A Warm Cup of Solitude

After braving 17-hour flights to Singapore, the 9 hours to London felt like a luxury. Despite being in Peasant Class in a cramped seat that leaned back 2 inches, I managed to sleep for at least four of those hours and saw two passable movies in-between. Immigration was painless— short line to a machine that scans the passport and takes a photo and you’re in. No more stamps in the passport as memorabilia, but also no interviews with edgy immigration officers. (My worst nightmare story which bears telling someday here—and I probably did back when it happened— was in this very airport, Heathrow.) My bag was kindly awaiting me at baggage claim, out through the Nothing to Declare exit and there was my host (ess), an Orff colleague I’ve known casually over the past thirty years or so. 

 

On to the tube, the familiar Elizabeth Line which my wife and I traversed often last year in our London visit, out the station on to the London streets greeted by—well, Starbucks and Subway. The world as Everywhere, USA. But there was a double-decker bus, a few local shops and glorious sunshiney (not Sherlock-Holmes-foggy) weather. We walked to the hotel, our go-to Premium Inn which was our home these last two trips my wife and I took to the U.K.. 

 

A short horizontal sleep and then the personal grand pleasure I take in unpacking in a hotel room— hanging up the shirts, plugging in the chargers, lining up my books and crostic and cards and drinking in the welcome Solitude like an old familiar friend or soothing hot beverage— and not caring if I mix metaphors. Odd that sometimes I can feel more home in a foreign hotel room than my own home in San Francisco, but so it is and no need to question why. Just savor it. And I do. 

 

Soon out to dinner, a little bit more planning for tomorrow’s Orff workshop and hopes that the sleep-gods will help me through the new time-zone night. If not, I have David Copperfield to keep my company and at 900 plus pages, I should be set. Even though many parts are far from soothing. How I wish to jump into the pages and throttle Mr. Murdstone, shake him out of his patriarchal man-explaining privilege, shame his sister Jane for helping him and then shake Clara and tell her to wake up and assert herself!! 

 

But first, off to find this restaurant which appropriately, is right around the corner in Dickens Square. 

 

 

Wondering and Wandering

Here I am at SF Airport. I have scaled the Mt. Everest of my lists of “must-do” before leaving for Europe. Got my Covid shot, flu shot, updated Website for summer Orff course, VOTED!, found my British ETA, found my E-sim app, figured out which of my books to take and how, checked I have records of the six upcoming flights to London, Izmir, Istanbul, Athens, Washington DC, San Francisco, did laundry, packed — and remembered the plug adaptors, hearing aids/ phone/computer and related cords and chargers, new Crostic book, journal, recorders. And—oh, yeah— passport. 

 

As much as I complain about the march of too-much technology, there is much to be said for the streamlining of necessary and/or useful accessories. Not too long ago, I was packing cassette tapes for my classes, later CD’s, DVD’s, piles of printed notes, a camera, sometimes a video-camera. Though I still prefer to bring my computer, all of the above— their functions of playing music, showing videos and Powerpoints, e-mailing notes, projecting scores, communicating with hosts and folks back home, documenting parts of workshops with photos and/or videos— can be fully functional on my tiny phone. And then with my fairly lightweight and portable computer, I can continue to write books/ articles/ letters wherever I am. Which frees up a LOT of space in my suitcase, sometimes filled with the books so few buy these days, preferring the electronic Kindle or Audible version. 

 

When it comes to packing for and preparing workshops, you won’t find me waxing nostalgic about the good old days. I remember reading Langston Hugh’s book about his travels in Mongolia and Kazakhstan and other places rarely visited by Westerners— in the 1930’s! Titled “I Wonder as I Wander,” he describes his adventures going to places where virtually no one spoke a word of English and Google translator wasn’t even imagined by the most far-out science fiction writer. More amazing, he brought with him:

 

• A typewriter and all the accessories— paper, extra ribbon, etc.

