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December 9, 2008Hello…?Is it me you’re looking for?WERE YOU STONED WHEN YOU WROTE THAT?That, no; this, yes. I’ve been asked that. Not often, but more than once. I don’t actually smoke all that often, I go without for months, but sometimes it just feels right. It clears my sinuses and opens my head up. If my convolutions have been wound too tight for a while, I give them some air, and they sproing free for a time. One of these buds (a cosmic strain called “Jedi,” I am told) with a stem and tiny branches looks like a perfect bonsai tree. I study it for several minutes, then snap the tip off. I feel I have sufficiently “met” the plant matter and earned the right to now honor it by inhaling its essence. Shredding the herb with my fingers, I drop it into the pipe. I fire it up with my wooden “Drive Thru Tree Park” cigarette lighter I got on the road from San Francisco to Las Vegas, over in Leggett, California, where friends Jon and Oscarito and I, well, drove thru [sic] the tree. There’s a drawing of it etched just skin deep into the case. It’s one of my favorite souvenirs. Thanks for the light, toots. (THE ENGLISH WORD “SOUVENIR”is from the French verb, souvenire, to remember or have “come to mind” from venire, “to come.”) When you contemplate something you got on a trip, it takes you back to that time, and if it was a good trip, you get to go to your “happy place.” Anyway, I like examining this lighter and remembering the drive-thru tree. It was a triumphal moment, standing with my arms outstretched in the center of the tree’s energy. So now what’s twisting my convolutions in a bunch? It’s their nature to be convoluted, of course, but what do I have to be freaked out about? A great month-long trip coming up, starting in sunny Mexico, the winter holidays in New York and Philly, snowy cross-country train ride home in 2009. Believe it or not, I’m thinking about going to Europe again in January, but my new budget-controlled year will have begun. Isn’t it time to stop running around and getting to work? But I can’t not work. My work is living life and writing about it—it’s my “job.” I do it wherever I am, and traveling is the cherry on top. So I can’t not go on the grounds of not being able to work. Traveling is indeed living and working like all the rest of it. “WHY DON’T YOUgo ahead and [do something she wants to do]?” I asked a friend. She told me, “You’re not afraid of the future.” I’m forced (by myself; no one’s holding a gun to my head) to admit to a rare bout of anxiety about that very future, something I don’t usually indulge in. I asked former Supervisor Geraldo Sandoval and future Judge Sandoval what he intended to do if he lost the election. He was not even considering such an outcome. As I won’t entertain the idea that my future will not “work out” for me. The feeling of doom descending is because come January I am enforcing a budget I don’t know if I can live within in this City of Cities. As my mother loves to tell me, “The money won’t last forever…” But everything’s going to be all right. The cosmic Jedi told me so. WHAT IF I TALK TO THIS PERSON?Ever start to say something to a stranger, but then hold back, shy of his or her reaction? While waiting for the trolley, I thought that were I to speak to the other person waiting on the island, not romantically or like that, that possibly he’d be a friend for the rest of my life. Could be the one you’re looking for, for whatever enlightenment they might provide you. You can never tell who’s out there or where’s you’ll find him or her. You have to connect with people somehow. It’s got to start with talking to each other. Could be anything. “Mild out today.” “Mmm.” But maybe you start to chat, and continue on the bus, and maybe you greet each other the next time you take the bus, and then sit next to each other, then next thing you know you’re having a cup of coffee, you’re invited to a party, and you know each other for the rest of your life. Same as: perhaps you consider living in Boston for a while, and seriously make plans to do so, but change your mind along the way and end up never going there. But if you had—you’d have eventually met, let’s say half a dozen people who mean something to you, maybe for the rest of your life. You’ll never know. But the thing is, those people are there. They exist—the people you’d know forever if given the chance. My feeling is that there are a number of people anywhere you go, who could have this potential. But there’s one thing you have to know right up front: You have to say “hello.” “Hello.” The ultimate icebreaker. Or: who would you kiss (or whatever your scenario) right now if you were guaranteed they would kiss you back? Well, there are no guarantees, right. But maybe you should try it anyway. Maybe you should assume until disproved that the other person is friendly, cooperative, welcoming. WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THIS?At an Andras Schiff recital, a pleasing-looking young man squeezes his way through the aisle to sit in the empty seat next to mine. We chat. He’s 30 tops, skin and hair smooth and glossy; I don’t know if he noted my appearance but I obviously have grey hair. He was knowledgeable about classical music and had dressed respectfully in a plain suit. I was impressed to see a young man come to a concert by himself to hear Beethoven. More hope for the future of the human race. He said he didn’t always come alone (seemingly apologizing for doing so). I thought he was very charming, but more than that, he was genuinely nice, easygoing, with a welcoming mien. I wanted, not romantically or anything, to know this guy. I wanted him among my friends. We were sitting on the terrace level, when