AVE FORTUNA, IMPERATRIX MUNDI!

or, 

HOW CAN THIS BE?  

I mean, this stuff really happened.  

1.  Dr.  R--,  stands out on this list, because I had already had experienced so many ridiculously similar events, I no longer thought something like this was possible.    I mean, how many times can this kind of thing happen?     Quite a lot, apparently, but not to most people.   Not to anyone I've known, and not to anyone that anyone that I've ever known, has known.     No, this particular set of occurrences seem to be unique to me, and no matter how unlikely a string of events these appear to be, they are, nevertheless true.

 And so, we stand back in silent and reverent awe, humbled and powerless, before the frightful and fantastic visage of Fortuna, Imperatrix Mundi.

Dr. R-- was the chairman of the Department of Music at a well-known college located along the Hudson River, not more than an hour's drive from NYC.    I had been referred to him by a professor at NYU who said he would be probably very glad to meet and, at least, know me.   I called.   He was remarkably friendly after hearing the recommendation from his colleague and said that he was looking forward to meeting me.   He even went so far as to say that there was a position available for which I seemed perfectly suited.   We set up an appointment for me to visit.   Very, very positive.

The day of the meeting arrived.   So did the largest blizzard in over 110 years.   Literally, not since the "Blizzard of '88,"  the blizzard of New York City lore and legend, about which volumes of books have been written,  not since that storm, had the northeast seen this combination of snow and wind.    Dr. R--, good man that he was, called me first thing in the morning.

 "I think we had better postpone our appointment," he said, with a chuckle in his voice. 

He couldn't commit to a date at that moment but said he would have his secretary call me the following week with a date, which she did.  It was for about two months later, steering well clear of winter. 

The date of the second appointment approached so I phoned to confirm.  I was told that Dr. R-- was not in, that he was quite ill and would probably have to call me back in the near future.

After some time I called again, at which time his secretary explained that sadly, Dr. R--- was still quite ill.    Judging from the ominous tone in her voice, I gleaned that it was quite serious.   Something inside me clicked into place, I don't know  how to describe it.   But at that moment, I knew I would never meet Dr. R--.    I was right. 

He  left the earth sometime that summer.   The position he wished to discuss with me, after all that time, had, of course,  long been filled. 

*

2.  Father P.

This one hurt.  The job combined so many of the skills I possessed, plus possibility of working in spiritual surroundings -- something I had often dreamed about.

 Father P. was the musical Director of the most prominent and important Roman Catholic Church in Manhattan.    I had just walked in off the street and went to the Human Resources department, where I met a lovely young Irish lass, Irene, who perked up when she heard I was a musician, conductor, pianist, teacher, etc.    "There might be something for you," she said, smiling broadly.

Quickly, she set up an appointment for me.   The "first appointment."   This was not with Father P, but with someone who worked with him, or somewhere within the music program.   He was a very large, jolly middle-aged priest.   He treated me in a friendly, polite manner and was thoroughly impressed by my impromptu performance of the last movement of Chopin's B-minor Sonata, which I played on the little piano in his large office.  

Things having gone well, I was told I would now be meeting with Father P; a date would be secured, but not right away.    In the meantime, he said, I may get a call to meet with someone else.   Fine.  I'll meet everyone and anyone.  I'll meet the Pope if he wants.  
The job, as described to me, was a part-time job assisting the "main man" in all manner of the Church's  musical business. This included rehearsing the chorus and teaching them new music.  I asked about  education, that is adult education music classes, and he was very interested.   Unbelievable.   He was enthusiastic!   "Might be a good way of increasing attendance. . ." he said.   I couldn't believe my good fortune.   I had years experience in such.  Finally, a job in my ken, my milieu, using my exact set of unique and quite prodigious skills!   I would also have some light administrative work, nothing heavy, usually, just making copies of scores or ordering new ones.   Not a big deal.   An ape could do that.   I asked about education, that is adult education music classes, and he was very impressed by my idea and by the fact that sacred music was an area of specialization for me. Unbelievable. He was even enthusiastic! "Might be a good way of increasing attendance. . ." he said. I couldn't believe my good fortune.


My good fortune, I thought, as I left his office. . . no. . . it couldn't happen again. . . come on. . . I shook off the bad vibes threw my shoulders back and marched into the sunlight on Fifth Avenue.

