Monday, April 25, 2016

321

I'm A crossing the Hamilton Fish toward Beacon, a giant brown bridge spanspanning the great Hudson, like the byzantine vertebrae of a giant brown whale. I meant to appropriate seeing as to how Hamilton, via the eyes of Lin-Manuel Miranda, has become a metaphor resurrected for our golden hip hop age. I watched a V of geese fly just over the lip of the Hudson, toward the shore. I think to take out my phone, but remember the snow leopard in Walter Mitty that Sean Penn did not capture. I am listening to David Bowie's Blackstar, maybe his greatest work of art, and the saxophone comes in, that  inimitable David Bowie saxophone. And I remember hearing in one of the countless interviews as of late how he started out wanting to become the saxophone player for the Little Richard band. I understand that exactly. So this saxophone solo built up to it's messy scattershot climax just as the geese hit the shore, scattering the several geese waiting, in perfect disharmony. Dancing across the Hamilton Fish, the bridge from Balmville to Beacon. The Hamilton Fish, why, because it looks like the byzantine skeleton of a giant fish laying across the Hudson, big brown whale, seems fitting, seeing as to how Hamilton has become the reigning metaphor for the hip-hop age, thanks to Lin-Manuel. But I looked out of my feet, see a rip in the seam of corrugated concrete on the bridge I am crossing. Hart Crane looms large, gyring up like a gull trawling for spirits. I could jump. He jumped. This morning my daughter said, my four-year-old daughter said, she was going to kill herself. She had no idea what she was saying, just playing, but the words were a shock. A rip in the seam of the bridge, where nature is tearing apart the solid structures of man, and through the hole in the walkway I can see you, perfectly framed, the brown bear top of a tree 100 feet below me, as I near the Beacon side, over the river now, but not clear. My farseeing friend Keriba challenge me on Facebook to put up seven pictures of nature. I was hesitant, but because it was her, I said yes. So this hole in the fabric of this modern bridge, this Hamiltonian Fish, is the frame through which I view nature now below. The little tufts of moss around the lips of the maw are reaching up and out into the future, where green reigns supreme. I reflect on this rip in the seem as I dance down the runway of a dream.

Cleaned up: (and note, easier to read, not necessarily better)

Acrossing the Hamilton Fish toward Beacon, a beige bridge spanspanning the great Hudson like the byzantine skeleton of a ginormous whale, and seeing as how Hamilton has become a metaphor resurrected for our golden hip hop age and all. I watched a V of geese fly just over the top of the river, toward the shore. (Q. Why is one side of the V longer? A. Because it has more birds.) I think to take out my phone, but remember the snow leopard in Walter Mitty that Sean Penn did not capture. I am listening to David Bowie's Blackstar, maybe his greatest album, and the saxophone comes in, that undeniable David Bowie saxophone. And I remember hearing in one of the countless interviews how he started out wanting to become the saxophone player for the Little Richard band. I understand that exactly. So this saxophone solo built up to its messy scattershot climax just as this V of geese hit the shore and scattered the several geese waiting there, in a clash of perfect disharmony. I looked down out of my feet, just then, and saw a rip in the seam of corrugated metal of the bridge. I imagine the bridge unraveling. Hart Crane gyres up from the seams like a gull riding the currents, trawling for fish. One could jump. He jumped. Ugh. A rip in the seam of the bridge, where nature is tearing us apart, and through the hole in the walkway I can see you, perfectly framed, the brown bear atop a tree over 100 feet below me, as I near the Beacon side, over the river now, but not quite clear. The little tufts of moss around the mouth of the Hamilton Fish are reaching out into the future, where green is supreme.

--


See the bear? Bear was originally a mistranslation of "bare" by voice recognition software, but look, there really is one!


Walkway dance floor

Mighty Hudson 

Tuesday, April 19, 2016

343

I dig the dead

Follow me
Says Roethke 
from cemetery tree
Via terrasonic
Spinning Japanese 
Chemistry. He gave up
Because it messed with
His kissing. Red stairs
Follow me from the needy.

Una vida largo.

No one was on the other end.
Other than me.

"mirror in the bathroom."

The music takes the body.

Snuck it in.

"And besides the words only get in the way."