• A record player. (!!)

• A trunkful of records!

• Many books. 

• Clothes for cold places. 

Etc.

 

And this was long before anyone had the capacity to dream of suitcases with wheels! I imagine it was all done with porters, but still the idea of carting around records, a record player, a typewriter is unfathomable. And I suspect Langston would be a little bit sour-grapes about being born at the wrong time if he could see how we do it now.

 

And yet, maybe not. The adventures such travel invited were so far beyond “I texted my host to meet me at Starbucks and we watched some Youtube videos about cats” that perhaps he would be quite happy he traveled when and how he did. 

 

At any rate, I’m delighted to get back on the wheel of work, six courses in six cities in three countries, each place a tourist’s dream destination and the added perk of re-connecting with friends in each of the places. I hope there will still be some time to wander a bit in my limited time off and likewise, time to immerse myself in wonder, be it in the music class or the streets outside. 

 

So a fond farewell to a most interesting past seven weeks in San Francisco and about to board my flight to London to begin the three weeks ahead. May all connections be made, may every single Americanwith functioning brain cells and an open heart vote (the rest, feel free to stay home), may joy prevail in the classes and convivial conversation join with good food in the post-workshop dinners. It’s a wonderful—and wanderful— life. 

Andrew and Harriet

Here’s a surprising confession. Andrew Jackson was once my hero. I think it was sometime around 4^th grade when I read a little biography about him and decided “He’s my man!” So much so that I asked my father, an amateur painter, to paint his portrait (the one currently on the $20 bill) and hung it in my bedroom. His was the first face I saw in the morning and the last face in the evening. 

 

Luckily, I’m not running for office, so this skeleton in my closet—well, on my wall— won’t do me much harm. If confronted, I would make it clear that I didn’t inhale. And that’s pretty much true. Since none of my teachers nor my parents ever took me aside and let me know the truth about the vicious slave-holder who sent the Cherokees in Florida on a devastating forced relocation that became known as the “Trail of Tears,” I was wholly innocent of his heartless brutality. He permitted (and encouraged) Southern postmasters to censor anti-slavery material, claiming all abolitionists were monsters and a threat to national security. He appointed Roger B. Taney to the Supreme Court, who subsequently ruled in the Dred Scott Case that Black Americans were the legal property of white slave-masters and therefore had no rights as citizens. In short, Andrew Jackson was part of the ”good ole boys” club that were anything but. He would be pleased to hang out with his descendants today refusing the evolution of justice and spirit. Despite the promise that Harriet Tubman would replace his image, my childhood painting haunts me every time I pull out a $20 bill. 

 

But even a broken clock is right twice a day and ironically, he was called “the people’s president” because he was in favor of abolishing the Electoral College. He also was concerned about capitalist monopolies, re-charted the Second Bank of the United State because it backed “advancement of the few at the expense of the many.” And most ironic of all, he founded the Democratic Party!!! (Remember that Lincoln was a Republican— those parties were quite different in the 19^th century than they were in the 20^th.)

 

So why did I like him as a kid? First off, I was in 4^th grade reading a whitewashing little biography. Secondly, I was inspired by the “rags to riches” story and the sense of a life marked by destiny. I remember talking with my friends around that time about whether they felt like they were destined for greatness and they looked at me confused. I had assumed everyone felt that and came to learn that my sense of direction and meaning in my life, wholly dark to me at the time, but felt nonetheless, was not necessarily shared by all. 

 

Finally, as mentioned, I didn’t “inhale,” the smoke from Old Hickory never blackened my lungs and when I began to read of other kinds of destinies—from Thoreau and Whitman to Emily Dickinson and Harriet Tubman to Martin Luther King and Angela Davis and far beyond—I could keep the mythology intact without the cruelty. 

 

Meanwhile, it’s long overdue to keep Harriet Tubman in my wallet. If my Dad were still alive, I’d ask him to paint her image over that other. 

