Falling up

Sunday morning a dog tied to an iron gate cried like a gull to its owners watching over their child in the park. They cautiously pushed and pulled against each other, swinging the child back and forth in its swing. The dog cried on. The day broke a grey underbelly of the bird. The day threatened rain.

I met Yw in the afternoon. We had lunch at a diner and then crossed the street to PS1. In the courtyard we sat on cut cardboard tubes. Black rubber stretched over their mouths; you could alternately beat them like a drum or let yourself be cradled by them. We chose the latter and sat until the sun emerged from the haze.

In the museum, we toured the Olafur Eliasson exhibit. His forms and photographs lined the walls of the galleries that surrounded a main central room. In the center room, a circular reflective surface rotated on the ceiling. Visitors lay on the floor, looking up at their reflections, which appeared stuck to the ceiling. Yw and I lay down. Then we began to recreate hieroglyphic forms. From there we traced shapes with our bodies, moving slowly between them like synchronized swimmers. We spent an hour lying on the floor, looking up at the tableaux we created.

Downstairs, we admired a lit curtain of falling mist in an otherwise darkened room. It looked like smoke running in reverse. We walked through the curtain and watched people from behind, their heads lit from above with the single bulb.

A light rain had begun to fall. We bought drinks at the museum cafe and sat on the patio under a white tarp. We faced the courtyard and watched as lighting streaked across the sky. Soon the skies opened and the rain and wind lashed at our meager protection. We waited out the storm. Desaturated flags flew from the museum roof, and we admired their grey and white designs against the grey skies.

At six o'clock, the museum closed. The rain had stopped and the staff ushered visitors off the patio and towards the gates. We walked to the river and sat on the piers jutting out into the Hudson river. We made plans to come for the 4th of July; Yw cautioned me about the crowds.

Couples and families wandered the pier, out on a walk or walking their dogs. Two puppies began playing and in the course of their rough-housing broke free from their owners. They ran down the length of the pier and then back again to their owners' relief. Once they were separated, they seemed to forget about each other. The sun set slowly behind the city, the haze softly diffused the light.

An Indian family gathered behind us, the women in saris, the men in short sleeve polo shirts and slacks or shorts. We admired them and watched them take family portraits. Looking back towards the shore, we saw a storm collecting once again and decided to head back. The coming night matched the dark clouds to the sky.

Coney Island baby

Sunday morning looked ominous. There was an 80% chance of showers and thunderstorms in the forecast; the sky rolled with clouds. Yw called and asked if I was still interested in going to Coney Island. I said it might rain. She said we could meet in the afternoon and play it by ear. I said okay.

As I waited in front of Prada, rain began to fall. I ducked into Dean & Deluca and searched for samples. By the time I had made one revolution of the store, the sun seemed ready once again to emerge. I stepped out and waited in a doorway, reading the Times magazine. The sky cleared and the sun lit up the street.

Yw had brought her kite, a sheet of blue cloth rolled around two dowels. She told me a planet was embroidered onto it. We had a quick lunch in chinatown and then rode the train to its terminal stop. A strong wind blew off the ocean.

We walked through Astroland on our way to the beach, pausing to wonder at the Top Spin. One boy sat through the ride wearing his ipod. I didn't think I could take all the spinning. My stomach dropped just watching it.

On the beach we unfurled the kite. Launching it into the air, it would fly for a bit then tilt to the right and dive into the sand. I fashioned a longer tail out of the New York Times sports section and we tried again. Now it would list to the left but keep itself mostly aloft. Occasionally it would dive into the sand, but then rise up again. After a while, we found a good patch of wind and while the kite flew sideways, it kept to the sky.

Once we were certain of the kite, I lay down in the sand, my hand tight around the cardboard tube around which the string was wound. The kite flew on.

The afternoon drifted. After a while, Yw suggested we ride the Cyclone. I drew the kite closer and closer and closer until it was in my hands. It seemed reluctant to leave the sky; it never again dove towards the earth.

The line for the Cyclone was non-existent. We bought our tickets and boarded the roller coaster. A few people remained in their seats from the last ride, including a boy in front of us. We soon pulled away from the boarding area and climbed to the first drop. I was nervous and excited, though as we rose, I calmly surveyed the surroundings. Until we reached the summit. From then on, I screamed almost continuously. The boy in front of us assured us we'd be ok. I could hear Yw's voice beside me, but her words disappeared in the wind and the rumbling of the wheels against the wooden frame.

At the end of the ride, I stumbled off. The boy in front of us held up a five dollar bill in his hand. An attendant took it and he settled in to ride the Cyclone again. We watched as he wound his way again through the turns and drops and then we walked to Brighton Beach for some Russian pastries.