Saturday, April 16, 2016

342

Brooklyn bowl seeing some funk band from Leeds England, with Sunnyside dads, Quinn, Marco, Esta Bond. We were so much more fun than the Brooklyn dads! I danced for over an hour, hard, several songs with Lucia on my back. Great. Followed by a barbecue at Quinn's house and a jam. Not to mention the garage sale card games, I ZZI.

Friday, April 15, 2016

341

Jonesing to go dancing at Bembe in Brooklyn. So I looked for a Bembe mix on soundcloud which led me to a mix by illexxandra. It hit the spot. Down at the cemetery. 


Action framing

336-337

In basement to these fine albums. The first heard while on hold with Apple Care. I liked it anyway. Like greasy potato chips. Pop smear. 

Second no qualification needed. Beastie boys unvoiced.





Thursday, April 14, 2016

340

Let it be. Great dance album. Just skip let it be, the song, and long and winding road. Unless to do yoga break or something. 

I love how they get back to where they once belonged on this album, with all the old rhythm and blues licks. At the same time sending up and paying homage to the grateful dead on I Dig A Pony, the Rolling Stones, and even velvet underground with "sweet Loretta Lynn  thought she was a woman but she was another man." And all of those crazy irreverent John Lennon cut-up remarks between the songs. What an album to go out with."You and me chasing paper, getting nowhere, on our way back home."

339

Today took Ana Lucia to central park on the bike. The ride there so smooth and elegant. To Al Green who is celebrating his 70th. Always Green. Asked her what she wanted for lunch she said a bagel, so we grabbed one and sat under a willow at 65th street entrance, watching the baseball players, the perfect arc of the ball as it sailed past the trees lining Central Park West, blonde mushrooms at our feet. Then up again to the carousel. Need to be 5, Lucia is 4, and I could go on with her, but they charge you double. Lame Carousel scalpers. Lucia cried because I refused to pay $6 for a carousel ride. I told her we would find something better. We kept going until we heard music. A jazz band was playing near 62nd street entrance. We went in watched with a crowd of people. I told Lucia I would be her carousel and so we danced and I spun her around and around, whirling her overhead, a hundred times better than a carousel,  with a soundtrack to match. The drummer was blind and so I shut my eyes and let myself be completely carried by his subtle rhythms, Lucia in full swing.

Left to pick up Sofia at school. Traffic was backed up everywhere, afternoon rush, so suddenly we were late for pick up. The way back to sunnyside is 2 miles up hill. I huffed hard to get to the school on time and barely made it.

Welcome back to the dancing. It's been too long. Apparently I need inspiration?


FB rewrite:

Today took Ana Lucia to central park on the bike. The ride there was smooth and groovy because I was listening to a back catalog gem on Spotify, "Al Green Explores Your Mind," from 1974. Always Green. We grabbed a bagel for lunch on the way and sat and ate it under a willow, surrounded by blond mushrooms, near the 65th street entrance on the west side, watching batting practice at the ball field, following the perfect arc of the balls as they sailed past the trees lining Central Park West. After lunch we headed to the carousel. They asked how old Lucia was and I said 4. They said she needed to be 5 to ride alone. I could go on with her, but I'd have to buy a ticket too. Lame. Lucia cried because I refused to pay $6 for a carousel ride. I told her just watch, we'll find something better. We kept riding until we heard music. A jazz trio was playing near 62nd street entrance. We went in watched the band for a minute with a small crowd of people from all walks. The drummer was blind and so I shut my eyes to try to hear what he was hearing, letting myself be completely carried by his subtle rhythms. When the band lit into Take Five I got up and took her to onto the dance floor. I told Lucia I would be her carousel. I spun her around and around to the music, whirling her overhead and twisting her in the air. Lucia later admitted our dance was even better than Central Park's carousel. I gave the $3 I was going to give to the carousel to the musicians. A better deal all the way around.

338

So long since I have really danced. And I did yesterday for two minutes before seeing Ron Padgett read his masterful translations of Apollinaire at the Poetry Project.

Aaaa! Alive. Then. Now too in recollection. In writing. The always now. The then and now.

But to keep record you must count.

It was the streets of New York that were singing to me, the underlying rhythm of the streets.