Loneliness Is

Loneliness is saying, "Happy Thanksgiving," to the waitress at some greasy spoon diner, in which you have just had your Thanksgiving dinner, alone, and not hearing any reply.

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Loneliness is looking forward to the darkness.

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Loneliness is having forgotten the joy of friends, the rewards of camaraderie.

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Loneliness is the desire for more loneliness.

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PLACES TO HIDE

Prefatory Remarks:

This is not about "being alone."   People who have read this react by telling me, "Yes, S.E., everyone needs their 'alone time.'"   It causes a desire in me to strike them, hard.    Fortunately, I can control it.  But I do not control my sarcasm at their inability to be understand simple concepts or being able to see or understand beyond their own personal experience of life.

No, this essay is not about having, "alone time."   This is about hiding.   If your mind cannot grasp the difference and the significance therein, move on to an essay your mind can understand.  This one is clearly not for you.  

S.E.

***

Hiding in the city is remarkably easy.  Not, as one might think, because of the crowds of people we normally associate with life in a big city or with what invokes a  feeling of loneliness in big city dwellers, but because when one finds a hidden, abandoned location, it is usually that way because people intentionally avoid being there -- that the course of normal activities of life (a normal one) for a city dweller keeps them far away from such places.   And so, one may hide there completely unseen and in relative safety.  

Having lived my whole life in New York City I have the rare knowledge of city life of 40 even 50 years ago.  What one remembers most from such remote times is that it was a quite different place and functioned in a very different way:  it was the world's greatest port, nature having granted it the perfect topography for such.   And so, if one sought isolation what leaped into the mind immediately was its remarkable waterfront.   

Alas gone are the days of the seedy docks, the lonely tugboats, and piers, the sullen and filthy saloons that one associates with a city port.   Here, particularly at night, one could find a spot of such total isolation that, with any sort of imagination, one could easily think one is in Shanghai, Cadiz, or any large port city in the world.   The smell of the ocean is virtually the same everywhere.  But the distinct advantage to the city port at night is the sounds of the harbor that can evoke extraordinary sense of distance and isolation.   All those years ago, the city still had a diverse and busy shipping industry, before the city was taken over by real estate interests (another story for another essay).  So there were always ships coming in and out of the harbor, the greatest natural harbor in the world, at all times of the day and night.  Horns, buoys, bells, etc, what you would find on any good sound effects recording called, "Sounds of the Harbor at Night," were all very real at one time.   No longer.  

The chief problem however, with hiding on the waterfront was one of personal safety.  It was, after all, the waterfront.   There was a price to be paid for venturing where you did not belong, where men from around the world entered the city, reluctant travelers, who worked hard and long on at ships often in great physical peril.   There world was not yours.   Especially at night. 

If one dared, the waterfront offered all this.

But those days, as I said, are gone and you will forgive me starting off with a piece of nostalgia, not practical at all for the business at hand.  But for me, the waterfront represented the glorious reality of what made New York, "New York."    The world of the waterfront, its atmosphere, was such an fascinating and rich one: the meeting place of commerce, industry, mercantilism, with the vulgar, brutal and frightening reality this meeting created.   It meant everything to the city to be a port and function like one, it was its raison d'etre and New York knew that it owed its existence to the fact that it was a port and so grew and lived out its life according to the will of nature, indeed, New York's harbor is a masterpiece of the workings of the earth itself. 

Sad that now it is a haven for number crunching, paper pushers -- Silas Marners, a new, genetically altered and disfigured breed of robber barons, far more barbaric and uncultured than their Victorian ancestors.   They, along with youthful "hipsters," vapid and empty-headed, who can only see the city as a playground for them to engage in all kinds of debaucheries (mostly drinking).   They could never recognize the city for what is truly is: the graveyard of a once great metropolis.  Or, at least, its symbol, for the city is truly "dead," and something ghoulish and ephemeral and without substance, has taken its  place.    These youthful bunch fail to see the great towers of chrome and steel as grave markers, the crumbling tenements and old mansions -- phantoms of a world they do not know nor could possibly understand, even if they had the spirit of interest, or intelligence to care.