 The "Second Interview," arrived.    The large priest greeted me warmly, and again, a pleasant, and hopeful conversation followed, including a brief chat about our favorite Psalms.    He and I shook hands, as he assured me to look forward to a phone call.  

I did receive a call to meet another member of the church hierarchy.  

I arrived a bit early on the day of the appointment so I decided to visit my friend at Human Resources.    She met me in tears.

"What's wrong?"
 "Haven't you heard?   It's. . ."
 "Father P--," I interrupted, knowing, without knowing why.
"Yes, he's very, very, sick.   He's been. . . he's not. . .  everything is different." 

Yes, everything was different alright.   Not the least of which was my job, which had now been reduced to a part time temporary job, not in the music office.  Remarkable, how these things happen. Yes, I thought of myself first, before Father P's condition.    I honestly thought, "Not again," as Irene was crying in front of me.   

They did not think I was appropriate for that new position.  

I watched the memorial Mass for Father P. on television.  

  

*

3.  John R W

 There are no words to adequately describe my love and admiration for Professor W.   He was a man of unlimited brilliance, and possessed a depth of knowledge I still believe impossible for one human brain.    He was a gifted musician, composer, and teacher.   He was a wreck as a human, however.

Despite all the mean-spirited, and crude things said about JRW, he was to me, always a gentlemen and a good friend.   I had helped in out financially when he was going through some terrible phase about God knows what.    I didn't care.   He was my friend and mentor in many ways.  

When I decided to write my Master's Thesis I wanted JRW as my advisor.  He accepted, and I went to work.   It was difficult, time consuming work. I was not an "academic" writer or much of a thinker, really, and struggled to express myself.   Nevertheless, JR was extremely supportive and excited about what I was doing.   So much so, that he wrote to a colleague at Stony-Brook about me, saying that he (JR) had no doubt that I would produce a major tome on the works of Frederic Chopin.   I still have the letter.

Six months into my research JR disappeared.  It was the summer so it was not impossible that he just took a vacation.   But as summer ended I found out that he had been hospitalized down south, in or near his hometown.   His return was not imminent.

After much consternation and rumination, I thought it would be best to get a new advisor.   My only choice was a man for whom I had no, or little, respect for as a music aesthetician or historian, a key aspect of my thesis.   Of course, he was completely non-supportive of my thesis and had me change the gist of it (to something he was more comfortable with, I'm sure).   This was a disaster.  If I had trouble writing before, now, it was impossible.   He lost patience, as did I, and, after a particularly ugly interchange,  I left the building in disgust never to return. 

 A year later, I found myself at NYU enrolled in the MA program for music education a more wasteful way to spend one's money, I've never seen.  

A letter came.   It was from JR.   He was doing much better and was eager to help me.  He had heard about my problems with the other advisor and told me not to worry, he was going to get me into a teaching assistant post at Stony-Brook. 

My dear Prof.  W., sweet, cultured, tortured man that he was, died shortly thereafter rather suddenly while visiting his family down south.  

I miss him terribly to this day. 

Sleep well, JRW.   Sleep well.

*

ADDENDUM

But what other remarkable events shall I share with you?   The Chairman of a world famous conservatory of music who, while he was teaching at the college I attended, thought I was one of his most gifted students and who, after not seeing him for twenty years, suddenly became ill and had to retire, after promising to meet me to discuss the possibility of my obtaining a position at the Conservatory?    Or, should I speak of Prof. M?  Doctor L?   How about the conductor at. . . oh, you get the idea.

In 1980 everybody but everybody who was anybody was telling me to learn some computer program, word processing language or whatever it's called.   "You'll see!   Every office is going to filled with computers!" they said.   To supplement my salary while earning the Master's I thought, great, I'll do "temp" work--good paying jobs, flexible hours, etc.-- but first to learn the computer.   So I spoke to people in the field and settle on the new, booming, gotta have it, computer language called, "WANG."  Remember WANG?  Everybody, but everybody who was anybody was shouting:

"Wang!"  
All the experts said, "Wang!"
"It's the wave of the future, boy!"
"Wang!  Wang!  Wang!"   

I actually went to a school that taught Wang, exclusively.   It was a the way of the future.   They guaranteed work, money, women, cars, trips to India, everything.  Just sign here.  Two-hundred and fifty dollars seemed a small price to pay for all that.

