Greetings from Seattle, everybody!
That naked baby on Nirvana's debut album "Nevermind" is 21 damn years old now! Eddie Vedder's middle aged and has already drifted in esteemable older rock icon deaconism: the making of film soundtracks. My, the time flies...remember the stripped down EP by Alice n Chains: Jar of Flies? I do. The gunge scene was of course over when it started, it seemed, and drug overdoses and suicides and the documenteries about the overdoses and suicides have all occured. The candles in effigy have melted long ago...but the city still smells like coffee, and there is just the smallest smell of teen spirit in the air...and always will be.
I like Seattle a lot, and I've already bumped my facebook friends up by 3! People are really friendly here. They like living here, it seems. However, the weather has turned over the last three days, and my three new best friends have all told me they are bracing for the long gray hopefully 6 but more than likely closer to 8 months ahead.
Mother Nature rules all, still, no matter what we've done. That grand and mighty interstate, that concrete river route I easily rolled into town on (the traffic by natives in little canoes made by Ford, Chevy, but more so by Toyota and Honda, were the only hindrances, and we thank God we were not shot by their arrows and spears) gets closed down in Snoqualmie Pass, a beautiful mountain route outside of Seattle, at least 6-9 days a year. That's total shut down on an interstate, folks, and it has been closed for as much as 21 days in a single winter. That's a long time in a long winter to cut access down a long road in America. I'm surprized there's not more cannibilism due to lack of supplies in the winter by the the colonists, but I guess the natives have teached them how to fish by now. Mother nature still rules, I say again, and people of the northwest know, and revere her, they just hope she's not too moody.
The trip from Grand Forks, N.D. to Seattle was filled with dynamic landscapes and dynamic people. Its a long way, around 1,500 miles, and I saw arid zones, forests, big rivers and big rigs along the highway. Sunsets that a mortal is foolish to explain and colors I've never seen before on the great plains of the nation. I also saw Texans. Yep, a fracking oil boom is alive and well in North Dakota, and towns like Minot and Dickenson, N.D. aren't building hotels enough to house their boots and spurs. A native North Dakotan was telling me its the wierdest thing, "I grew up here all my life, and now all the sudden everbody's got a Texas accent." The oil rigs still can't take away from the grand skyline one can see up here...at least, not yet.
Huckleberries grow wild in Montana and Idaho, and I went into a cafe in St. Regis, MT, where I was when I got the news that my father died last year, and if there's anything you like, they have a Huckleberry based recipe of it. "Huckleberry" in front of anything just makes it sound better, lighter, happier, and St Regis looks a lot better to me now than it did last December.
Well, there's coffee to drink and when in Rome...
Take care,
Todd
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Up River and Out West...
Hello everybody
Greetings from the sacred land of the Sioux. Of course, the Sioux did not believe land could be o wned but we showed them, for a little while, anyway, the Great Spirit has seen it all and will correct these little mistakes we foolish humans are prone to make. In the meantime, it looks like every last Sioux indian has joined me in this bus station in Sioux Falls, SD. I'm guessing the Sioux don't fly much. I'm guessing not too many people who made the trip up with me, from Memphis do, all the way up through cotton country where the Memphis blues morph into the St. Louis Jazz and over and around Lewis and Clark's little trip on the Missouri, do. Hmm, is it because theyed be damned if the Man makes them take their shoes off? Hmm, I don't think so. I think it has more to do with the money in their pockets, or lack their of. Its hard to think, with all the people you see in airports and all those damned annoyances due to airlines making cuts and the fact that you still can't make phone calls or to be told when to use our smart phone, etc..., that flying is a luxury that MANY people can't afford to take...not just Indians! I see so many people along the way that are desperately trying to get somewhere, or away from somewhere, to the point of tears, and they're not even halfway there. The only solace is seeing a really beautiful country go by. There reallry are amber waves of grain, and I think I heard banshees shrieking in the Ozarks. Its funny, just when you think the scenery goes on forever, it changes before you know it. Its beautiful. The people traveling with you change before you know it. They're beautiful, too.
Greetings from the sacred land of the Sioux. Of course, the Sioux did not believe land could be o wned but we showed them, for a little while, anyway, the Great Spirit has seen it all and will correct these little mistakes we foolish humans are prone to make. In the meantime, it looks like every last Sioux indian has joined me in this bus station in Sioux Falls, SD. I'm guessing the Sioux don't fly much. I'm guessing not too many people who made the trip up with me, from Memphis do, all the way up through cotton country where the Memphis blues morph into the St. Louis Jazz and over and around Lewis and Clark's little trip on the Missouri, do. Hmm, is it because theyed be damned if the Man makes them take their shoes off? Hmm, I don't think so. I think it has more to do with the money in their pockets, or lack their of. Its hard to think, with all the people you see in airports and all those damned annoyances due to airlines making cuts and the fact that you still can't make phone calls or to be told when to use our smart phone, etc..., that flying is a luxury that MANY people can't afford to take...not just Indians! I see so many people along the way that are desperately trying to get somewhere, or away from somewhere, to the point of tears, and they're not even halfway there. The only solace is seeing a really beautiful country go by. There reallry are amber waves of grain, and I think I heard banshees shrieking in the Ozarks. Its funny, just when you think the scenery goes on forever, it changes before you know it. Its beautiful. The people traveling with you change before you know it. They're beautiful, too.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Old times there are not forgotton....