Let us move on, then, from the long gone and forgotten piers of the city that no longer exists, and out, into the bright and oppressive sunshine of a midsummer's day, as there is nothing as isolating as oppressive heat and bright sunlight in a cement environment.   

At the right time and in the right conditions and in the right neighborhood the conditions of high summer this will present ample opportunity to grab some isolation quickly. An ordinary children's playground may suffice -- especially on a holiday, such as the Fourth of July.  On this day are many fewer people in the city, and those that are, seek the company of others, of friends or (more rarely) relatives stuck in the city.   They will not be sitting on hot, steaming, bench in a cement playground.  And since most families, that is, a husband, wife with children, can no longer afford Manhattan living, so there are many such open spaces that are left deserted on such a day.  One need only to bring along a book to read (or pretend to)  so as not to draw to much curiosity from a rare passerby.   There are usually benches far from the traffic of people anyway, where, in the unrelenting oppressiveness of the summer heat and humidity, one can feel a million miles from any possibility human contact.   You would be surprised.    

Industrial parks, or rather, the neighborhoods that surround them offer another sanctuary, during the day on a weekend, but especially at night.  Often a rather unattractive setting, these deserted streets and therein lay blank, dead, a lifeless world of endless cement sidewalks, where one could easily hear one's on footsteps and their echoes.    Here lie true isolation.  Busy and filled with noise during the day, these streets are dead at night.  And, if one so desires, a Sunday afternoon in the summer, offers a particular and unique desolation.   Heat beating on the sidewalks, the asphalt streets, both stretching out into the distance with no relief in site, and with no tree to afford respite from the heat by it's shade or to the eye by its green;  neither is there a diner just to step into for a moment.  No green, no people-- here is a true sense of utter lifelessness, and a quiet that is frighteningly  indescribable.   There is no traffic of any kind, no birds, bugs or scrub grass; certainly, no people, nothing.  A desert?   Yes, a kind of desert, but worse, because a desert offers the beauty of nature, or at least, of geology and earth's natural forces.   But these sidewalks were built for one thing and one thing only, to enable the operation of heavy industry.   Nothing else.  And aside from that you have no business being here, and it reminds you of that fact in every way at every second you find yourself there.   If you go there seeking a place to hide, you will be satisfied.  

And you cannot imagine the sense of absolute desolation such a place provides late at night in the dead of winter, with the freezing wind howling and perhaps, if you're lucky, a moderate snowfall.   No man in his right mind would be found there then, no man would have business there.    Except, to escape.  

Now should you be inclined to experiment in this setting you must be sure to dress properly.   One of these wintry, middle-of-the-night jaunts can be painfully cold.  Again, I speak from experience of years ago, before the horrors of gentrification, I would have gone out in the freezing cold, deep into the night, to empty and vacant streets of Red Hook, or Long Island City, or even the Bowery and adjacent streets.  If these excursions taught me one lesson it taught me this: always wear more than you think you'll need: gloves are a unconditional necessity as is a very warm hat, a scarf, and many layers of warm clothing.   Long underwear is a must, as are warm shoes.   You may find yourself, as I have, walking quite a distance from whence you started, as there is a tendency, under the right conditions, to become lost in time and space, to forget where and who you are.   (After all, this is one of the principle purposes of hiding, isn't it?)    On such walks, you may find yourself much further from your car or subway than you anticipated and believe me, the cold will try to get through you, into you, to kill you -- particularly if you begin to tire. 

(Now, you must keep an open mind while reading the remainder of this essay -- it contains material you will find no where else.   I already know that some of you cannot "hear" this or take it in, make it your own, or learn from it.   I understand if you cannot, although I lament for you if you truly seek the escape that brought you here.)