My first job armed with Wang Knowledge was working for the Financial Director of Warner Brothers, on 51st.    Not bad.   What a nice guy too, a real regular guy.   Light work, lots of laughs, barely spent any time on the computer.

That was my last job that employed Wang.   You know what happened, don't you?    Look it up.  Wang.  And, like a bad vaudeville sketch, all those experts, were saying:
"Wang?"  Are you nuts?  
"Nobody's going to be using Wang in a year!"
"Wang! What a joke!  
"What's wrong with you?  Get out!!!"

You may as well then go ahead and picture me being grabbed by the back collar and being thrown out, landing squarely on my ass, onto the busy New York sidewalks.

In 1990 after a nasty incident with the Chancellor's nephew at Performing Arts High School (which I will discuss later on) I decided to chuck it all and work in the field I would really enjoy: travel.   I took a course in Sabre, the travel agents computer program for selling tickets, a must for anyone in travel.      Who knew?   Once again, all the "experts" said, no, screamed:

"Sabre!  You must learn Sabre!"  
"You wanna work in travel kid?  Learn Sabre."
"Sabre!"
Sabre!"

Once they took my money and I was prepared to attack, those same experts:

 "Sabre!  What's wrong with you?"
 "Idiot!  Sabre's old fashioned!"
"Nobody uses Sabre anymore!! Get out!  OUT!"  
Ass on sidewalk, maybe this time a pigeon craps on my hat.  Fade to black.   Hal Roach music up.

Never mess with a classic, they say.    

* * *

"Curtiss-Wright!" he shouted.   "Buy Curtiss-Wright!"

It was from someone whose opinion I trusted, so, I kept an eye on Curtiss-Wright over the next couple of weeks and every day it was up a little more.    Then, it went up 10 points, then 5  points, then 6 points!

Finally, with the only money I had managed to save, I purchased as many shares as I could.   I was sure I had a winner.

The following day in the Wall Street Journal, Curtiss-Wright Down 15 followed by the words, "Curtiss-Wright suspends trading. . ."   A lawsuit was filed by a Japanese company.    Then, over the following weeks (I refused to sell and take a huge loss) down 25,  down 17, down, down, down.

Most ironic, had a purchased the day before I could have largely minimized or avoided any big loss.    Had a waited one more day, I would not have invested.   No, I purchased the stock on the absolute singular worst day possible.

Of course. 

* * * 

But what of the dissolution of programs and institutions that existed, in some cases for 90 years, until, "the curse of J.C---" struck them down.   Let's have a quick look at those:

1.  A prominent university known world-wide for specializing in diverse and adult education and undergraduate courses, hires J. C --  to teach in their Department of Music and Theater.   Aaron Copeland taught there.  But after two years, the Chairman was out of a job as the department was dismantled.  But so successful had I been, so admired for my work, that several students (adult) wrote long letters of praise to the President of the College!   This was one factor in them trying to keep me on in some capacity, which they were able to do.    For two years I taught under the auspices of their "Guitar Study Center."   Then, that was eliminated.   I was switched to the Department of Humantities.   The Chairman, a very "faaaaaaaaabulous" guy, did not like that I taught similar courses to his. . .uh. . . never mind.   But even without this conflict, the handwriting was on the wall.   Music was OUT.   Eventually, so was I. I spent a total of 8 years there.  But 90 years of  this venerated university, providing unbroken, and unyielding courses for. . . *poof!* -   disappeared.

2.   Another prominent, very very prominent University in the NYC area folds up the Music program in my Division after 50 years.  I did manage to teach there to the end, for a total of 5 years and *poof!*

3.   A City-wide, much respected  "Conflict Resolution and Mediation Training Program," funded by the federal government for seventeen years, is suddenly DE-funded, and six months into my joining the team *poof!*  
(note: this followed rather quickly upon the death of Father P. and that whole incident.)

4.   I realize that many have been burned by nepotism.   But after all this, I mean, come on.  The Chairman at a prestigious middle school specializing in music used all his influence within the bureaucracy to have me assigned to the school, so highly regarded by he, was I.   After two years the Chancellor's nephew *poof*!

And on, and on. . . .