Howdy,
Well, I traversed the entire deep south in the last 6 days, from Savannah all the way over and up to Memphis, just short of the Canaan's land of the north. I saw a sunset across a cotton field today that eliminated all questions in the universe for just the smallest moment and everything was one...then that moment passed and the wharehouses, truck stops and strip malls came back into view. Let me tell you the salt of the earth travels well on the back of the greyhound. And, everywhere down the interstates across the marshes, pine forests, cotton fields, strip malls, truck stops, dollar generals, family dollars, super dollar stores, old brick five and dime stores long gone out of business which now house taquerias in the middle of once thriving small towns, and one Hardee's after another I hear one word over and over: jobs. People going everywhere, up, down, left and right all over the bus routes looking for jobs. Some have the hope in their voice of going somewhere for a job, others with the hollow hopeless voice of not finding one where they thought they would and going the only place they know to go to: home. Home is a state of mind in the south, a place of, at once, despair and sanctuary. Home is where the world makes the most sense to us, with or without hope. Ok, enough preaching, besides I'm leaving the south tomorrow, to St. Louis, and the gold beyond. I plan to visit a tent city there, aptly named: Hopeville. Take care and see you round the bend...
Well, I traversed the entire deep south in the last 6 days, from Savannah all the way over and up to Memphis, just short of the Canaan's land of the north. I saw a sunset across a cotton field today that eliminated all questions in the universe for just the smallest moment and everything was one...then that moment passed and the wharehouses, truck stops and strip malls came back into view. Let me tell you the salt of the earth travels well on the back of the greyhound. And, everywhere down the interstates across the marshes, pine forests, cotton fields, strip malls, truck stops, dollar generals, family dollars, super dollar stores, old brick five and dime stores long gone out of business which now house taquerias in the middle of once thriving small towns, and one Hardee's after another I hear one word over and over: jobs. People going everywhere, up, down, left and right all over the bus routes looking for jobs. Some have the hope in their voice of going somewhere for a job, others with the hollow hopeless voice of not finding one where they thought they would and going the only place they know to go to: home. Home is a state of mind in the south, a place of, at once, despair and sanctuary. Home is where the world makes the most sense to us, with or without hope. Ok, enough preaching, besides I'm leaving the south tomorrow, to St. Louis, and the gold beyond. I plan to visit a tent city there, aptly named: Hopeville. Take care and see you round the bend...
Thursday, September 15, 2011
City of Ghosts
Well, I found out where I want to live. It is Savannah. I planned to visit it for a day and jump back on the bus, but ended up staying the night. It is such a beautiful city...and an OLD city. The Antebellum architecture - with statues of Michelangelo, Ruben, and others...and cemeteries filled with war heroes and scoundrels - looms quietly over the city reminding the people of unknown energies working in the world. People beleive in ghosts here, at least my hotel clerk did. She was also very kind, as was the waitress at the restaurant on River Street where I ate breakfast, the lady at the cafe where I camped out and charged my phone, and the waitress at the one of the best Italian places I've ever eaten at, in the city market. All three were born and raised here and all didn't really care to live anywhere else. An idyllic place, almost...for all around the fun and evergetic happenings you see the homeless or downtrodden coming in and out off the edge of the outer dark. But everybody and everything is part of one thing, one big thing, and moss drips everywhere for that one thing is very still. And deep. I'm not sure what that one thing is, but you can feel it...maybe ghosts are real, and maybe they tap you on the shoulder on your dark walk to the hotel. Some places just have more access to the rest universe than others. Savannah is in its own little area out in space.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Good Morning America Where Are You?
Greetings from deep down in Appalachia!
Well, I've decided once again to travel the country by bus. I'm about a week in, rolling through Chattanooga, Tennessee as I type. So far its been New York to Burlington,VT to Montreal, Canada to Boston, MA to Louisville, KY and I'm on my way to Savannah, GA now and its beginning to feel like a Johnny Cash song...finally. I'm out to see what America looks like from the inside and so far the inside of it is filled with some wonderful people. Some have been less tjan wonderful, but hell, its a bus and sometimes the toilet smells like a county fair porta potty, so who can blame 'em? So far, I've sat by Amish, Pakistani, Indian, Mexican, Alabamans, New Englanders, mid-westerners, bible readers and meth addicts. Its both calm and crazy and its All American. I hope you wanna follow along, it is your country after all and, who knows, I just may run into you along the way. And, if you want me to stop by and say hello to anybody you know out there, lemme know. If I can, I will. 10-4, good buddy, be well and take care.
Todd
Well, I've decided once again to travel the country by bus. I'm about a week in, rolling through Chattanooga, Tennessee as I type. So far its been New York to Burlington,VT to Montreal, Canada to Boston, MA to Louisville, KY and I'm on my way to Savannah, GA now and its beginning to feel like a Johnny Cash song...finally. I'm out to see what America looks like from the inside and so far the inside of it is filled with some wonderful people. Some have been less tjan wonderful, but hell, its a bus and sometimes the toilet smells like a county fair porta potty, so who can blame 'em? So far, I've sat by Amish, Pakistani, Indian, Mexican, Alabamans, New Englanders, mid-westerners, bible readers and meth addicts. Its both calm and crazy and its All American. I hope you wanna follow along, it is your country after all and, who knows, I just may run into you along the way. And, if you want me to stop by and say hello to anybody you know out there, lemme know. If I can, I will. 10-4, good buddy, be well and take care.
Todd
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Greece Two and the Heart Shaped Print Shop
Greetings from Astoria, Queens, Everyone,
A hard rain's falling as I write, playing steady high hat to the bass line rhythm of the trains on the "N,Q" Elevated Subway line. Its Sunday morning, so the trains are running a little slower, slowing the tempo of the song even more. I don't want to go anywhere today. Those of you who live or are keen on Queens subway weekend travel should understand. It took me two hours to get to Brooklyn yesterday. And this gray rain just wants to make Sunday a blues tune. But I will forge on and keep the day in the world of Jazz magic. Oh, Astoria, the land where anything can happen.
And anything does. I've been in and around Astoria - the western and northern most area of the burrough of Queens - for years now, but never spent a great deal of time immersed in it until now, this passed month where I've been couching it with friends while I figure out what the hell to do with my life after I finish performing in...