It is such a night --  a frozen, mid-winter night, with sweeping, icy winds blowing bits of loose garbage in all directions and high into the air, with haunting, mysterious sounds all around you that seem to have no earthly origin -- that no living human being would violate.   No living human being.   For it is under these precise conditions by which you are most likely to achieve the highest desired effect, to truly lose yourself, as I have said, escape the world, break from from our temporal stream or our reality.   If you are especially practiced at this, and I say this with no fear of ridicule, (for who can ridicule me?   I am beyond such things)  you may find yourself, seeing, or if even luckier, interacting, with, I kid you not, those who dwell in (words truly fail) the beyond, or what on might call the spirit world.   Yes.  I have done it.   I have seen them, spoken to them.   They are real.   But in order to achieve this, one must truly "lose" (for want of a better word) oneself to present moment;  you must separate and distance yourself from your current, "reality" (which is just one of many) and by so doing, open the door that will allow you enter the realm of the spirits.  Or allow them to enter yours, I'm not sure which it is.

Not easily done.  But once achieved it is a vastly rewarding and fascinating experience.   Perhaps and I think, largely, because it seems to be with deceased relatives with which one will have the the most frequent encounters.  I suppose their familiarity, hence "nearness," in some sense of the word, allows that to happen.   And it is almost always delightful to interact with them.   Under ideal conditions, friends and loved ones out of the past -- like a dream -- appear and disappear, sometimes without a word.   It is quite comforting.   

Warning: do not make the mistake I have made on more than one occasion of acting thus:  I was not thrilled with seeing a certain distant cousin of mine who passed on years before, but who was always a source of great annoyance and irritation to me, irritation beyond words.  Initially, I made up my mind not to interact with him, but, just as in life, the pain in the ass persisted until I burst out with anger, calling him awful names and telling him to go to hell.  (whether he did or not literally, I don't know, but he did leave).   The bastard knew what he was doing for there were two policeman sitting in the parked, unmarked car, just next to where I was standing.  They heard every word.    You can imagine their take on things.   It was only by quick thinking and fast, calm, intelligent thinking that I was able to convince them that I was in no danger, nor a danger to anyone else.   Again, not easy under the circumstances because, as I knew and as I could tell by their reactions, they could not perceive my pain in the ass cousin. 

So, there is the principle problem: you can easily draw unwanted attention to yourself by anyone within earshot (which, I admit, is unlikely)  and by so doing, close the door to the spirit realm and be forced to return to your regular time and place, return to this reality.  It is not a pleasant feeling.  So, be smart and learn from me.   Do not get too emotional, either with happiness (you will be tempted to hug and cry at the sight of some) or anger, as these extremes can break the spell.   Try to stay even, keep walking, keep walking, and speak only in a low voice.   Before you know it, you will have concluded your journey and be ready to return home to obtain much needed rest.  

My fellow wanderer, seeker of concealed and secret places, I hope you can achieve what you have set yourself upon.  It is worth it for those who really want it, I should say, for those who really need it.   And the need can be great.   Very great.  We forget, as adults, the comfort and security of hiding, of being unseen.  We forget so many things, as smart as we are, we forget.  Some we must re-learn, some we never do.   The lucky ones, the truly lucky ones go through life never having to look back, however, and know how to live fully in the present moment.  To those I plead that you fall to your knees and thank God for your great and good fortune, for you have been given a gift whose value cannot be measured.

As for the rest of us, well, we do the best we can with what we have, and try to remember that which out of the past, may help us survive the present. 

I have given you some valuable and powerful information here that is only known to the very few.   Very, few.    Use it wisely. 

***

The Marigold

I did not smell a marigold this summer.
When I was a boy, marigolds filled my summers.
They were my friends, they were everywhere.
Their scent made my head spin.

I did not smell the lavender this summer.
Lavender was my favorite smell,
when I was a boy.
The scent made me feel safe and full.