Now, if you are like most idiots you will say one of two things:  either none of this is true, some of it is true, or if completely true, is mere coincidence.    Right. Well, fuck you.    It is NOT "coincidence."    "Coincidence," is having the same name as someone who is sitting next to you on the subway.   "Coincidence," is ordering pizza three weeks in a row from three different restaurants and having the delivery boy hit by the SAME cab every week.  That's coincidence, okay?

No, these series of events were the work of forces beyond our senses, our reason, or our control.   They speak of a power, thoughtful, conscious, or not I do not know;  a power  which knows of human lives and struggles, and acts upon them, using some yet unknown mechanism.

It has many names, and has been known to men throughout time and in all places of the earth.  

Call  it  what  you  will -- luck, fate,  providence,  destiny, whatever  -- we who know Her well, who are Her victims, humble ourselves and call Her by name.   We prostrate ourselves before Her saying,

Omnes Ave Fortuna!  Fortuna, Imperatrix Mundi!   

TREES

So much that surrounds us points to the dissolution of our society, to the end of Western Civilization as it had been known, and to the cruel brutality of the world.   These avatars of our destruction are conspicuously on display in the nature of our popular culture, in films, in print, (if anyone still reads) and in music.   But for me, nowhere is this devastation more powerfully and clearly observed than in an examination of what we teach our children, or more specifically, what we no longer teach our children.  

We no longer teach our young to value their own past, or to at least have a passing knowledge of that which created the world in which they are to live and prosper.  Indeed, just the opposite seems to be true: what was once perceived as deviant or anti-social behavior is now celebrated with great joy, it seems, and those works, objects of art, poems, or literature once held as "classics," are mocked or worst, ignored completely. What is deemed "cool" is treasured over the profound and laudatory.   "Relevance" has rendered true greatness irrelevant.  Tradition has been replaced by fashion in most all subject areas;  it is fashion that determines what is to be held in high esteem, what is valued, bought and sold.    Our approach to the world, how we see it has become immature and valueless.  

When I was a boy it was part of just about every school's curriculum to learn the poem (and song) "Trees," by Joyce Kilmer.    So popular was this poem that it showed up in films, in cartoons; it was quoted and paraphrased, even parodied, in every media.   That could be done only because everyone knew it.   We can no longer say that.   We haven't been able to say that for many, many years.

But why this particular poem?   Why should this poem be held in such high esteem that it should be taught to our young in schools around the country, universally accepted by educators as the sine qua non for the complete education of youth, for so many years?   I challenge you to think on this.  I challenge you to find the reasons that this poem should be so treasured.   Then, I challenge you to teach it to a young person.   

TREES

by Joyce Kilmer

I think that I shall never see, 

A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree that looks at God all day,

And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed

Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that may in summer wear

A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,

But only God can make a tree.

And if you don't "get it," that makes me sad.   

Rainy Night At Boone's Tavern*

She wanted to say something.  So did he.  Jesse, the bartender, placed a tall drink in front of the quiet, slouching, man and as he did, the lady considered commenting on it.  She didn’t.  Jesse, always believing he knew how to size up a situation, felt that in time they would talk to each other, so he kept his distance.  They should go at their own speed. 

She played with the straw in her drink.  He folded and unfolded his cocktail napkin.  She checked her cell phone for messages.  There were none.  He went to the jukebox to play a slow, sad, jazz number.  It matched the quiet din of the bar, accompanied by falling rain outside and the chill in the air—the chill that brought them both to this moment.  He returned to his bar stool, wondering if he should just leave, go to bed and start anew tomorrow.  He wondered if he should end his own life.  Surely, he thought, if fate had a plan for him it would have fallen into place by now, or at least been made clear to him.  It hadn’t, and living was becoming more and more painful.  His divorce was especially bitter.  He didn't want it.  He wanted to give it another try.  But even he knew now that it would have been pointless.  Pointless.  That was the word that seemed to encapsulate his life to this moment.  No family, no friends, stuck at a meaningless job.  The world had become hollow and joyless. Why go on?  Why pretend to have hope?  Deep down he believed things would never change. 

