Georg Friedrich Kersting.  Kersting's canvases, as well as a few by Adolph Menzel really stood out for me, as prime examples of works that focus on light and silence and unfulfilled longing.  I would be drawn to these, of course.

After pulling myself away from all of those windows, all of those parallel worlds, I made my way past the Poussins and Rembrandts to the American Wing.  The sunset in the Engelhard Court was the best I've ever seen (pic #1 above).  There was such a mystery in the space, site of many important meetings over the years.

As I was making my way through the period rooms, I received a text from Julia, my dear and long standing friend, who I last saw back in January, in the afore-mentioned Engelhard Court, on the now thrice mentioned day with P.  I had texted her a bit earlier, to say hello and that I was thinking of her.

What hadn't really occurred to me was that she might actually be in the City, and that she might actually want to see me.  So when she wrote that she was around the corner with her boyfriend and that they were coming in to find me, I froze.  Think about it ...

She didn't know anything about my heartbreak, about my change in appearance, about my pause.  I had been wandering alone all day, comfortable with my solitude and invisibility.  As much as I care for her, was I really willing to change the channel on my day so drastically?

It's Julia.  Of course I was.  I told her to meet me in my office, at the southeast corner of the Temple of Dendur, and I made peace with not getting to see Jeanne or Vincent or Versaiiles or the Shaker room.  I waited quietly, wondering exactly how I was going to explain everything in the short time before closing.

She couldn't find me at first, considering what she was looking for.  When we locked eyes, I couldn't tell if she was happy or sad or confused or worried or what.  Probably all of the above.  She introduced me to Chris, and we all sat down.  Me being me, I started telling stories.

We riffed and shared for close to a half hour, before the Gestapo began clearing the space.  I figured it would be another short visit like last time, and that we might catch up again some other time.  They surprised me when they invited me back to her apartment, just a short walk away on 96th and Madison Avenue.

Accepting the invite felt like a return to my vibe earlier in the day, of saying yes to serendipity, of letting go of preconceived ideas and just going with it.  The walk up 5th was a continuation of the talking and storytelling (with a stop to take pic #2 above, of the sidewalk at 91st Street).  I knew I was exactly where I needed to be.

The sixth floor apartment was small but very homey, with bright yellow walls in the kitchen.  I was reintroduced to one roommate, Sara, who I'd met years ago at a gig in Princeton, when she and Julia were still in high school.  I also met Sara's boyfriend Lee, and another roommate Kat.  Good vibes all 'round.

What was interesting to learn is that apparently Julia talks about me all the time, and that they all knew my story, who I was, what I was about (at least up til these very recent times) before I ever walked in the door.  I think it was Sara who said something to the effect of, "I can't believe you're actually here."  Wow.  Mindfuck.

We all crowded around their kitchen table, and by god, it was another salon, only this time with me as the guest in someone else's space.  I kept trying to steer the focus away from me, but they all kept asking me questions, about shamanism and magick and the loss of my Muse.

I trusted them, even though it's still hard for me to own the fact that people seem to want to hear my stories.  Julia knows that I don't love being the center of attention, or being put on a pedestal, but she kept making the point that they all wanted me there, and that they were inspired by how I live my life.

Honestly, I was just as inspired by them.   They were all so wise and grounded, for a group whose average age is 23.  Knowing Julia since she's 14, I continue to be amazed at her strength, and her grace.  It doesn't surprise me at all the type of tribe she has surrounded herself with.

In true salon fashion, suddenly it was after 1am, and I was 16 blocks from my car with an hour drive after that and I had to get up for work at 630.  Also in true salon fashion, it took awhile to actually make it to the door, a robust ten feet away.  No one really wanted the night to end.

These things only have a meaning because of their impermanence, though.  We live fully, we open our hearts to grace, then we have to move on, so the next miracle can occur.  And so, there was much hugging, and Sara made me promise that I would return, so we could do it all again one day.  What an easy promise to make.

Julia walked me to the door, and we had one last big hug, and I thanked her for the gift of her friendship and this amazing evening.  It is part of my story now, just like the Bear Mountain Barbecue, or The Inn at Avon, or the Robert Fripp concert, or the St. Patrick's / Rockefeller Tree night, or the Solstice Salon or the now quad-mentioned Met day with That Dear Boy.

Despite my sadness and longing, despite the re-evaluation of my transformation, I am very blessed, to have such an amazing story to tell.  (All of those chapters above, they all happened in only the last six months!)  As I turned to walk down the stairs, and Julia and I shared one more meaningful glance, I knew what had just happened, and that no one can ever take it from me.

Walking down Madison Avenue in the middle of the night was amazing.  So full of wonder and mystery, a fitting end to my day of falling in love with The City again.  I couldn't help but take one last picture of The Met, with nary a soul or car in sight.  Such silence, such peace, if one knows where to look.

Now it's after 3 and I am wide awake, melodies from Danger Days still in my head after the VERY LOUD drive home.  I honestly don't know how I'm going to get up in a few hours, but it doesn't matter. Today I lived.  Today was magick.  Tomorrow will be what it is, but today ... today was absolute perfection.

"Alas, even though I am already old, I am only a beginner.  However, I am beginning to understand, if I may say so; I believe I do understand." - Paul Cezanne

1 comment:

  1. "These things only have a meaning because of their impermanence, though." There is your lesson for the day! I always try to teach my nieces and nephews this concept, by helping them to build detailed sand sculptures on the high-tide line at the beach. They always moan when the waves begin to wash away our handiwork; I explain to them with joy that we will always have these sculptures in our memories, along with the sense of connection that happens when several people work towards the same goal; even the waves can't take that from us. Plus, we will be gifted with a brand new, cleansed canvas at the next low tide, and the opportunity to create all over again.

    What a lovely day you had!

    Hugs and love!!

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