Jen from next door has come with her daughter to look at some spaces. For her alumni group. She’s one of the women who planned and helped a successful candidates’ forum to happen. But more than that, she’s on the board of the Goodman Foundation. As in Goodman, Schwerner and Cheyney. In 1964, three Freedom Riders were murdered in Mississippi. One of them, Andrew Goodman, lived next door to West-Park. Next summer is the 50th anniversary of this watershed event during the American Civil Rights journey. We need to have an event here, next door to where he lived, to reflect on that experience and what it meant, what it means today. We agree to work on that together.
Jeremy is in to finally take down his set up from the candidates’ forum. We want to take in another Knicks game together, if they manage to survive.
Marc is hard a work setting up for Carman Moore’s rehearsal later today.
Stephen and Mitchell are hard at work going over figures to make something work.
Carman Moore’s Sky Orchestra has arrived for their rehearsal. The sounds of their music swell and fill the walls of the church. It feels loose and free flowing but he is exacting and knows precisely what he wants us to hear. I watch Kiori’s body against Catarina’s projections and the sound of Beppe’s bowls. Later, we’ll stand on the steps and talk over the events of the week. My strangely rising sense of hope. I am so thankful for Beppe’s bringing this event our way. And that after having experienced so many performances here he’s now a performer himself. Beppe has brought this gift to this place. While talking with him, I feel the warmth of the sun, things are feeling better.
(Why do mice always look so sneaky running across a floor?)
RL drops in for a visit. Asks how it’s going. I tell him. He invites me to visit him at his office.
About 3 PM Stephen tells me the numbers work. It seems we have a plan. At 6 PM Martin tells me the don’t. OK, enough for now. marina and Sol from Noche are dancing with another flamenco group tonight in the East Village. I’m on my way.
I remember my first experience of flamenco in New Mexico. The sound of the feet pounding, I could almost see sparks, the tension, the passion, the sense of pride and power that shines through the eyes of the women, the ululating wail of the male singers in their cantes, their gritos. I could follow that anywhere. Lose myself in it. Marina is moved that I’m coming. It’s about family, I say.