All this he thought in a flash of a moment, while she, pretending it wasn't her 40th birthday, asked Jesse for another.  “I'm not going home, not tonight,” she thought.  “I'm not going home.”  Soon, she imagined, a crowd would gather at the bar and she would mingle, and somehow the topic would come around to birthdays and she would say it was hers and everyone will sing “Happy Birthday” to her and toast her health, and she'd buy everyone a round of drinks and they'd become her close friends.  Yes, this could happen.  It probably happened all the time.  She asked Jesse for the time.  He told her.  “Okay, it's still early,” she thought.  “It's still early, and most people don't go out until much later.”  Yes, she convinced herself that this birthday would not be a lonely one, and that she would find her place in the community.  Not bad for a girl who never had any friends of any kind; a girl whose only companion was her sickly mother for whom she cared for until she died last year.  Not bad for a girl who only six months ago was confined to the grounds of a, what did they call it? — Sanitarium.  Not bad at all.  Yes, this birthday would be different.  This birthday would be special. 

And so, mustering all the courage she could, she turned to the gentleman seated two stools to her left and said, “Hello.” 
He was startled out of his deep reverie.
“Excuse me?” he said. 
“Oh, great,” she thought, “he doesn't even want to say hello to me.”  She froze.
“Oh, nothing, excuse me, I thought you were someone else.” 
She placed a twenty-dollar bill on the bar and walked away.  He didn't notice. 

 Jesse took the bill, rang up her two drinks, and kept the change.

_______________________________________________________________

* from, "The Gibbonsville Saga."  c. 2010, U.S.

L'ESCALE - A Dining Gem In More Ways Than One

If you find yourself in CT and wish to dine at a world-class restaurant mark this down: L'ESCALE. Remember it, then prepare to tell everyone you know about it.    For L'ESCALE offers a rare combination of the finest dining qualities in the vaunted Tri-State area:  ambiance, food, and service, (with one exception I will get to) are all first rate.  Really above first rate.

First you are taken by an excellent menu and really that is really well thought out. The seafood is always fresh and the flavors are never overbearing. There's something for everyone, even vegetarians! Try the truffle risotto.   Service is an A+ and the staff is very attentive and friendly.   Be sure to be cognizant of the smells -- be prepared to be reminded of a coast of France.  Magnificent  mixture of delicious food and fresh flowers. Really nice,.

The one drawback is the blond bitch who handles the parties.  Hoping to celebrate an important occasion there  I tried to speak with the Sales Associate in her office, but could not take the conversation very far before she started touching me.   That's right, touching me in a private area that men normally enjoy being touched.   She then dropped down to her knees in front of me, undoing my belt and said, "I'll go all the way for one-hundred dollars."   Shocked, and very turned on I consented and she was really quite good.   Her opening was tart and satisfying, the main course, quite fulfilling, if you get my drift, as it were.  Afterward, quite sated and ready for something simple and sweet, I was shocked to discover that she did this for all males with cash who entered her office. Then she slapped me, hard, saying there was no reason for us to talk ever again.  Sadly, I could no longer agree to hold my party there.   

But for you, I say, go for it!   Enjoy the food (and the party coordinator!  She's a real pro.)

____________________________________________

The above is a work of fiction and any resemblance to people living or dead is mere coincidence. Okay?   Trust me.   Really.

Another Look At, "On The Waterfront."

It is rare to find a truly serious and intelligent film dominated by tough guys, about tough guys, and set in the world of tough guys, that is, MEN, before the 1960's, that is both intelligent, moving and, in some ways, profound.   The Cagney film, "The Roaring Twenties," comes close but not really.    But such is the film, "On The Waterfront."    Warning: I do not LOVE Marlon Brando in this, so be prepared for some criticism of his work.

First of all, the script is a masterpiece.  Budd Schulberg so beautifully captures the style and syntax of these waterfront thugs, and the hard working lower class victims of union corruption, along with their unique brand of  male bravura.   Spoken from the mouths of such fine actors we do not hesitate to believe that everything we see is real, and we are frightened, at times, for our lives.  It is this searing realism that makes "Waterfront," the success that it is, and that realism is born both out of the words, and how they are brought to life.    Certainly Kazan must take some credit here.   But how much is difficult to say -- perhaps a lot, for the entire cast, save Brando is spot on brilliant.  Perhaps less because it's all in the words and these actors know their profession, their craft.