We stopped at one stall and asked two boys what they were eating. They suggested a meat bun and we took them up on their recommendation. The boy ordered for us in Russian. We took our snack and some orange sodas and ate along the boardwalk.

By now the afternoon had turned cool. Clouds threatened on the horizon, and I could see the occasional flash of lightning, hear a peal of thunder. We made our way back to the subway and boarded the last car. The train coiled us home like kites on the end of a string.

Filmstrips

Last night I had dinner with Kit and John. We ate in an Italian restaurant in the east village. I thought I had been there before with Pia and Guillemette, but I couldn't be certain. Then, we had sat in the garden. Last night it was far too cold for that.

At some point in the night our conversation turned to filmstrips. John told stories of the Mormon filmstrips he watched as a child. I remembered the thrill and sense of responsibility I had when given the task to advance the frame at each *beep*.

At one point, the waitress came by to refill our water glasses. John looked up and asked, "Do you remember filmstrips?"

"No," she said. Then walked away.

American Idol

Last night I dreamt I made it to the American Idol finals where I performed a Sam Cooke song.

Peter Grimes at the Met

Last night I attended a performance of Peter Grimes at the Met. It was magnificent. I had never before connected with Britten's work in such a way, and now I want to revisit the recordings I own.

The evening started late; before the show, a man appeared on stage with a microphone. The crowd groaned, fearing a substitution. The man put us as ease immediately. He said he came to apologize for the delay. That afternoon's final dress rehearsal of Tristan und Isolde had run late. He thanked us for our understanding, and promised to try to make up some of the time during the intermissions.

It wasn't the only delay. At the start of the third act, a small round of applause was suddenly cut short. The conductor had not yet started his approach to the podium. We waited. People strained to look into the pit. We waited a bit longer. The silence gave way to murmurings until finally he arrived. Applause greeted him. Then, another figure was seen entering the pit and scurrying to the front. The conductor waited as the first violinist took his seat. He leaned in to say a few words and the audience laughed. The conductor rose his arms and the audience breathed in in anticipation.

The companion of the woman to my right missed all of this. He left after the first act. The woman confided to me that he didn't like it. "He likes more pleasant melodies," she said. But she was more determined. "If I can sit through Wozzek, I can sit through this!"

Begging for chilis

Monday night Yw came over to make dinner out of her Thai cookbook Hot Sour Salty Sweet (not to be confused with Top Chef host Padme's Tangy, Tart, Hot & Sweet). We shopped for ingredients in Chinatown, but when we unpacked we had forgotten the bird chilis.

I told Yw I'd check at the Korean deli on the corner. I remembered seeing them there in the past, but when I asked they said they had only jalapenos. I went to the deli across the street; same story. I walked to the Japanese grocery store; only jalapenos. Walking back to the house, I passed Kittichai. I stopped in and asked the Maitre d' whether their kitchen could spare some chilis. He told me to wait and he'd ask.

A woman appeared and said they had eight different types of chilis and asked what I needed. I told her and she asked me to wait a moment. Five minutes later she came out with a small bag of them. I thanked them profusely and they told me I now had to bring them some of the dinner. I laughed and said we couldn't compete with their kitchen.

Our dinner was fantastic.

Die Walkure

Two Saturdays ago I met Yw for brunch and then we donned our helmets and took the train to the Metropolitan Opera for its production of Die Walkure. As we climbed the stairs to our seats, spontaneous applause broke out. A woman sitting in the row before us lamented that we were not sitting with her. The woman beside us complimented us on our choice of accessories.

Later, the woman in front of us offered chocolate covered macadamia nuts to the couple beside us. The woman said they were from Stop and Shop. She offered some to us; they were delicious. They exhibited a familiarity that prompted me to ask if they knew each other. The woman beside us said they were both season ticket subscribers and had developed a friendship over the years. Zita, she pointed to the woman before us, had missed just one performance from a subscription in the 13-odd-years they had been coming. She said that on that night, there was a terrible snow storm. Zita and her husband had dressed, got into their car to drive in from New Jersey, and then had been turned away at the freeway. The state police had shut it due to the weather.

The production was exhilarating. From the level of singing, the staging, and the set direction, the total affect was completely engrossing. it was perhaps the best I had seen at the Met.

The future is yours

This evening, after a Chinese takeout dinner, I reached for a fortune cookie. Teru said the fortune didn't count unless you had eaten the cookie. I ate half and looked at my fortune. It read "Your present plans." On the other side was a single word: "Milk." I tried to unfold the paper, but discovered it had been neatly cut in half. Kavita told me my fortune was open-ended. "isn't that great?" she asked. I laughed and said it was.

Happy Chinese New Year!

Fonts for change

Last week I had lunch with Guillemette. She was in town to cover the campaign up to and through super Tuesday as well as do research for a new book. She suggested we have brunch at Coffee Shop. She wanted American food.