usually I’m right in front of the soloist, I told him. In leaving, I held out my hand and said, “I’m Alexandra, I’ll be back in Row B next time” (at another Schiff recital a week later). No, I was not trying to make a date with the guy, but if he walked off, there was slight chance we’d meet again, so I left an opening. He was in more like row K, he said. WAS I BEING NAUGHTY OR NICE?So at the next concert I am of course curious as to whether I’ll see him, and scan the first several rows, wondering if perhaps he came with a date this time. Didn’t find him in the seats, or in the lobby at intermission, so as I applaud at the end, I’m thinking briefly, what a shame—when the head in front of me I’ve been abstractedly staring at, suddenly morphs into his head. My mouth drops as my hands clap. “Ben [not your real name]?” I exclaim. “Have you been sitting here this whole time?” He’d moved into the front row at intermission. I couldn’t see the pianist’s hands, and had my eyes closed for much of the concert. He too acted surprised, though I’d told him my seat number. “Best Apassionata ever,” I declare. I tell him I’ve been sitting here writing a column in my head and why don’t you give me your email; I’ll send you the link. Naughty or nice? He, somewhat uncomfortably, wrote it on a scrap of paper and handed it to me. I feel a young woman’s eyes on me. He has come with a date! “I’m sorry! Is this your friend? I’m Alexandra.” She was Indian, I think. Beautiful couple. “We sat next to each other at the concert last week,” we both explain to her. Then we all parted ways. So I again left the ball in his court, contact wise, yes? Which is unlike me. I usually pick up the ball and throw it at the guy’s face. I’d have gone out for wine if they’d invited me. Of course he didn’t have to write his real address, he could have written eat@shit.com but he’d be too nice to lie. I did send him the link, with the closing, “let’s hang out.” Ball still in his court; but he didn’t throw it back; I never heard from him. That was the safe way to go, anyway. Naughty or nice? You tell me. [The author already sent an exploratory email to eat@shit.com. MAILER-DAEMON sent it immediately back. –182.223.645.314 does not like recipient. Remote host said: 554 [eat@shit]. –Ed.] THERE’S ALWAYS ROOMfor romance,” – said a patron at Café International on a Friday open mike night. He got my attention and we met eyes, averted our glances, met eyes again. I’m also 20-30 years older than he is. But still, a mini-“ego-rush” spark. Little acknowledgments are appreciated, why not. There’s a little holiday festive “to-do” here in the low-profile Lower Haight. Twinkling lights and plastic glasses of wine, cheese and crackers, cookies and chocolate, street music, so I stopped by the Café for some Ethiopian honey mead. (Homemade mead is the first alcohol that ever got me sick. And I couldn’t eat green peppers for years because the accompanying sandwich had them in it.) It was nice being back at the Café, resting my feet from Christmas shopping. For myself. I always know what to get myself. I bought this luxurious scarf from the Symphony “Repeat Performance” seconds shop, an “eyelash” scarf interlaced with ribbons and feathers (and a miniature Eiffel Tower), as luxe as it comes without being fur. An older (82-year-old) woman had been looking at it but thought it might be too much (for her); I rejoindered, “Ah but, sometimes, too much is just enough, yes?” Naughty or nice? SHE ACCUSED MEof being young (not that young, I admitted)—but 30 years is a lot of years ahead of me. I told her, I see women at the Symphony who have to be in their fifties, but they don’t even look like the same generation as mine. I’m young at heart, she acknowledges. I’d seen a pathetic PBS fund-raising tribute with artists from the 50’s like The Four Lads of “Standing on the Corner” (watching all the girls go by) fame. Gogi “The Wayward Wind” Grant was there: In a lonely shack by the railroad track / He spent his younger days / And I guess the sound of the outward-bound / Made him a slave to his wandering ways. Great lyrics. When I got a load of the crew in the audience, though, I thought, wait, hold on, these people are not my peers! They’re…old! (Naughty.) There are a lot of rich biddies who wear their uniform just once or for a “season” and then donate it to the Repeat Performances store. It’s amazing what bad taste rich people can have. I got rid of a beautiful Peruvian alpaca sweater once because it reminded me of something a rich person might wear to look ethnic. (Naughty.) Age on my mind because I just wrote a piece for my Oaxaca workshop looking back at myself half my lifetime ago—I was in the same position at age 26 as I am now at age 53, having to let go and move on. I was leaving Philadelphia (and the love of my life) to go west, young woman. COSMICI just looked into my cat Zzyzzy’s eyes. I mean really. Looked. Windows of the soul and so forth. Looked and locked into his eyes like I could see right back into his rib cage. In one startling moment I successfully communicated a greeting to a creature of a different species. He was the first to look away—not uncomfortably but because he lost interest. I was in animal land oh so briefly, a land much different than we humans tread; feels prehistoric, but not threatening. It may have been the first time I fully understood what it might feel like to not be myself, but an other. Of course one could say it’s still just my image of what my cat’s mind is like. But the contact was mutual. I had addressed and acknowledged his very cattitude. This was a meeting of human and feline in space and time, lasting 4 to 5 seconds. We completely connected, like spark plugs. I’m not expecting it to happen again, though, having