***SHAMELESS PLUG ALERT INITIATE***
"Trousers" by Dan Monaco
Produced by The Straddler and performed at IRT
Performed by Marty Brown and Todd Pate
March 24th thru April 9th
154 Christopher Street, 3rd Floor
NYC, NY
Here's the link to buy tickets!
http://irttheater.org/developing/trousers/
***SHAMELESS PLUG ALERT DISENGAGE***
I've had a wonderful time here hanging out with good friends, enjoying their hospitality and trying to repay with good will and a small footprint. Its been a little over a month and 1 couch and 2 air mattresses and 3 initially suspicious yet ultimately friendly Greek landlords later, I feel a tiny bit more comfortable about commenting on the neighborhood of Astoria, so I will. Ladies and gentlemen, the Olympians are alive and well here on the western most tip of Long Island, just across the East River from Manhattan. Manhattan, where the Gods have merged, blended, just like the neighborhoods, and the ultimate philosophy is the dollar bill. Maybe Manhattan's not completely like that, but Little Italy is just a few blocks on Mulberry Street now. A lower east side tenement flat requires a master's degree or a trust fund. The Irish, Italian and Jewish poor that created that neighborhood couldn't afford the furniture and nick nacks that the current residents discard as unwanted trash. It is a wanted neighborhood now, and there's no longer room for the unwanted that had no choice but to live there back in the day. You still see the rements of those "immigrant wave"generations, huddled in the rent controled apartments in those astronomically expensive faux-hemian neighborhoods, and the realty buzzards are soaring in circles above them, just a waitin' to eat up the real estate when they die and poop out $2500 studio apts. There's no mistaking Chinatown, consuming Canal Street and running out in the cavernous streets off it. But try to rent there. Its a place for money makers to live. And Koreatown's just to industrialized, situated down deep in the shadows of The Empire State Building. Manhattan is a constantly blending island, I should know, for this Texas honky lived in Spanish Harlem for 3 years. I lived in the lower east side too, where I lived in a smaller apartment and paid more $$$ in rent in one year alone. That was the only year I lived there, and boy was it shiny and "the best night ever" was available every night to anyone who could afford to drink there and the walk of shame in the morning was never too far a walk because "Hey, I'm in Manhattan! Life is good. Life is fast."
Life is slower in Astoria. Its still fast, but slower. Yes, it is a blended neighborhood. Lots of young people and lots of energy, EVERYWHERE in NYC has a lot of energy, that's what makes it great. However, Astoria is Greek town, and no matter how many and different people move in, it is unmistakably Greek. This neighborhood has held onto its European identity more than the ethnic Manhattan neighborhoods, which I believe is due to its distance from Manhattan. The diners are Greek, the nightclubs are run by young imposing men who are unmistakably Greek. Young guys from the neighborhood, but loyal to their parents and grand parents who were loyal to theirs. Every generation is present in every generation out here. You got Olympian murals on the walls, Greek lettering on many of the businesses and the diners exude a brilliant Mediterranean aire. Every street has about ten old graying men wearing driver's hats fiddling about outside their apartments at any given moment. They look at you as you walk by and they know if you live here or not. They're not rude, but they know.
I was walking to my friend's house the other night, passed the various and sundry Greek American Men's clubs, under that Kraken's spine that is the "N,Q" train line that rattles the walls as I type, and I see an elderly man locking up the doors to his tiny print shop. "Print Shop?!" I gasp. Yes, "Print Shop," Zeus answers. "He's been there a long time," Zeus, in his profound white toga and olive branch crown, continues, "the Staples Office Supply Store down the street didn't put him out of business when it opened 10 years ago, and the internet won't put him out either." I look down the street. Zeus was right, a Staples, that dinosaur of retail "the office supply store" was just down the street from this old man and his print shop. Zeus tells me to go into the Staples, and I obey. I walk into the belly of a dying mysterious sea creature. Empty aisles, sprinkled with pens, paper, folders....objects that are disintegrating due to the computer, and this mysterious sea creature's digestive process. I look to the wall on the left and see all the computers, where I see all of the employees, helping all of the customers. Zeus taps me on the shoulder and says, "See, this place is dying, not the little Greek man's livelihood. He will be here long after this silly little experiment will." Zeus and I walk out of the Staples and I turn and ask him, "Ok, but how does the little Greek man keep his print shop open? The computer is killing his..." But Zeus is gone, and in the air I hear the faintest thunder. I am left to ponder.
So I ponder, I love to. The waitress's face, the lady who waited on me earlier at a diner, popped into my head and helped me find the answer. There wasn't anything special about the diner, or the waitress, she was rather indifferent to me during the whole business, yet did a great job and when I said goodbye she smiled and said goodbye and thank you right back. I knew she was grateful that I ate there. She exuded gratitude, more so, she looked happy. She went on talking to the guy behind the counter, went on with her day, without concern if I heard what she was telling him or not. This is her livelihood and she's surrounded by people she knows in her neighborhood. She lives her life and she is among her fellows, her people. Getting paid comes with that, not the other way around. Everyone in her community plays a part in the community. She will be taken care of, as long as she plays her part in life. She wants me to come back, whether its on the front of her mind or not. Why not, its life. And I think that is what's the difference here in Astoria. That old world sense of communion that has all but disappeared in the universal struggle to make a buck.
A self contained community finds roles for all its inhabitants. In older barter and trade communities, or indigenous communities, banishment was the worse thing that could of happened, being forever condemned to roam the plains alone. We live today with ideals of "self sufficiency", "stoicism", and in some financial circles its honorable to have many enemies while succeeding at a high rate. We go it alone here in the New World, and the founders of online dating are so happy for that. We have dogs locked in apartments all day, and walk them twice, pick up their poop then eat handfuls of "Cheeze-Its" and take shots of longing in front of a TV transmitting an interview with Charlie Sheen and whisper to ourselves, "boy, he's in a bad state." There were places in society for crazy people back in the days of barter and trade and teepees. They would babble out by the watering hole and no one would mind and every now and then they let out a zinger that the others would question and allow to help shape a little more of their community. The babbler had something to say and the people would listen. The babbler was right! So is Charlie Sheen when he said, "funny how sleep rhymes with sheep." Nowadays we have safe homes for the babbler, places they belong: padded rooms, prisons and the streets. Home sweet safe homes. Safe for us, that is, the "normals."