I did not hear a robin this year.
None at all.
The robin's call was sweet,
and reminded me of the sweetness of life.

Time is a bully, a rascally demon.
He will play you for the fool,
that you are,  thinking that,
The world is right and you right, in it.

I know better, now, though.
The churning years have taught me.
And the great message of Time,
Rings in my ears.

My world has disappeared,
And I am no longer right with it.
The lost marigolds and lavender
proves that much.

Moolie

The Lower East Side, 1960

I took a soft, woolen glove and put it on my hand to pet the neighborhood cat with.   It would surely feel so nice to him, as it seemed to do, because the cat rubbed up against my hand with great vigor.   His head, then his back, then head and face again.   He was really enjoying it.

"You know," said Moolie, "because of the cat's thick fur, he can't really feel the glove you're wearing. To him, it's just like your hand, or sandpaper, even,  It doesn't matter what you stroke him with.   It all feels the same to him."

I was stunned.   But the logic of what he was saying was undeniable.  This cat felt everything through his fur.  I could have been petting it with Brillo soap pads, and it wouldn't have mattered.

"That's good!" I said, not knowing really why.

***

Mr. Max Edelmann was my upstairs neighbor back in the tenement where I grew up on the Lower East Side.   The Edelmann family,  Mr. Edelmann, his wife, Esther, and their two children, Rachel and Miriam (yes, very Biblical, like everyone always says when I tell them)  escaped Nazi Germany in the late 1930's and came to Fifth Street after living for a short time on Hester Street.   Mr. Edelmann was a baker and the whole family worked in the bakery they had on Grand Street.   He would often bring fresh bagels and bialys that were so delicious, better than anything I've had since, that's for sure.  You can't compare those bagels to anything around today.

Anyway, Moolie, the son of Mr. Edelmann's brother, arrived in New York, alone, many years later, around 1946.   He came to America alone.   He never spoke about the rest of his family or what happened to his father and mother.

* * * 

Moolie was a good friend to the children of the neighborhood on Lower East Side where I grew up. He lived just across the street from me, next to Alex Fiegler, the tailor, and above the bar, which didn't seem to have a name, where all the cops hung out, which was in turn, next to the precinct. Moolie's real name was Morris.  Or Moses. Or was it Moe?  Or were those names all the same?   Anyway, "Moolie" is the name given to him soon after his arrival in New York City by the kids of the neighborhood, as was the custom on the Lower East Side of the first half of the 20th century.   For example, my nickname, was, "Fingers", after because I played the piano,   Mitchell Cohen's nickname was "Flash," for his blinding running speed.  Kids could be named in so many ways after so many things.   Jack Pesalano was nicknamed, "Bo" because he saw "Beau Geste," about twenty times.  Dick "The Schmuck," was called that because he was a Dodger fan while everyone in the Universe was a Yankees fan.    I have no idea what the origin of the name, "Moolie," is.   But it seem to fit and it stuck.   No one called him Moe or Morris, just as no one called Jack, "Jack" or Mitchell, "Mitchell."    They were Bo and Flash.  Even later in life, their nieces and nephews called them, "Uncle Bo," and, "Uncle Flash."   ."   But those days, the days of innocent nicknames, of thousands of children playing on the streets of the Lower East Side, of candied apples sold on pushcarts, all the things that made city life bearable, are long gone.    As are so many of us, and the people we loved.    

So, Moolie eased into life as an American, more specifically, as a New Yorker from the Lower East Side, which was, let's face it, distinctly different from being simply, an "American."   And the nick-name seemed to help.  But Moolie was never really totally comfortable in this world.   I wonder now, if he would have been comfortable in any world after what he had been through.   It took years before I was able to put the pieces together and figure out what happened him, those numbers on his arm, etc, and realize what he had actually seen and survived.  I'm sorry I didn't know it sooner.