First, Lee J. Cobb, as, Johnny Friendly is so frighteningly real I have been told by grown men that he genuinely frightened them.   Good God, but what a performance.   Mean, tough, surly, a lout, we see him for what he is, for what he is is on display loudly and clearly and without apology.   He a man's man.   And we have no doubt as to  how he has maintained such tight-fisted control over so many other very tough and dangerous men.   They have no chance.

Steiger, supposedly the brains of the operation, also provides a wonderful portrait of a different kind of street tough, a more refined, educated one, but nonetheless straight from the wharves.  He straddles the line, beautifully, between the calm controlled accountant and the hood ready to kill for his boss.   But he is not ready, as we find out.

The real hero of the film, and its finest performance is provided by the one and only, Karl Malden.  As Father Barry Malden is both tough, smart, sensitive, corrupted, and pure.  He's the only one in the film I'd give a chance against Johnny Friendly in a street fight.   His speech over the body of the recently deceased Dugan is one of the highlights in American cinema history.  It is simply a tour-de-force.

Now for Brando.   I'm sorry, but in my opinion we see Brando "thinking" throughout the film.    I don't mean the character Brando is playing, I mean Brando, the actor.   It is distracting and false.   There is one moment, when he is in the bar waiting for Friendly to show up at a bar to kill him, where, holding a gun in one hand and bleeding profusely down his arm, he reaches back with that hand to adjust his shirt and jacket collar.  It seems completely false.   It was the actor concerned about how he looked.   That's what it spoke to me, at least.   Here's a guy ready to kill, bleeding, fed up with the criminality and who had just witnessed his own brother's murder, taking a moment to  powder his nose.

But for intelligent drama, almost melodrama, and reality oozing from the screen, this is among Hollywood's best ever.

Of All The Words of Tongue and Pen. . .

Let me posit to you that you could go back in time to some critical moment, a turning point in your life, and, knowing what you know today, you are able to make a different choice, and affect the remainder of your life. 

Suppose further, that there was one choice that you made the passing years caused you to recognize this choice as a terrible mistake, one that changed your life forever for the worse -- set it on a very different, very lamentable, course than you had hoped.  

Suppose then that you could go back and change your major in college, or take that trip to China, or ask that girl to marry you.

Or ask that girl to marry you; 

or ask her to marry you. and, then you think, "What might have been."

Ponder this:  that you have in fact, discovered a way to go back.  Once there you had the strength and foresight to ask.  

Then suppose she said, "yes."

You married her.   You married her and loved her deeply and she loved you deeply.   And yes, there were rough times, times you thought you couldn't make it, but you did, and were happy you did, and she was still there and still loved you.    Suppose you made love to her all the time, at least, a lot.  Suppose you loved her so much that being with another woman was meaningless.  Suppose you had children with this woman, raised them, watched them grow healthy and strong, and still she was there, to help you and take care of you when you needed it, and you took care of her, too.   Suppose all that.

Suppose that when you asked her to marry you she said to you, "Yes," and, "I love you.  I will always love you."   And she meant it   And you returned the promise of love, and swore to always do your best to make her happy.  And you meant it with all your heart.   And you were happy -- happy beyond measure, beyond words.   Suppose that.

Suppose you had a full life with her and had good friends and traveled and played tennis and went to the beach.  Suppose you had many such good times.   Yes, there were tragedies and ugliness, and mistakes, and regrets, and anger, and sickness, and death.   Yes, there was that, too.

But suppose there was all that, and still you went to the theater with her and laughed with her, and you listened to music with her and held her hand.  Suppose you sang songs with her many times over the years,  just for the fun of it year after year.  

And suppose that now, you could look back at all that, re-live your life with her, talk about it, remember it, sometimes with a tear in your eye, sometimes with a chuckle, sometimes with a good belly laugh, and after all that, you could sit back with your arm around her and feel  fulfilled,  uplifted, and proud, and you knew that God himself had blessed you.  

Suppose you felt, in your bones, the simple glory of a life so lived?

Suppose all that.  

Then suppose that none of that happened.   None of that happened and you realize, as if suddenly waking from a dream, that you are completely and utterly alone having never known love, having lived a lifetime of mock loves and real loneliness, all the while having kept the knowledge of your true love locked in your heart, unspoken and denied to the world, yet ever present in your soul, knowing that this broken heart would never, could never, heal, or the pain of regret ever dissipated.

And, suppose you had given up all hope of ever loving someone or ever being loved.  