The Ferry and the Train

Many years back, I sat down at the kitchen table and began to write a rhymed verse version of the Medieval story, Sir Gawain and the Loathly Lady. An hour or so later, I had a three-page first-draft/ last-draft poem. It simply poured forth effortlessly, as if I was coming through me from some realm beyond. Not to inflate it too much, it shared the quality in that scene from the movie Amadeus where Mozart is dictating the Requiem to Salieri. When you are the chosen vehicle for music/ poetry/ painting and such, I imagine many have had these kinds of experiences. Not even close to all the time. Most of the work of creation is slow and ponderous and filled with cross-outs, with that important tool, the eraser, close at hand. But sometimes it just gushes forth effortlessly.

 

Again, not to claim too much divine inspiration for what might be a mediocre little work, the difference is in degree, not kind. Yesterday, my wife and I finally decided to take the new SMART train that runs from Larkspur to Windsor, just north of San Rafael. It’s free for seniors and promised a little adventure on a lovely sunny day. 

 

I was somewhat ambivalent about devoting a whole day to it, what with my Mt. Everest list I need to tick off before taking a trip in four days for four weeks of teaching abroad. And it began dubiously as my darling wife, determined to be unnecessarily uptight about schedules, ran up alone to the N-Judah bus stop with me having to hurriedly follow. She doesn’t do well with criticism and didn’t take kindly to me pointing out how unnecessary it was to be so anxious when the timing was clearly going to be fine. (Ordinarily, I don’t air these little tidbits of our marriage’s dirty laundry but need to explain one line in the poem to follow.) The good news is that she got over it quickly and we had a fine day together. 

 

We did board the N-Judah and arrived at the Ferry Terminal (with 20 minutes to spare, I might add), met a friend and boarded the Larkspur ferry to get to the train station. Sitting outside on the back deck, I opened my journal to try to write myself back into happiness and noticed the first long line just happened to rhyme. So I followed that lead and ten minutes later, had a little poem that I wrote without pause. Haven’t written any poems recently, so felt good to dive back in. Certainly not a masterpiece, but having given this back-story, I’m obliged to share it.

 

On the Larkspur Ferry

SF skyline receding in the wake,

The SMART train trip to Windsor,

I’m not sure if I should take.

 

Too much weight is bearing down

on my one tiny life.

Not helped a bit by uptight shit

from my forever wife.

 

Yet the sun does shine, the water’s blue,

the birds sing on the earth.

While I sit down to write in hopes

I can inspire my re-birth.

 

Cobbling words together,

in sweet rhythm and sweet rhyme,

Might help unlock, turn back the clock,

feel the full embrace of Time. 

 

All that I know, I should let go

step fully into Now.

Forget the what and ask not why, 

turn attention to the how.

 

The motor’s roar, the water’s wake,

the wind across my face.

Help spark anew, my overdue

faith in the human race. 

 

Pen still in hand, the ferry lands

I disavow my pain.

Disembark, walk boldly forth

to board the freedom train. 

Flip Flop

I suspect like most of us, I am a creature of habit and routine. When I’m home without a school or travel schedule to follow, I tend to stay home all morning. While I’m fresh, I write my daily blogpost, take care of e-mail, work on a book (if I happen to be working on one), play some piano and so on until lunch. That’s when I finally step out the door into the world to walk, bike, do errands, visit friends, what have you. 

 

But it’s always a good idea to mix things up a bit and today, I flip-flopped the usual schedule. I knew I needed to keep up with exercise, but couldn’t stand going out in the afternoon when the Blue Angels would sonically overwhelm me with their terrorizing roar. Meanwhile, my wife’s Sunday morning routine these past 36 years is to go on a bike ride with her “What Café?” group of friends. One of the original founders died back in 2007, another moved away, a few come in and out and new folks have joined and the tradition moves on. Usually all women, but occasionally guest men are allowed to join and today Kevin and I rode alongside five other women, leaving at 8:30 in the morning. 