Moolie never married, had no children and was barely able to hold a job despite being, by far, the most intelligent and likable person I've ever known.    He received checks from the government and helped out at his cousin's bakery now and then.    He got by.   He survived.   He survived and to us was always a pleasant and courteous, even "giving," man.    He always helped people out, and never asked for anything in exchange.   If he could have gotten paid for all the good he did in the neighborhood he would have been rich man.  

* * *

One day I got into a fist fight with. .. wait.   Which one of my friends was it?     I can't remember. Anyway, he clipped me good on the forehead, and I lay there, on the hot sidewalk, bleeding profusely.

Moolie wrapped my wound with his handkerchief (he always had one) and told me to hurry home and have it washed with peroxide.  I  did.   The scar is still there.   I'm glad.  It reminds me of that day, happier times, of playing on the hot cement sidewalks, running, yelling, playing all manner of childish games.   And it reminds me of Moolie, of course.

***

"Boredom has been and continues to be the most potent destructive force in the Universe.  I don't care what you say about chemical additives, genetically modified organisms, or radiated fish.   Boredom kills, quickly, and with certainty.   Boredom is from hell.  It is what true hell consists of, not burning souls, tortured or suffering in some way.  No.  When one goes to hell, one is subjected to unending boredom.  It is pain like no other; it will destroy your brain chemistry, your ability to think, your overall health.   Everything."   So said Moolie.

"If you find yourself bored, get out, right away, change it, fix it!" Moolie said, to our young and attentive ears. "To be bored is a sin against God.  You must fight it, and overcome it, he said, more than once, and rather sternly.    To be sure, Moolie never seemed to be bored, even when he did "nothing," sitting on the park bench in the playground.   He read a newspaper, talked to people, children, sang, whistled, or short of those things, just looked as if he were in deep thought.  He always smiled.   He always smiled except when asked about the numbers on his arm.   Then he just made an excuse to leave.   But pleasantly, he was never rude or angry.   I think I became a lot of Moolie as I aged.  I like to be pleasant and calm and serene to others. I think  Moolie would have liked that.

* * *

A conversation between me (Me) and Moolie (M), circa 1961.

M: "What are you doing?"
Me:  "I'm trying to give this ant a piece of bread crumb."
M:  "I see.  Is he taking it?"
Me: "He doesn't seem interested.  I put it right in front of him and he walks around it.   Over and over.  I don't get it."
M:  "Maybe he's not hungry."
Me:  "Hungry?  Do ants get hungry?   I thought they just carry stuff into their nest."
M:  "Well, why would they do that, if they weren't going to eat it?"
Me:  "It's for the Queen.  They have to feed the Queen Ant."
M:  "So then, what do they themselves eat?"
Me:  "I don't think they eat."
M: "Ants don't eat?   Is this what you're saying?"
Me:  "Yes.  I think so.  They don't eat.  I've never seen an ant eat.  Never."
M:  "How many animals have you seen eat?  I mean, have you seen a whale eat?"
Me:  "No."
M:  "A rhinoceros?"
Me:  "He looks like he wants to take it, but then he leaves it.  It's like he's not sure.  See?"
M:  "So, you've never seen a rhinoceros eat?  Does that mean it never eats?"
Me:  "Actually, it might not."
M:  "What?"
Me:  "Well, who knows?  I don't know."
M:  "I see.  Okay.   How's the ant doing?"
Me:   "There he goes again.  He picks it up, carries it and leaves it.   What's going on?"
M: "Maybe he's confused."
Me:  "A confused ant?"
M:   "Why not?  You've never seen a rhinoceros eat.   Maybe this is a confused ant."
Me:  "But an ant can't get confused.   He's an ant.   He does everything on instinct."
M:  "So his instinct is telling him to pick up the bread crumb then put it back down and walk in a circle over and over?"
Me:  "Oh, he's gone."
M:  "Did he take the bread crumb?"
Me:  "No."
M:  "I'm telling you, that was a confused ant."
Me:  "I guess so, Moolie."    And we both laughed.