Astoria has a place for this little Greek man and his print shop. It is his contribution to life. It is his livelihood. And when something is one's livelihood silly little matters like money do not matter. Only the fear of losing money runs people out of business. I have a feeling that this little print shop here in Astoria will close when that little gray and wrinkled 2oth Century man's heart stops beating, leaving the high hat rain and the bass line train and the other heart beats filling in pockets of the beat...then they'll be another heart to take its place, and it will know who's place its taking.
I have a grand view of the phenomena of Metropoli Homogenization by calling NY my home. Grandfathers and fathers die and prejudices, blatant and some we never even conceived of, get faced and hopefully get tossed into the East River and flow out into the ocean for that legendary Kraken to devour. But like memory, who we come from is always there, and I believe should be. However, we need to live in our times to see how we need to change them. I don't believe in "going back to the good old days". One man's good old days are another man's slavery. Yet, we may wanna rethink this race to make money. Hey, I like money and I love its smell and my current circumstances are a result of my having it, but when I was a kid I was told by my cute elementary teachers I could do anything I wanted to do because I live in the USA. Then when I was older my teachers and professors told me that I should look at the industries that are paying well. I took a look at all the people that were telling me this and saw they were all people who were all working just to pay the bills, they loved their weekends and their vacations, times when they could do what they want. Shouldn't it be the other way around? Didn't life create money, not the other way around. Everyone I know is in debt, or got out of it after a long trial with it. What about you? So we work harder and more. But that little Greek man in this little Greek neighborhood is alive...engaging his livelihood in his community. I know money is not going to go away until an asteroid slams into this planet and the gophers finally get their chance to rule, but what if we focused on finding our livelihood, everyone of us....hmm?
The customer is not always right. In fact, after years of working in online and telephone sales, they are wrong most of the time and seek pleasure in your admitting, succumbing to that falsehood. Tell 'em they're wrong and if they don't like what you have to sell they can go down the street to one Staples or another. But if you are alive, engaged in your community and livelihood, people will want what you have to offer, whatever it is.
Enjoy the rhythm of the rains and trains,
Todd
A hard rain's falling as I write, playing steady high hat to the bass line rhythm of the trains on the "N,Q" Elevated Subway line. Its Sunday morning, so the trains are running a little slower, slowing the tempo of the song even more. I don't want to go anywhere today. Those of you who live or are keen on Queens subway weekend travel should understand. It took me two hours to get to Brooklyn yesterday. And this gray rain just wants to make Sunday a blues tune. But I will forge on and keep the day in the world of Jazz magic. Oh, Astoria, the land where anything can happen.
And anything does. I've been in and around Astoria - the western and northern most area of the burrough of Queens - for years now, but never spent a great deal of time immersed in it until now, this passed month where I've been couching it with friends while I figure out what the hell to do with my life after I finish performing in...
***SHAMELESS PLUG ALERT INITIATE***
"Trousers" by Dan Monaco
Produced by The Straddler and performed at IRT
Performed by Marty Brown and Todd Pate
March 24th thru April 9th
154 Christopher Street, 3rd Floor
NYC, NY
Here's the link to buy tickets!
http://irttheater.org/developing/trousers/
***SHAMELESS PLUG ALERT DISENGAGE***
I've had a wonderful time here hanging out with good friends, enjoying their hospitality and trying to repay with good will and a small footprint. Its been a little over a month and 1 couch and 2 air mattresses and 3 initially suspicious yet ultimately friendly Greek landlords later, I feel a tiny bit more comfortable about commenting on the neighborhood of Astoria, so I will. Ladies and gentlemen, the Olympians are alive and well here on the western most tip of Long Island, just across the East River from Manhattan. Manhattan, where the Gods have merged, blended, just like the neighborhoods, and the ultimate philosophy is the dollar bill. Maybe Manhattan's not completely like that, but Little Italy is just a few blocks on Mulberry Street now. A lower east side tenement flat requires a master's degree or a trust fund. The Irish, Italian and Jewish poor that created that neighborhood couldn't afford the furniture and nick nacks that the current residents discard as unwanted trash. It is a wanted neighborhood now, and there's no longer room for the unwanted that had no choice but to live there back in the day. You still see the rements of those "immigrant wave"generations, huddled in the rent controled apartments in those astronomically expensive faux-hemian neighborhoods, and the realty buzzards are soaring in circles above them, just a waitin' to eat up the real estate when they die and poop out $2500 studio apts. There's no mistaking Chinatown, consuming Canal Street and running out in the cavernous streets off it. But try to rent there. Its a place for money makers to live. And Koreatown's just to industrialized, situated down deep in the shadows of The Empire State Building. Manhattan is a constantly blending island, I should know, for this Texas honky lived in Spanish Harlem for 3 years. I lived in the lower east side too, where I lived in a smaller apartment and paid more $$$ in rent in one year alone. That was the only year I lived there, and boy was it shiny and "the best night ever" was available every night to anyone who could afford to drink there and the walk of shame in the morning was never too far a walk because "Hey, I'm in Manhattan! Life is good. Life is fast."
Life is slower in Astoria. Its still fast, but slower. Yes, it is a blended neighborhood. Lots of young people and lots of energy, EVERYWHERE in NYC has a lot of energy, that's what makes it great. However, Astoria is Greek town, and no matter how many and different people move in, it is unmistakably Greek. This neighborhood has held onto its European identity more than the ethnic Manhattan neighborhoods, which I believe is due to its distance from Manhattan. The diners are Greek, the nightclubs are run by young imposing men who are unmistakably Greek. Young guys from the neighborhood, but loyal to their parents and grand parents who were loyal to theirs. Every generation is present in every generation out here. You got Olympian murals on the walls, Greek lettering on many of the businesses and the diners exude a brilliant Mediterranean aire. Every street has about ten old graying men wearing driver's hats fiddling about outside their apartments at any given moment. They look at you as you walk by and they know if you live here or not. They're not rude, but they know.