 

What amazes me is that instead of rotating leadership and taking turns being responsible for deciding where to ride and by what route and “what café” they’ll end up at for brunch, they just huddle together at one of the member’s houses and miraculously, a plan just emerges. So it was today and off we went through Golden Gate Park to the ocean, then north to the Legion of Honor, east down Lake Street to Arguello, north again to Tunnel Top and the newly opened restaurant/café, The Mess Hall. Being San Francisco, there was a significant amount of challenging uphill (all on “acoustic” bicycles), some swooping downhills and pitch-perfect weather with no wind and not a Blue Angel in sight. 

 

The Mess Hall (named for the Officer’s Eatery back when the Presidio was a military base and now gentrified and pricey) served excellent coffee and a unique cheese/egg pastry with an unpronounceable and unrecognizable name (but delicious). There we sat in the sun, thoroughly enjoying the sweeping 180-degree view from the Golden Gate Bridge to the Palace of Fine Arts, following the conversation wherever it led. Which, weirdly enough, brought us to obscure animals like echidna, coatimundi, capybara and more. 

 

One more big hill (Arguello) to ascend before heading south to Golden Gate Park and back home by noon. And now the grand perk of feeling like I fulfilled my exercise quotient and the day is wholly mine to do what I will. The opposite of my usual, but wholly refreshing.

 

So there you have it. On to my day. 

The Long Day

Usually I have the feeling that there are not enough hours in the day to accomplish what I would wish to. But sometimes—like today— I have the opposite feeling. There are so many hours in the day! How to fill them? 

 

Of course, I have the usual busy work to attend to, but none of it appeals to me at the moment. I need to walk, but the damn Blue Angels are still here roaring their ear-shattering and trauma-triggering roars and I don’t want to see them or hear them. I could get a Covid or Flu shot, but I think the clinic’s closed on Saturday. Of course, there’s always the piano, but I’m feeling a disturbing small pain in my right hand when I play. I could go to the basement and bring up a jigsaw puzzle, but it doesn’t feel quite right. What to do?

 

Looking through my collection of poems to read at my recent party, I came upon this one. Pretty much captures today’s conundrum: 

 

Five Views of Retirement

 

·      What will I do today?

 

·      What will I do today?

 

·      What will I do today?

 

·      What will I do today?

 

·      What will I do today?

 

Well, at least I wrote a Blogpost. 

 

All of It

Who could imagine that an American TV show would have the artistry and sincerity to make me cry three times in 45 minutes? So it was with the last episode of Ted Lasso. When a beloved character dies, the others meet the moment in the only way we should— with music, poetry and a renewed determination to live their remaining lives more fully. The music was the heart-touching Irish song The Parting Glass, the poem was the soul-stirring When Death Comes by Mary Oliver and the determination came in the form of casting aside cautious doubts and anxieties and grabbing life by the tail and swinging it around in full-bodied enthusiasm.

 

And that means meeting all of it head-on. The deafening arrogant roars of the Blue Angel planes that traumatized my peaceful walk through the park yesterday next to the deep comfort of Schubert’s Ave Maria I’ll play at the Jewish Home today. The cold machines driving driverless through my beloved city and a smile from a passing stranger. The AI billboards convincing us to abandon the human experiment and the delight and curiosity of the 5-years I danced with last week in music class. The explosive sweetness of a ripe pear with the crunch of walnuts and the stench of piss from the homeless in the alley. The wild dogs roaming freely in government halls and the 95-year-old protestor out on the street with her home-made sign. The whole catastrophe. 

 

How to embrace it all without accepting it all? How to keep hope in the heart without being beaten down for staying informed? How to sidestep those hurting you and your loved ones with their heavy shoulders of power while still staying in the game? How to be a perpetual bride to amazement? 

 

Questions for a Friday morning.