Would you not want to close your eyes and go to sleep?

Would you shout and curse the sky, 
And all that lay in Heaven's keep? 
Would you close your eyes and cry
For blissful rest, and final sleep? 

On The Fourth Of July In New York City

We grew in age and love together,
Roaming the forest and the wild;
My breast her shield in wintry weather,
And when the friendly sunshine smiled
And she would mark the opening skies,
I saw no Heaven but in her eyes—

                 ~  Edgar Allan Poe, Tamerlane

Today is the Fourth of July.   It is hot, humid, and very, very quiet here in the East Village.    The only thing good about being in the city on this day is that most of the degenerate idiots, the hipsters, the fools  who live here have gone away for a few days.

I drag my exhausted body out of bed and out to breakfast, then back again.  Soon, I would have to shop for a bit of groceries.    I leave my apartment and walk toward the Key Food.   It was even quieter than before.

I walk over to the schoolyard playground which is empty except for one young mother and her little toddler girl, playing in a small spray fountain.  And on a nearby bench sits a deliciously lovely woman of about forty, reading or staring at her phone.   She wore a light, airy dress which, with her legs crossed exposed her legs to about halfway up her thighs.    Although a somewhat plain looking woman she did have a kind of simple loveliness about her, and a sexiness.    I tried not to stare.  I wondered how could I start a conversation with her.  

"No plans for the holiday?"
"Decide to stay home today?"

No, one cannot approach a stranger in the park with lines like these.   Then I spotted a ring, and that was that.   I turned and stared into the quiet distance.

As if on cue someone started playing a saxophone.   I thought, "No one would believe this."   But it is true.   Here I was, alone, extremely depressed, in this abandoned Lower East Side playground, in the heat of summer day, a holiday no less.   Around the country countless of millions of people were at picnics, beaches, boating, playing softball, or just having fun with friends, relatives, loved ones.   But here I sat, alone and still sick, still very weak, and of course, extremely sad, to the accompaniment of a lonely, distant saxophone.   Right out of a bad Hollywood "B" movie, no?

Her face comes to me at times, at times when I least expect it.    

The sexy lady stood and walked out of the grounds with great purpose.  I'm sure it was to get away from the strange man sitting diagonally across from her, all alone on the Fourth of July, in an empty children's playground.   He was trouble, I'm sure she thought.

After a while I stood and went to sit in the larger cement basketball  yard which was open to complete sunlight to sit in the hot sun.   I thought it might help clear my lungs.  Plus, I wanted to get some Vitamin D.   But most of all, I wanted to lose myself in memory of the days I used to play basketball in that very spot, forty years ago.   I recalled the noisy mayhem of teens and young men shouting, playing ball, and children running all about.   Where were they now?  Where were those hail fellows well met?   Moose, and Pryce, Turk, and Pete?  Where were all those younger children, playing tag, or dodge-ball on the other side of the yard?   The little girls screaming as the boys teased them in one playful way or another?   I could see their ghosts (and my own), through the dim and choking haze, through the flashes of blistering heat and blinding light that beat on my straining eyes.  Did my old friends ever really exist?  Did any of it?  And all of the hundreds and thousands of children that passed through this one-hundred and twenty year old playground -- were they ever real?

Recalling faces from long ago, I continued to ask, where were my old friends now, almost half-century later?  Had they all moved very far away forgetting this small playground, or letting the memories intentionally slip away?  I think people do that.   If not, did they ever think of it?  Do they ever think of me?  

Did they have lives?   Perhaps even families, children, and grand-children!  An amazing thought.  Did they live in houses and enjoy holidays together?   Did they work hard, and feel justified walking into their homes?   And how many were dead?   And which ones? Was I really the only fool still here, still holding on to these thoughts of years ago?  I wanted to know all this.  But the silence, indifferent to my queries, spoke only of today, and only my useless memories brought the once teeming playground back to life.

What a contrast, those days, to the death-like silence of this particular day.   No one, not a single person could be found anywhere.  I may as well have been in the middle of a desert.   Not one child ran, or tossed a ball.  There was just the searing heat, the sun, and the silence.    I began  to sweat.   It felt good.   I had been indoors so long I had forgotten the feeling.  


I dreamt of her last night.    She sang to me. 