***

Another conversation between me and Moolie.

Moolie was dressed in his black suit.   It wasn't a holiday, but he was wearing it anyway.

"Where are you going, Moolie?"
"To Mrs. Biaggi's Uncle's funeral."
"Oh. How old was he?"
"Oh, very old.  Ninety-seven."
"Wow.  That means he was born in. . . in. . .when was he born?"
"Well, this is 1962 so. . . subtract ninety-seven, you get. . . what?"
"1962 minus ninety-seven. . . seven minus two. . .no. . ."  I was drawing in the air.  Twelve minus seven is five. . .then. . .uh. . .1865!  The year Lincoln was shot.  Wow.   That's something, eh?"
"Yes, that's something."
"Think he was there?"
"No, no, no. . .he was in Italy.  He was born in Italy.  Didn't come over here till 1908."
"Wow.  1908.  Wow."   To me, 1908 was a million years ago.

"What year will it be when you are ninety-seven, Joey?"
"Oh, wow. . .1954 plus 97. . ." I started writing in the air again.  "It will be the year 2051!  Think they'll have flying cars by then, Moolie?"
"May be, Joey.   May be!"
"Flying cars," I thought, as Moolie turned and walked away.


* * *

One day Moolie decided to take the whole gang to the movies.   Uptown!   Wow.   We went to the old Loew's Capitol in the heart of Times Square.   What an amazing theater.   Huge?   Please.   But also ornately decorated, out of what they called the "Golden Age" of movie palaces.   And it was like a palace.   The entire lower section was surrounded by a rock garden.   Real rocks, real plants, real garden.   Extraordinary.   And the interior of the theater. . . wow, like a Cathedral.   And the film we saw?    Nothing less than the greatest "movie" ever made, "Gone With The Wind."   It was being re-released for some anniversary.   None of us boys cared about the anniversary only about seeing this film that we had heard so much about for so many years.   And Clark Gable.   And the film, and Gable didn't disappoint.  I can so clearly remember Gable telling Scarlet, "If I want to come in, no locks will keep me out," and kicked down the door to her  bedroom and the whole theater went nuts, screaming and cheering and clapping.   What a moment.   Only Gable to could make that happen like that.    Never the same on TV.   Which is why I make sure to take my grandchildren to see it in revival houses.  No comparison.

* * *

"Hey!  Moolie!  What are you carrying?"
"Come here, boys," he shouted at the group of us.   He opened his package to reveal a picture of a man throwing seeds on a field, with a bright, yellow sun in the distance.  It was beautiful.
"Like it?"
"Wow.  It's bee-oo-ti-ful," said, Terry La Duca, usually not so eloquent.
"Is it real?" I asked.
"Yes, well, no it's not the original painting, it's a reprint.  A copy.  I'm going to hang it up in my apartment over the sofa.
"What's it called?"
"The Sower.   Come by anytime to look at it.   It takes time to appreciate great art, boys."
"Okay, Moolie.  We will."
And we did.

***

I was playing the piano when Moolie dropped by.
"Hello, Moolie."
"Keep playing."
I continued to play but was distracted by a conversation Moolie was having with my mother.  It was pretty serious.  So I stopped.
"What happened?" Moolie asked. "I like to hear you play.  Keep playing."
It was obvious now that he wanted to keep my out of the conversation.   I played again, but my focus was on what was being said in the other room.   I heard little snippets of what was said.
Suddenly my mom called out to me, "Joey, you have to go to Aunt Mary's for a little while.   Take your homework."
"Okay." is dutifully said.

That is how I found out that my other Aunt Carlotta,  was beaten up by her husband, my Uncle Pete.  My mother was going to visit her in the hospital.   Everyone had a job to do.   My Uncle John was sent to get my mother to stay with my grandmother to keep her busy, so she wouldn't find out.   But it was my grandfather that everyone feared.   If he found out, he would surely have killed Pete as easily as turning a light switch.   He already hated the man's guts for so much less.  This was my father's task.   Moolie's task was to bring me home if it got too late and stay with me.