Midway through brunch, two women sat next to us. Their conversation drifted from fashion to politics and back again. They talked about McCain, they talked about Romney. Soon, they began to talk about Obama. One woman said she wasn't sure if she would vote for him. She said she thought the font he used for his "Change" sign was the same font as that of Chanel. She thought that was bad form.

Later, Guillemette apologized for being distracted. She said she couldn't stop listening to the conversation at the table next to ours. She told me that her readers in France had asked her to write about how Americans make their decisions when voting in elections. She said she should write about fonts.

Favorite albums of 2007

I love year-end lists. And so here's my own. I wish I could write about music in a better way. In no particular order:

Radiohead, In Rainbows
The true followup to OK Computer, this is the album I wish Hail to the Theif had been. And the initial download release reminded me of going to midnight sale CD releases in college to buy an album as soon as I could. It's amazing that that they managed to suddenly reawaken that excitement of being one of the first to hear an album along with the rest of the world, rather than finding a leak online weeks before the official date. And of course, wanting the vinyl, I shelled out for the discbox.

Okkervil River, The Stage Names
Something like an indie rock version of Jackson Browne's Running on Empty, this album bemoans the life of an indie rocker and turns the lens on itself. Commenting on the various pressures and ennui of being in a "mid-level band," Okkervil River manages not only to update Jackson Browne's portrait of being in a band in the aughts, but also puts themselves in a direct historical path, showing how the more some things change the more they stay the same. I love the Beach Boys' quote at the end. So apt.

Rhymefest, The Man in the Mirror
Mark Ronson and the "Best Kept Secret" remix Michael Jackson's discography and let Rhymefest do his thing in tribute to the King of Pop. Amazingly, the album actually benefits from its skits, which, with tricky editing, take the form of studio chatter between Rhymefest and Michael Jackson as they make the album. Maybe it's because I'm a fan of MJ, but I find myself coming back to this. There seems to be such joy in the creation of it, which never ceases to put a smile on my face.

Burial, Untrue
I'm not even completely clear on what dubstep is, but the dark murky soundscape of this album and the skittering beats offer themselves as the children of Massive Attack and the cousin once or twice removed of Dizzee Rascal. A fitful late night descent into a dancing darkness. Or something like that.

Kanye West, Graduation
How does he do it? I'm amazed at the level of quality he's been able to sustain in the hip hop arena. I'm not even sure what to say about this other than it's more of what you've come to know and expect of Kanye while managing to exceed and rise above it. How else would he continue to be so fresh?

Jens Lekman, Night Falls on Kortedala
If Okkervil River were channeling the spirit of Jackson Browne, Jens Lekman is like a Swedish Van Morrison. But instead of becoming subsumed by his 60s and 70s R&B and AM radio influences, he filters them through a sweet Swedish precision. Almost too precious by half, there's something infectious in the seemingly simple way he plays with and through his influences. It's music by a lover of music.

Bettye Lavette, The Scene of the Crime
In a year when Sharon Jones released her third soul excercise in 60s revivalism, and Amy Winehouse borrowed Jones' band to put her own brand of funk on it, I found myself returning to Bettye Lavette's Muscles Shoals-like album, recorded with the Drive-By Truckers. While not as raw as her previous outing (the fantastic I've Got My Own Hell To Raise,), the fuller sound brings a new warmth to the proceedings and the band does great work supporting Lavette's voice, growls, and phrasing. As a side note, she'll be playing February 8th in New York as part of Lincoln Center's American Songbook presents series. And, in a move that I have long wanted and hope will become the norm, the LP comes with a free coupon to download the music as an mp3.

Blonde Redhead, 23
Airy, lush production propels this album foward in an almost hypnotic state. An autumnal dream-pop album, I assauged a few dark late nights with this small gem.

Bjork, Volta
While perhaps not her best album, it's Bjork! And while some songs seemed to meander to the point of almost becoming lost, others reaffirmed Bjork as one of the most distinct voices in contemporary music.


Notable reissues:
Betty Davis, Betty Davis
Betty Davis, They Say I'm Different
Her first two albums serve thick powerful slabs of 70s funk. Married to Miles Davis (for a time) she turned him onto Jimi Hendrix and psychadelic rock, influencing Bitches Brew, in the process. The first album features Sly and the Family Stone's rhythm session and backing vocals from the Pointer Sisters. I read someone somewhere call her the Janis Joplin of funk, an apt comparison.


Book about music:
Alex Ross, The Rest is Noise: Listening to the 20th century.
A breathless tour through the landscapes of 20th century music. At times I felt as though I was running to keep up, almost always I wanted to rush out and buy the music Ross discusses so that I could listen along. By charting the development of 20th century music it helped my understanding of how music is, and makes me want to learn music theory, the better to understand the structures of the music itself.