Pages

Donate to our boiler restoration fund!

Thursday, January 8, 2015

Epiphany. No, I don't want corn flakes.

1/6

 Mario has returned from Italy. He and Jeremy G and I head across the street to the Bean for coffee and conversation. As always, Mario spans centuries and concepts and continents in single sentences, each paragraph a flight of creative exploration, exposition, excitement and possibility.  The Open Choir is going public again, the Seed Group ready to expand.(https://www.facebook.com/events/752775058163293/?pnref=story) All leading  to another public conversation about performance and the sacred, this time, at my initiation, to include community, building it, Being it. What’s going on here is the continuing process of new spiritual communities in formation, this time informed by the work of Jerzy Grotowski, work inherited by Mario and Thomas Richards.  I keep pushing Mario to move beyond connecting  with and impacting existing diverse spiritual communities into the possibility of building new ones, a place Jeremy G has already gone to. Jeremy G has just returned from the Georgia Sea Islands where he has experienced a Gulla New Year’s Eve watch service followed by a Shout and feast. My invitation list for the next conversation is ever growing.

New York Hair has just brought by another fresh arrangement of flowers, their weekly offering.

Ralph introduces me to a young violinist. Bob, meet the  new ETHEL, Corin. Corin, meet Pastor Bob…

The mumbling man  Eldridge, is in looking for money again. he offers me a box of Kellog's Corn Flakes.
No,put that away. I don't want corn flakes. 
Iain'tagonnaalie.Iaonlycomeaseeyouawhenaianeedhelp. He begins to lift his pant leg to show me his badly swollen leg.
No,please don't do that. You don't need to do that.
Justaneedatrainticketathehospitalandaback.
I reach in my wallet. Pants pocket. $8. I give it to him.
He takes it. Looks back at me annoyed and imploring. 
It's all I have. that's enough for round trip train. ...yes, and bus too...He nods. 

Ralph and Corin play the next hour before a curious audience. There’s Karen, our Hawaiian pianist. And at the piano, a young African-American woman who’s been sitting there, all day, not playing. And of course, at the back, Geoffrey, silently mouthing his prayers, respectful of the music. And of course, Eldridge, still here.

As I prepare to leave, Geoffrey walks out, See you tomorrow. I guess so.

The young woman walks in. I ask her name. Marie. She seems young. Childlike. 
Excuse me sir, are you open tomorrow?
Yes, of course, every day.
May I come again?
Yes, of course. Do you have place to go?
Yes, I do. I have place at the shelter. But it’s noisy. I can’t think. People bother you. May I come back?
Of course you can.

Outside, Martin’s daughter Gabriella is there. My father is so happy, she says.
Me too, I say.
The long awaited long term residency with Noche Flamenca is about to be signed.

On my way to meet Pat O with the Joyce Society in the East Village for a reading of James Joyce' The Dead. An epiphany story. 

Je suis Charlie.

No comments:

Post a Comment