Which is what happened.

We sat in the kitchen and talked till after my usual bedtime of nine o'clock.  Moolie told me what happened. And why not? I was old enough, I was ten.

"Moolie, are they going to put him in jail?"

"I don't know.  Depends on your Aunt.   So far, she doesn't want them to press charges. We'll see."

"Why doesn't she want to?  She must hate him now.   Why wouldn't she want him to go to jail."

"Well, Joey, it's very complicated what happens between people.   People get all mixed up in their heads when they fall in love, get married, sometimes, it makes them a little crazy.   I don't know."

I was glad he said, "I don't know," because I didn't understand anything he said.   But Moolie was smart and I expected him to know.   That he didn't know, made me realize something.   Something important.

* * *

Moolie began to grow old.  That's a funny thing to say because we all did, but because he was older than all my friends it was much more noticeable.  Plus, he was always sick, or so it seemed, and began to leave the house less often..  I'm not sure why.   At first we missed him, and went to see him in his little apartment.   Then, I don't know what happened.   I think we just got older and distracted by life -- some of went to college, we started to have girlfriends, then our own families.   Many of our gang just moved away and were never heard from again.   I left the neighborhood but tried to keep in touch with as many people as could, I mean, how hard is it to send a card at Christmas?

***

Death became more and more familiar to me.  So many people from the neighborhood began to die off.   And relatives, too.   It was hard to keep track of who was alive and who wasn't!  Sometimes, I'd hear that someone had died and I could not place the name with a face.   That was kind of unsettling.

* * *

When Moolie died it was like someone out of my distant past, someone from a different life and world.  I know now that I didn't want to acknowledge the pain of it.  It was stupid of me.   None of us "boys" from the old neighborhood even went to the service for him.  I didn't even learn of his passing till over a month after his passing.   So it was easy to deny that he really wasn't there, sitting on the park bench, reading his newspaper, or talking to some kid who was trying to give a bread crumb to an ant.    In my mind Moolie is still there.    And always will be.  

***

At Christmas, the world is transformed.  In the summer, too.  But as drastic as those changes are, one to the other, Winter, Christmas, Spring, Summer, none of it compares to the changes brought by the awesome passage of time.   Same place, same buildings, same weather, but no, not the same.   In fact, everything is different.  Everything.

Of course, now, so many years later, visiting the old 'hood is like visiting a different planet.  And I don't like it.

And so, I and my old friends live in a strange and indifferent world, one without Moolie in it,  And I although I know he's long passed on, I still cannot imagine it.


***

More On Chopin

In a course description that I once offered at the New School I wrote that Chopin is popularly known for his lovely melodies.   And they are and he is.

But then I go on to say that he offers much much more than that.   I say that he offers the finest in  the craftsmanship of his music.   He is occasionally as profound and challenging as any of the composers of the first rand in his ability to create and develop themes, variations, creating forms that are sublimely beautiful.  His style of writing for the piano is perfect, and no one has exploited the potential of the instrument like he did. 

But what about those melodies.  My God, they are really beautiful.   I am listening to the Nocturnes right now, one after the other, all of them.    And I am intoxicated.   There is nothing like a beautiful melody by Chopin.  It connects the human ability to sing with the mechanism of the piano, the most extraordinary instrument ever created, let's face it.  Such melodies render a kind of out-of-body experience if you let it.  If you listen intently to such a passage as contains one of Chopin's finest melodies, you become the melody; it lives inside you;  it is as if you are singing it, creating it, along with Chopin, along with the pianist, along with the piano.   You become one with all of them, you transcend time and space, and are in the presence of Chopin himself, in reality, he is there, and God, however you think of a Deity, is there too.   It is the language of the Universe embodied in sound, mystical sound, perfected sound, sound that comes from. . . where?   

There is no experience like this.