I was walking to my friend's house the other night, passed the various and sundry Greek American Men's clubs, under that Kraken's spine that is the "N,Q" train line that rattles the walls as I type, and I see an elderly man locking up the doors to his tiny print shop. "Print Shop?!" I gasp. Yes, "Print Shop," Zeus answers. "He's been there a long time," Zeus, in his profound white toga and olive branch crown, continues, "the Staples Office Supply Store down the street didn't put him out of business when it opened 10 years ago, and the internet won't put him out either." I look down the street. Zeus was right, a Staples, that dinosaur of retail "the office supply store" was just down the street from this old man and his print shop. Zeus tells me to go into the Staples, and I obey. I walk into the belly of a dying mysterious sea creature. Empty aisles, sprinkled with pens, paper, folders....objects that are disintegrating due to the computer, and this mysterious sea creature's digestive process. I look to the wall on the left and see all the computers, where I see all of the employees, helping all of the customers. Zeus taps me on the shoulder and says, "See, this place is dying, not the little Greek man's livelihood. He will be here long after this silly little experiment will." Zeus and I walk out of the Staples and I turn and ask him, "Ok, but how does the little Greek man keep his print shop open? The computer is killing his..." But Zeus is gone, and in the air I hear the faintest thunder. I am left to ponder.
So I ponder, I love to. The waitress's face, the lady who waited on me earlier at a diner, popped into my head and helped me find the answer. There wasn't anything special about the diner, or the waitress, she was rather indifferent to me during the whole business, yet did a great job and when I said goodbye she smiled and said goodbye and thank you right back. I knew she was grateful that I ate there. She exuded gratitude, more so, she looked happy. She went on talking to the guy behind the counter, went on with her day, without concern if I heard what she was telling him or not. This is her livelihood and she's surrounded by people she knows in her neighborhood. She lives her life and she is among her fellows, her people. Getting paid comes with that, not the other way around. Everyone in her community plays a part in the community. She will be taken care of, as long as she plays her part in life. She wants me to come back, whether its on the front of her mind or not. Why not, its life. And I think that is what's the difference here in Astoria. That old world sense of communion that has all but disappeared in the universal struggle to make a buck.
A self contained community finds roles for all its inhabitants. In older barter and trade communities, or indigenous communities, banishment was the worse thing that could of happened, being forever condemned to roam the plains alone. We live today with ideals of "self sufficiency", "stoicism", and in some financial circles its honorable to have many enemies while succeeding at a high rate. We go it alone here in the New World, and the founders of online dating are so happy for that. We have dogs locked in apartments all day, and walk them twice, pick up their poop then eat handfuls of "Cheeze-Its" and take shots of longing in front of a TV transmitting an interview with Charlie Sheen and whisper to ourselves, "boy, he's in a bad state." There were places in society for crazy people back in the days of barter and trade and teepees. They would babble out by the watering hole and no one would mind and every now and then they let out a zinger that the others would question and allow to help shape a little more of their community. The babbler had something to say and the people would listen. The babbler was right! So is Charlie Sheen when he said, "funny how sleep rhymes with sheep." Nowadays we have safe homes for the babbler, places they belong: padded rooms, prisons and the streets. Home sweet safe homes. Safe for us, that is, the "normals."
Astoria has a place for this little Greek man and his print shop. It is his contribution to life. It is his livelihood. And when something is one's livelihood silly little matters like money do not matter. Only the fear of losing money runs people out of business. I have a feeling that this little print shop here in Astoria will close when that little gray and wrinkled 2oth Century man's heart stops beating, leaving the high hat rain and the bass line train and the other heart beats filling in pockets of the beat...then they'll be another heart to take its place, and it will know who's place its taking.
I have a grand view of the phenomena of Metropoli Homogenization by calling NY my home. Grandfathers and fathers die and prejudices, blatant and some we never even conceived of, get faced and hopefully get tossed into the East River and flow out into the ocean for that legendary Kraken to devour. But like memory, who we come from is always there, and I believe should be. However, we need to live in our times to see how we need to change them. I don't believe in "going back to the good old days". One man's good old days are another man's slavery. Yet, we may wanna rethink this race to make money. Hey, I like money and I love its smell and my current circumstances are a result of my having it, but when I was a kid I was told by my cute elementary teachers I could do anything I wanted to do because I live in the USA. Then when I was older my teachers and professors told me that I should look at the industries that are paying well. I took a look at all the people that were telling me this and saw they were all people who were all working just to pay the bills, they loved their weekends and their vacations, times when they could do what they want. Shouldn't it be the other way around? Didn't life create money, not the other way around. Everyone I know is in debt, or got out of it after a long trial with it. What about you? So we work harder and more. But that little Greek man in this little Greek neighborhood is alive...engaging his livelihood in his community. I know money is not going to go away until an asteroid slams into this planet and the gophers finally get their chance to rule, but what if we focused on finding our livelihood, everyone of us....hmm?
The customer is not always right. In fact, after years of working in online and telephone sales, they are wrong most of the time and seek pleasure in your admitting, succumbing to that falsehood. Tell 'em they're wrong and if they don't like what you have to sell they can go down the street to one Staples or another. But if you are alive, engaged in your community and livelihood, people will want what you have to offer, whatever it is.
Enjoy the rhythm of the rains and trains,
Todd
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Two Lovers on the Bed of Truth and the Visiting Species
Greetings from New York, everyone.