Looking back to where I had been sitting I noticed that lovely woman had returned to her spot, proof, I believed that she left if fear of me, and returned only after I had gone.    I made up my mind to go to the store and return to that bench diagonally across from her just to see what would happen.   So I stood, went shopping, and returned and sat.   She did not look up.  She looked at her watch.    Then, she smiled.  Not at me.   At the entrance to the playground stood some ape-like being, shaved head, fat, and speaking some foreign, Eastern European language.  She went to him.   They spoke, briefly.  He kissed her gently, rather sweetly, on the mouth.   They turned and walked away, arm in arm. 

How wonderful it must be to have someone special like that in one's life.  Someone who is glad to walk arm in arm with you.   What must that feel like?  It must be magical.  More, how blessed.   How special and fortunate for both.   Did they know how lucky they were?   Did they drop to their knees and thank God every morning, as I would, for their good fortune?   Did either of them know what real loneliness meant?   That God himself smiled upon them when he gave them to each other?   Did they know any of this?   Did they ask, "Why are we so lucky, and others so unfortunate?"   Were they even aware of people like me?   People who sit all alone, on holidays, on playground benches, listening to the silence of the blazing heat, with nowhere to go, and no one to see, no one to ask, "How are you?" or kiss sweetly, on the lips?  Did they take pity on me?  Did I exist?  Or was I, as I have often felt, a phantom,  and therefore, invisible?  A ghoul that only a gifted few might sense or take note of?   But not this couple.   For them, I did not exist, not at all.  If anything I might be a sad, ghostly figure, left over from some remote past, a different world even, something to be shunned, even feared.   

I whisper, "Please, do not fear me.  I am haunted, too."   They do not hear me. 

I walked back to the other spot in the sun, and noticed a baseball on the hot cement.   I picked it up.   It wasn't a real baseball but a hard, rubber one, made to look like a baseball.   It even had real stitching.  I threw it in my shopping bag.  And continued on to the steps I used as a bench.    After few moments I thought I would throw the ball against the wall and catch it.  Sort of a work out, work up a sweat.   So I did.

The first throw brought a twinge of pain in the shoulder.   I'll work that out, I thought, as I throw.   After about a dozen throws the pain was gone and I was really zinging the ball.   I picked out a target and tried to hit it.   First from one distance, then from a few feet further away.   I was really sweating.   A man my age walked by and said, "I wish I had that energy."    I said, "I wish I did to--I'm about to collapse.   But I just need to work up a sweat."   He said he would, too, but was too out of shape and tired.  At least I think he said these things.  Maybe he wasn't there at all.  I thought, for a moment,  I might have been talking to myself.   Odd that he should happen by just then and say that.   Very odd.   If he was there at all.    

I continued on, while also trying to glean the looks on the faces of the occasional passer-by on the other side of the playground fence.   "Look at this pathetic nut," I'm sure more than one of them thought.   "This is his Fourth of July.   What a loser."   I couldn't blame them, really.   I might have thought the same had I a life, or actual plans for the day with friends, and saw someone doing this, in the heat, alone in a child's playground.  Yes, I might have thought the same too.   Who wouldn't?

My workout complete, and sweating profusely, I returned to the bench.  On the way I walked close enough to the little spraying fountain to get a little cool water on me.  Then I sat, quietly, but noticed that the saxophone had ceased playing its melancholy tune.  There was only a very deep silence now, a kind of silence that covers everything and makes the world seem unreal.

The heat was now oppressive, as was everything else:  the date, the place, the circumstances and that eerie silence.   I began to feel dizzy.   

So I sat, waiting to feel steady again.  But then I became overwhelmed by a sense of complete hopelessness, a sudden awareness that I was alone,  completely and utterly alone.  I tried, slowly, to stand.  It was no good, as my dizziness now was too much.   I wished that I could just lie on the bench, close my eyes and disappear, as phantoms sometimes do.  

In time, I steadied and stood again.  The silence was terrifying as I no longer had the music as a barrier between my mind and the dreadful emptiness that surrounded me, that was within me;  I had no buffer between my confused and conflicted  thoughts and this poor, pitiful, morbid reality.   Silence will do that.  

Barely conscious and exhausted, I stood and walked slowly home. Perhaps now I might be able to get a bit of sleep. 

Soon, I thought.  

Soon. . .