happened once already, perhaps it will. I find this encounter miraculous. Any “direct hit” enriches the world community. In the space where two species understand and respect and honor each other’s “otherness,” a sacred common ground is formed that can bear fruit. [THIS REALLY HAPPENEDAfter writing the above paragraph the author paused a moment to google “WHAT DO SPARK PLUGS PLUG INTO,” in case she was completely misunderstanding spark plugs. She ended up not caring). But as the supersensitive touchpad on her MacBook scurried her onto some unbidden website, she found herself reading an article about decoding body language. One of the ways you can tell a guy likes you is if… ANOTHER ASTONISHING COMMUNICATIONtook place the other night, among humans. It was between a hundred or more musicians, a fellow named Mark Wigglesworth, and persons occupying a music hall with a Total Seating Capacity of 2,743. Perhaps you too saw the San Francisco Symphony, under Mr. Wigglesworth’s baton, perform Wagner at Davies Hall last week. I nearly always sit in the front orchestra, within the first few rows center. But I’d waited too long to book Lang Lang, and could only get a seat in the premier tier, looking down into the orchestra like they were at the other of the Grand Canyon. The piece was the Venusberg Music from Tannhäuser. Everyone was on the same page for several minutes, except for the dork leafing through his program. He was on Page 22. When an orchestra’s cookin’, they, and I, are in “the zone.” “TAKE WAGNER OUT OF THE OPERA HOUSE,”says the SFS’s website, “and you can focus on how spectacular his orchestra sounds, and how his drama depends as much on pure music as on story line.” Well said. “Spectacular,” of course, applies more literally to visual phenomena, coming from L. spectaculum, public show, or spectare/specere, “to look.” But I did indeed focus on how full and rich the sound was when seeing the stage from a distance. When you can follow which players and with what instruments they produce the notes, individually and together, you marvel at what precise teamwork is required of dozens of people to shape something coherent out of those notes. Conducting’s got to be one of the highest highs, I would think. “HE DOESN’T PLAY WITH HIS HANDS,he plays with his soul,”–patron filing out from Lang Lang’s performance of Chopin’s 1st Piano Concerto. Re: Lang Lang: Am I missing something? All right, the guy’s got flourish. The guy can bow. He is lithe and trim, in an exquisitely tailored black (silk - ?) suit (no lapels - ?) with some form of glittering brooch looking like a Star Trek insignia. Did he kiss it one point or is that just a killer idea of mine? Was he pointing at the violinist, waving about and seeming to be conducting, as he taps with his patent-clad heel, not his toe? Lang! Lang! Lang Lang! Great One! Buddha Lang Lang! Lang Buddha Lang! Play unto me! The audience didn’t even wait till the last movement was over—the whole hall was on its feet, up and downstairs. Lang Lang did not inspire me, whereas I was engulfed by the Wagner. I could feel the music as a whirlpool of energy rising up into the tiers, a real collaboration, dozens of people conspiring to create these waves of sublime sound and offer it unto the earth’s atmosphere. Wow! What power! Concentric rings of Wanger spiraling out into the universe. It is unimaginable what measure of energy courses into the “field” of human interaction every day. And we all contribute to it. There’s a novel called Disturbances in the Field—the field being the locus of study. When disturbances take place in this field, they may disrupt the process. ‘SCUSE ME, GIRL. NOTHING IS UNIMAGINABLE. THAT’S THE NATURE OF IMAGINATION.Me: You’re not much of a writer if you can’t imagine a better word than unimaginable. Myself: All right, but it is the “measure” of the energy that is unimaginable to me, not the energy itself. Yet I have imagined that measurement simply by naming it! See? Three trillion kilowatts. I just imagined the measure of the energy coursing out of us and into our field of interaction. Me: But, one of your favorite writers you’ve never read, Rod Serling, spoke of a “wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination.” Myself: I believe he misspoke. There are no limits to the imagination. Or wait. It was a backwards way of saying there are no boundaries in this wondrous land of imagination. He also called imagination “a dimension as vast as space and time.” OK well thanks for clueing me in, myself. One can imagine a space beyond that space which one had thought one could imagine. Because as soon as you talk of imagining something beyond your imagination, you have already imagined it. By its very nature, imagination is constantly imagining a realm outside its own limits. It’s a self-fulfilling reaction. Was I stoned when I wrote that, yes, but it makes sense if you read it carefully. If you read it carefully, when you’re stoned. AND A CLARIFICATION:In “You Can’t Put a Price,” I did not mean to imply that it was solely my friend Kathy’s confrontation with security about her bike that made us late to the Reverend Billy Half Moon party boat. Neither of my friends knew the address of the pier and I knew the address but not that it was way on the other side of town. She and John thought we were already there. I forgot about the bike. But I remember the party. It was nice and naughty.
The author will be taking the Zephyr back home. This will be her view as she’s rounding the hallway corners on her the way to the dining car. ------------------------------------------------------------ Naughty or nice?
Is it me you're looking for? copyright Alexandra Jones 2008 |
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