There's nothing like a many states spanning, regions spanning, ideologies spanning plane flight. In one day, hell, with jet plane technology, just a few hours, one can feel the palpable differences sharply bordered in this country. Well, lets just say Texas is not New York, and vice versa. Up here, global warming isn't a myth. Or is it???
I lifted off from San Antonio under a sunny sky and as I flew deeper into the gray winter my concerns over my time away from New York grew shapes, became things to reckon with. What will I do now, in New York, have I faded from the public eye, am I a has been? I know better than to entertain such thoughts for any notable length of time, and I know better than to believe I've been in the public eye. But I'm well acquainted with rabbit holes, and my need to doom the future, so I mindlessly stared into the gray rain coming down steady through an Atlanta International Airport window, a rain's rain, soaking everything and defying the winter and washing the stains of Antebellum away and out of the Deep South. But the South is really deep, and no matter how determined the rain, there's always a little Lost Cause Mythology left in the corners which becomes a sprawling vine in no time. Well, as you can tell, it got my mind off of my little worries about failed personal ambition. A little loitering outside of that wonderful Atlanta International accoutrement, the smoking lounge, helped, too. Oh, rabbit holes, just one harmless little step...
Yet I remained a non-smoker and with self righteousness intact, I got on my connecting flight with a renewed excitement and when I flew lower and lower over Queens toward LaGuardia's runway I was ready to touch down. I love New York and in my adult life it has been my home. And, I'm fortunate to call it home. I feel it has accepted me, and it has, because it accepts everyone. If one doesn't feel accepted here, they really aren't accepting themselves. Trust me, personal acceptance has been a battle for me, and at times I felt so far away from New York when I was deep in the canyons of Manhattan, but those were times of inner turmoil, lost in my own canyons. It wasn't New York's fault. I'm a little healthier now, in mind and body, I think, and well, just a little older, and I just like the way New York feels. And it feels differently for all, as it should. New York is at once, for all, and just for you. Remember all that talk about the "melting pot" this country's supposed to be? Its sad you hear very little about that nowadays - along with that whole "give us you tired, your weak, your poor, your huddled masses" - due to it being drowned out by all the "don't tread on me" and "come and take it" paranoia inducing anger indulging, well, madness that really makes a TV screen dance. The melting pot lives though, and it is New York. Of course there is racism, prejudice and, despite the high gloss Democratic Blue paint job, a LOT of resistance to change. But that's everywhere, fear I mean, no matter if its painted blue or red or that Independent Multi Party Primer that I so want more of if we just get even a slight bump in voter registration. Fear is the equation of Human + Thought of Future - Change. But the essence of the ideals of the country are represented in the subways and streets of New York. Co-Existence is alive and well and there's not a whole lot of room in between humans to develop differences between gods, color of skin and indulge in gun toting hate. Again, don't get me wrong, these things do exist up here, but I've been all over this country and I've seen the inflation of differences on far grander scales in far smaller habitats. New Yorkers are just too busy and work too hard to worry about something so small as differences, or at least to let those differences define there lives. The streets and subways do smell from time to time, but whats so bad about smelling other humans? Really?
So I get off the plain and hop into a cab and tell the turban sporting cabbie to take me to my friends house. I bitch him out thoroughly for not knowing how to get there, even though I didn't either, but "hey, its not my job!" I promptly apologize. He promptly accepts. I apologize again, "you know, I've been on a plane all day....its just soooo grueling." And I feel at home. I visit with my friends that night and next day, then I get ambushed, paralyzed, obliterated - and please fill in the rest with like words - by a stomach virus that would get Montezuma to thinking about turning onto a path of forgiveness. But I get better, which I knew I would - I know longer pray for death when those things happen - and vetnure forth in my cowboy boots. And I can do that, because the city doesn't mind. Hell, I can carry on through my day dressed in woman's clothes, and I'm not talkin' fabulous drag queen women's clothes, I'm talkin' Mama from Mama's Family women's clothes. I know I could, because I know men who do, but I would never call them a man to their face. I call them what they want to be called, a woman. I like to be called what I want to be called, too. And what's so wrong with that?
And what do I want to be called? Hmm....that's a good one. I've called myself an actor, a writer, a musician, a horse wrangler, a baseball player, a lover (yes, i have), an alcoholic (yes, recovered), a traveler, wanderer, wonderer, a spiritualist, and fill in the rest with like words, or what you like. Because it doesn't matter what I call myself. Sure, I like to be called the above things, I've got an ego, after all, its alive and well, but it really what adjective I ascribe to myself. Its like in science, where nothing can be considered to truly exist unless it is observed, and like my old friend Don Luna says, that we are only the sum of the company we keep. I like that. And, no matter what I wear, do, or say, I will exist as long as I'm observed. I'm overwhelmed and fortunate beyond any measure to have the loved ones that I do in my life. They give my life shape, a form in and through which consciousness can do its thing. And, to top it off, I live in New York City, where I'm observed in so many ways and from so many angles that my life gains dimension that can never be imagined until experienced. And, at the same time, I can enjoy the fact that I am just one head in the heard. That smallness is truly beautiful to feel, and necessary if we are to understand, and embrace the "melting pot." But who am I? I don't know. As I walk through New York I am certain that the only thing that changes in New York is the scaffolding. The changes I see I see when I'm looking inward. So what can I be if I'm forever changing? Why does it matter? I'll be different tomorrow.
But New York will be here. Its funny, I didn't know how scared I was to leave the city until I left it. I was so married to it. Then I realized, when gone, that if I stayed burrowed down in the borough of Manhattan, holing up in an apartment writing plays I would soon only be able to write about a guy holing up in an apartment in Manhattan writing plays. Maybe people wanna see something like that, but I'm pretty certain they don't wanna see me do it. Trust me. If I'm holed up anywhere I am observed less. I fail to exist. I walk around and I feel something weird. I feel a disconnect to the city. Not in a bad way. I think what I'm feeling is the absence of the fear of getting booted out of the city and its gates being forever closed t me. Like my marriage to it is dead. Now, I think of the city as if she is a madame, and I her faithful customer. We come together and live vibrantly under the light of low lit lamps and strong perfume, have a few drinks (metaphorically, of course, always metaphorically), fool around in each other's comfortable arms that can only be called home, then say goodbye in the gray light before sunrise, with a wink to each other that is all the commitment we need. We have thrown away the false faith of monogamy that we don't even know how to question and want each other more now than we ever did. Or not, who knows, it is just a city after all. Its not human, its just a place to be human.
