Monday, April 30, 2007
Fresh
We all yearn for a feeling of freshness. Clean-washed sheets of life ahead, unsoiled, unslept in, and full of possibility. That smell of new-ness that comes not with a 2nd chance but with the 1st time ever...not a nearly- new rental, but a spanking new off-the-production-line virgin purchase, and its attendant smell of synthetic joy....the totally unknown where magnificence is possible....the unimaginable given space to live...the beach without footprints...but the thing is....someone has always been there before you.
There really is actually nothing new under this sun we live by....all of us are re-cycled starlight and the fact is each of contains at least one or two molecules of Shakespeare and Dante...we live, we die, we moulder and we disseminate into new beings, even as surely as we breathe the shared air. So, is freshness just a concept? Is there such a thing at all as a fresh start?
I think what we really want is ....Hope...Hope that there may be such things as beginnings...even though we feel as if life is nothing but endings...Hope that it matters......Hope that Love is a real thing...palpable as soft iris petals...We want Hope and in lieu of the unavoidable staleness of Life lived, we will gladly live in that new condo called Hope. (I'm surprised they have not built one called that yet on the lower East Side, charging $5 million for a one-bedroom. ) Clearing out. New seed in the same old soil still yields flowers. And some new seeds actually nourish soil back into health.
The way Nature has it set up, (along with Hallmark Greeting Cards), there is the possibility of experiencing Joy in the sheer act of believing it is possible. We believe our own press.
As described by a pal earlier today, mid-town Manhattan in the heat of the afternoon was a ludicrous human waste basket, roiling and stained and agonizing, while all around, and high above the heads of the masses loomed brightly colored and lit billboards saying that if you buy a certain sort of underwear or bathing suit, the stew you are cooking in will feel oh so much better....buy the right thing, and you will immediately be transported to where it is fresh and clean...even if only for the moment you experience carrying the bag out of the store....i.e. anything is possible if you wear the right shoes! Carry the right handbag. Purchase that perfect tie! And you, too, can be a star.
There are shows on TV now that absolutely glorify the idea that being ordinary can be a glamorous thing, and the more ordinary you are, the more "street" you talk and more foul s... you spew, the more fabulous you can be perceived to be. Glory in the gutter. Elizabethans would have loved it: the colorful use of language, the invented turn of phrase to mirror the bleeding soul....the sad unrest of it all. After all, the groundlings at The Globe never sat down! They roiled while they watched the first run of Romeo and Juliet! And boy, did they stink!
I have been feeling that lately. That sad unrest. And there ain't a damned glamorous moment in it....though there is an awful lot of stink!
Certain peoples' sad souls trail behind them with a certain odor. Like a rotting thing, once alive...but long ago....dead a while. Yet they walk among us, and commit a sin while doing so: the simple sin of lying. Lying about so much. Each waking morning a lie. But since they buy the same clothing the alive among us buy, advertised on those billboards above us, we barely recognize them walking. Every so often, though, there is that whiff. That odd olfactory understanding that some untruth is nearby. And we wonder why we feel so sad and bad. So unfresh. It's those people with the sad souls. I usually have compassion for them...lately I do not. Lately, all I want to do is to get away from them. Far away.
To where...yes...to where it is fresh. Possible. Alive.
Peter is writing such wonderful music for ROSE COLORED GLASS, the play being directed by Janice Goldberg that opens Off-Broadway this weekend. He is soooo gifted. His music makes me believe that fresh starts are possible. Perhaps that is the funtion of true Art: restoring belief. Hope.
There really is actually nothing new under this sun we live by....all of us are re-cycled starlight and the fact is each of contains at least one or two molecules of Shakespeare and Dante...we live, we die, we moulder and we disseminate into new beings, even as surely as we breathe the shared air. So, is freshness just a concept? Is there such a thing at all as a fresh start?
I think what we really want is ....Hope...Hope that there may be such things as beginnings...even though we feel as if life is nothing but endings...Hope that it matters......Hope that Love is a real thing...palpable as soft iris petals...We want Hope and in lieu of the unavoidable staleness of Life lived, we will gladly live in that new condo called Hope. (I'm surprised they have not built one called that yet on the lower East Side, charging $5 million for a one-bedroom. ) Clearing out. New seed in the same old soil still yields flowers. And some new seeds actually nourish soil back into health.
The way Nature has it set up, (along with Hallmark Greeting Cards), there is the possibility of experiencing Joy in the sheer act of believing it is possible. We believe our own press.
As described by a pal earlier today, mid-town Manhattan in the heat of the afternoon was a ludicrous human waste basket, roiling and stained and agonizing, while all around, and high above the heads of the masses loomed brightly colored and lit billboards saying that if you buy a certain sort of underwear or bathing suit, the stew you are cooking in will feel oh so much better....buy the right thing, and you will immediately be transported to where it is fresh and clean...even if only for the moment you experience carrying the bag out of the store....i.e. anything is possible if you wear the right shoes! Carry the right handbag. Purchase that perfect tie! And you, too, can be a star.
There are shows on TV now that absolutely glorify the idea that being ordinary can be a glamorous thing, and the more ordinary you are, the more "street" you talk and more foul s... you spew, the more fabulous you can be perceived to be. Glory in the gutter. Elizabethans would have loved it: the colorful use of language, the invented turn of phrase to mirror the bleeding soul....the sad unrest of it all. After all, the groundlings at The Globe never sat down! They roiled while they watched the first run of Romeo and Juliet! And boy, did they stink!
I have been feeling that lately. That sad unrest. And there ain't a damned glamorous moment in it....though there is an awful lot of stink!
Certain peoples' sad souls trail behind them with a certain odor. Like a rotting thing, once alive...but long ago....dead a while. Yet they walk among us, and commit a sin while doing so: the simple sin of lying. Lying about so much. Each waking morning a lie. But since they buy the same clothing the alive among us buy, advertised on those billboards above us, we barely recognize them walking. Every so often, though, there is that whiff. That odd olfactory understanding that some untruth is nearby. And we wonder why we feel so sad and bad. So unfresh. It's those people with the sad souls. I usually have compassion for them...lately I do not. Lately, all I want to do is to get away from them. Far away.
To where...yes...to where it is fresh. Possible. Alive.
Peter is writing such wonderful music for ROSE COLORED GLASS, the play being directed by Janice Goldberg that opens Off-Broadway this weekend. He is soooo gifted. His music makes me believe that fresh starts are possible. Perhaps that is the funtion of true Art: restoring belief. Hope.
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