But, oh, the struggle for identity. During my morning, afternoon and night haunts around Gotham, I think about such adjectives as "driven", "ambitious", "determined", terms I used to have a high regard for, but terms that also almost put me in the ground. New York is THE city to be ambitious in, no doubt, but I had to let that go. I traded all those terms in for a sanity transplant. Now I just have a slogan: "I will do my best". Five words, five syllables. I consolidated all my debts of insecurity for one simple slogan. I got so caught up in my drive to succeed at all costs as an actor I lost touch and stopped living, stopped enjoying life. I couldn't see the city for the theaters. But I'm certain of something, as I learn to move through and embrace my own little role in humanity - to observe and to be observed - I'm stone certain on one thing, and it is the greatest realization a human being - and especially a caucasion male like me - can gain, and that is this:
I am an immigrant.
We all are. We have all traveled to where we are from somewhere else. Indigenous, imperialist, native or colonial, we have all simply "ended up" where we are to stay alive. The great wrong turn in humanity was the development of the concept of the ownership of land. Is it a wrong that can be righted, or, should we go extinct for the betterment of the universe, and allow for the coming about of a species that can appreciate the cosmos? I was talking to a lady who travels the world teaching empowerment to the down trodden all over the world and the importance of eradicating humiliation by embracing one's own humility (yep, it took me several visits to get her vibe) and she speaks of humanity as a species that is forever traveling and that movement is imperative to its survival. We stay still, we don't change. We don't change, we die. Change is good, go figure. There is freedom in embracing travel, physically and mentally. If we are just visitors, then we cling less and change happens to be less painful. That is as far as I go in that direction as I am not a Buddhist, although I think its a great idea. I think all the great religions are great ideas. I can do that in New York City. I can like everything, no matter how different things are. I can do that anywhere. We all can. There are no contradictions, just the refusal to change. "I am an immigrant"...it has a nice ring to it. I feel peaceful and light when I say it. Give it a shot, say it out loud. You don't have to tell anyone you said it. I gain perspective when I say it. It helps me see the immigrants for the city, for the world. It helps me see myself.
Well, identity, who cares? I can say one thing, I like the fact that I can be what I want to be. New Yorker, ramblin' man...etc. Like I said, I've been many things over the years, but I'm kinda likin' the now, the me that is now, and that is a traveler who feels right at home.
Take it easy or don't take it at all,
Todd
There's nothing like a many states spanning, regions spanning, ideologies spanning plane flight. In one day, hell, with jet plane technology, just a few hours, one can feel the palpable differences sharply bordered in this country. Well, lets just say Texas is not New York, and vice versa. Up here, global warming isn't a myth. Or is it???
I lifted off from San Antonio under a sunny sky and as I flew deeper into the gray winter my concerns over my time away from New York grew shapes, became things to reckon with. What will I do now, in New York, have I faded from the public eye, am I a has been? I know better than to entertain such thoughts for any notable length of time, and I know better than to believe I've been in the public eye. But I'm well acquainted with rabbit holes, and my need to doom the future, so I mindlessly stared into the gray rain coming down steady through an Atlanta International Airport window, a rain's rain, soaking everything and defying the winter and washing the stains of Antebellum away and out of the Deep South. But the South is really deep, and no matter how determined the rain, there's always a little Lost Cause Mythology left in the corners which becomes a sprawling vine in no time. Well, as you can tell, it got my mind off of my little worries about failed personal ambition. A little loitering outside of that wonderful Atlanta International accoutrement, the smoking lounge, helped, too. Oh, rabbit holes, just one harmless little step...
Yet I remained a non-smoker and with self righteousness intact, I got on my connecting flight with a renewed excitement and when I flew lower and lower over Queens toward LaGuardia's runway I was ready to touch down. I love New York and in my adult life it has been my home. And, I'm fortunate to call it home. I feel it has accepted me, and it has, because it accepts everyone. If one doesn't feel accepted here, they really aren't accepting themselves. Trust me, personal acceptance has been a battle for me, and at times I felt so far away from New York when I was deep in the canyons of Manhattan, but those were times of inner turmoil, lost in my own canyons. It wasn't New York's fault. I'm a little healthier now, in mind and body, I think, and well, just a little older, and I just like the way New York feels. And it feels differently for all, as it should. New York is at once, for all, and just for you. Remember all that talk about the "melting pot" this country's supposed to be? Its sad you hear very little about that nowadays - along with that whole "give us you tired, your weak, your poor, your huddled masses" - due to it being drowned out by all the "don't tread on me" and "come and take it" paranoia inducing anger indulging, well, madness that really makes a TV screen dance. The melting pot lives though, and it is New York. Of course there is racism, prejudice and, despite the high gloss Democratic Blue paint job, a LOT of resistance to change. But that's everywhere, fear I mean, no matter if its painted blue or red or that Independent Multi Party Primer that I so want more of if we just get even a slight bump in voter registration. Fear is the equation of Human + Thought of Future - Change. But the essence of the ideals of the country are represented in the subways and streets of New York. Co-Existence is alive and well and there's not a whole lot of room in between humans to develop differences between gods, color of skin and indulge in gun toting hate. Again, don't get me wrong, these things do exist up here, but I've been all over this country and I've seen the inflation of differences on far grander scales in far smaller habitats. New Yorkers are just too busy and work too hard to worry about something so small as differences, or at least to let those differences define there lives. The streets and subways do smell from time to time, but whats so bad about smelling other humans? Really?
So I get off the plain and hop into a cab and tell the turban sporting cabbie to take me to my friends house. I bitch him out thoroughly for not knowing how to get there, even though I didn't either, but "hey, its not my job!" I promptly apologize. He promptly accepts. I apologize again, "you know, I've been on a plane all day....its just soooo grueling." And I feel at home. I visit with my friends that night and next day, then I get ambushed, paralyzed, obliterated - and please fill in the rest with like words - by a stomach virus that would get Montezuma to thinking about turning onto a path of forgiveness. But I get better, which I knew I would - I know longer pray for death when those things happen - and vetnure forth in my cowboy boots. And I can do that, because the city doesn't mind. Hell, I can carry on through my day dressed in woman's clothes, and I'm not talkin' fabulous drag queen women's clothes, I'm talkin' Mama from Mama's Family women's clothes. I know I could, because I know men who do, but I would never call them a man to their face. I call them what they want to be called, a woman. I like to be called what I want to be called, too. And what's so wrong with that?
And what do I want to be called? Hmm....that's a good one. I've called myself an actor, a writer, a musician, a horse wrangler, a baseball player, a lover (yes, i have), an alcoholic (yes, recovered), a traveler, wanderer, wonderer, a spiritualist, and fill in the rest with like words, or what you like. Because it doesn't matter what I call myself. Sure, I like to be called the above things, I've got an ego, after all, its alive and well, but it really what adjective I ascribe to myself. Its like in science, where nothing can be considered to truly exist unless it is observed, and like my old friend Don Luna says, that we are only the sum of the company we keep. I like that. And, no matter what I wear, do, or say, I will exist as long as I'm observed. I'm overwhelmed and fortunate beyond any measure to have the loved ones that I do in my life. They give my life shape, a form in and through which consciousness can do its thing. And, to top it off, I live in New York City, where I'm observed in so many ways and from so many angles that my life gains dimension that can never be imagined until experienced. And, at the same time, I can enjoy the fact that I am just one head in the heard. That smallness is truly beautiful to feel, and necessary if we are to understand, and embrace the "melting pot." But who am I? I don't know. As I walk through New York I am certain that the only thing that changes in New York is the scaffolding. The changes I see I see when I'm looking inward. So what can I be if I'm forever changing? Why does it matter? I'll be different tomorrow.
But New York will be here. Its funny, I didn't know how scared I was to leave the city until I left it. I was so married to it. Then I realized, when gone, that if I stayed burrowed down in the borough of Manhattan, holing up in an apartment writing plays I would soon only be able to write about a guy holing up in an apartment in Manhattan writing plays. Maybe people wanna see something like that, but I'm pretty certain they don't wanna see me do it. Trust me. If I'm holed up anywhere I am observed less. I fail to exist. I walk around and I feel something weird. I feel a disconnect to the city. Not in a bad way. I think what I'm feeling is the absence of the fear of getting booted out of the city and its gates being forever closed t me. Like my marriage to it is dead. Now, I think of the city as if she is a madame, and I her faithful customer. We come together and live vibrantly under the light of low lit lamps and strong perfume, have a few drinks (metaphorically, of course, always metaphorically), fool around in each other's comfortable arms that can only be called home, then say goodbye in the gray light before sunrise, with a wink to each other that is all the commitment we need. We have thrown away the false faith of monogamy that we don't even know how to question and want each other more now than we ever did. Or not, who knows, it is just a city after all. Its not human, its just a place to be human.
But, oh, the struggle for identity. During my morning, afternoon and night haunts around Gotham, I think about such adjectives as "driven", "ambitious", "determined", terms I used to have a high regard for, but terms that also almost put me in the ground. New York is THE city to be ambitious in, no doubt, but I had to let that go. I traded all those terms in for a sanity transplant. Now I just have a slogan: "I will do my best". Five words, five syllables. I consolidated all my debts of insecurity for one simple slogan. I got so caught up in my drive to succeed at all costs as an actor I lost touch and stopped living, stopped enjoying life. I couldn't see the city for the theaters. But I'm certain of something, as I learn to move through and embrace my own little role in humanity - to observe and to be observed - I'm stone certain on one thing, and it is the greatest realization a human being - and especially a caucasion male like me - can gain, and that is this:
I am an immigrant.
We all are. We have all traveled to where we are from somewhere else. Indigenous, imperialist, native or colonial, we have all simply "ended up" where we are to stay alive. The great wrong turn in humanity was the development of the concept of the ownership of land. Is it a wrong that can be righted, or, should we go extinct for the betterment of the universe, and allow for the coming about of a species that can appreciate the cosmos? I was talking to a lady who travels the world teaching empowerment to the down trodden all over the world and the importance of eradicating humiliation by embracing one's own humility (yep, it took me several visits to get her vibe) and she speaks of humanity as a species that is forever traveling and that movement is imperative to its survival. We stay still, we don't change. We don't change, we die. Change is good, go figure. There is freedom in embracing travel, physically and mentally. If we are just visitors, then we cling less and change happens to be less painful. That is as far as I go in that direction as I am not a Buddhist, although I think its a great idea. I think all the great religions are great ideas. I can do that in New York City. I can like everything, no matter how different things are. I can do that anywhere. We all can. There are no contradictions, just the refusal to change. "I am an immigrant"...it has a nice ring to it. I feel peaceful and light when I say it. Give it a shot, say it out loud. You don't have to tell anyone you said it. I gain perspective when I say it. It helps me see the immigrants for the city, for the world. It helps me see myself.
Well, identity, who cares? I can say one thing, I like the fact that I can be what I want to be. New Yorker, ramblin' man...etc. Like I said, I've been many things over the years, but I'm kinda likin' the now, the me that is now, and that is a traveler who feels right at home.
Take it easy or don't take it at all,
Todd
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)