Special Providence...

Some things are better not photographed. Yesterday on my walk around my Brooklyn hood, I saw a dead sparrow on the sidewalk. I thought of Hamlet and his line. "There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow." He is referring to Mathew 10:29 of the St. James Bible (1611). "Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father."

I researched the term on Google. I found a site which quoted many versions of the bible. The Net Bible (2006), for example says "Father's will" and the Holman Christian Bible (2009) says "Father's consent" and the International Standard Version (2012) says "Father's permission."


"one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father."



This illustrates perfectly my problem with interpretations of the Word. In King James the interpretation that the Lord is with all creation at all times is both comforting and infinite, where all this about "permission", "consent" and "will" in the latter days seem specious attempts to usurp the power of spiritual love and use it for the sole purpose of subjugation.

"one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father. " We are not alone. Our faith is always with us. That's my interpretation.

Permission, consent, will...perversion. I am no theologian. But my challenged faith comes from interpretations such as these. Fear of the other drives malice forward in the name of good. In the name of God.

"If it be now, 'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come- the readiness is all." Shakespeare.

Our country, connected by technology, faces many moral dilemmas. What if we choose the old intent of the word? Unconditional love. This ancient radical idea of forgiveness, understanding with the reassurance that nothing happens to us without our Father, our God, our maker, with us. Always.

Moral compassion for the other. For the victims of violence. For the persecuted. I do believe in omens. Omens for good, for change.

"There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow."

Fear no darkness. People must be free to love whom they chose. Freedom from tyranny, freedom of religion are the basis of this nation. Definition of marriage and of family are free to be determined by what ever religion you wish. But it cannot be legislated by government. Marriage as a secular concept is not defined by gender or sex. But by commitment.


Equality. This is the special providence of We the People. It is a never ending struggle to achieve it.

Ummm...SPRING?

This view is from Battery Park City overlooking the bay. It's rumored the Vernal Equinox took place recently. Were we still in tune with the natural world we may sense the spectral scent of April lilacs lurking in a subtle undercurrent on this bitterly cold breeze. Spring time is clearly feminine, coming when she wants, and not a moment before.

These doldrums have me languishing, I have work enough to do. My novel needs re-writing, my blog needs tending, my bike needs riding, my wife needs loving, but I am stuck, stuck, stuck. I enjoy going to work for the Building Department for the ridged structure of the day. I have been staring at this computer for a week. And it's not like I don't know what I need to do. I am just thoroughly disgusted with this crazy winter.

Determined not to let this defeat me, I am blogging in an effort to shake my self awake, though dreams have been interesting of late, and I really am getting into my Netflix Game of Thrones...as more and more becomes clear about what my novel needs, the less I am inclined to dig in. This is the opposite of writers block, more like writers constipation. No jokes about an enema please, the politically correct term is colonic.

Add to this condition a renewed yearning, masochistic as it may be, to return from self imposed exile and begin performing on stage again. I've actually composed a new song, one that appears in the novel. Which in turn distracts me toward technology available, I am certain, where I can record and distribute the tune without having to leave my living room.

It is Sunday. I am taking the opportunity to reflect, read the papers, (or the ipad in my case), and give myself a break from all my recent bad habits. So rather than keep my loved ones guessing about what I am up to...here as indication of my current situation. Most people would love these problems and I am counting my blessings. Thanks all for caring to share this page with me. Here's looking forward to spring...after the snow storm predicted for tomorrow, of course.

Theatre-NYC Henry IV and CLIVE

Henry IV at the Pearl and Clive



For Two more disparate plays to be seen in successive weeks I could not have made better choices.




In Shakespeare nothing is subtextual, in Brecht, subtext is text.




Both plays feature young protagonists finding their way in the world. One born wealthy, heir to the throne of 15th Century England, the other a debauched poet slumming the underground of 20th Century New York City. (Him, as with Falstaff, I can Identify with.)




There the similarities end. In a classic staging by The Pearl in their new space, which cleverly blends the bare bones of early 21st Century architecture with evocative elements of Shakespeare's London, complete with Boars Head, casks of Sack and ale, and period battle implements, bring Henry Bolingbroke, Prince Hal and Falstaff vividly to life. Strutting and bellowing and sawing the air thusly in the best possible ways...sans big name stars save for director Davis McCallum who has been everywhere lately from Brooklyn to off Broadway, the ensemble of Pearl members and new hires, almost all double or triple cast, proved admirable and up to the task especially with the smaller roles. Particularly magical is Lady Mortimer's protestation against her husband going to war. Her song in Welsh bewitched me. Brilliant job by Ruibo Qian. Dominic Cuskern, Chris Mixon and the ever fantastic Sean McNall keep the energy flowing in their myriad roles. Bravo Pearl for bringing the Henriad to NYC.




At the other end of the theatrical spectrum is a play called Clive by the New Group which is an adaptation of Bertolt Brecht's first play Baal. This version by Jonathan Marc Sherman changes the time and place from pre-WWI Europe to pre-September 11th New York City. The play features big names like Ethan Hawke, Vincent D'Onofrio, and Zoe Kazan and is essentially esoteric in nature.




According to Eric Bently, "The mythic Baal was a fertility god, hence a god of life. This...drama presents the archetypal battle between life and death, Eros and Thanatos."




The play is about the nothingness of death that mars our wonderland fantasy of day-to-day existence. Nobody likes death. The opening scene reminded me of another Ethan Hawke vehicle; Hurly Burly by David Rabe which also featured in its opening scenes copious amounts of fine, snort-able powder, and a guy in a leisure suit. This play though has even fewer likeable characters in it. But the challenge for these actors as they delve into the murky depths of human archetypes is to flesh out intellectual arguments and depict a reality both foreign and accessible. I was captivated and engaged for the entire intermissionless one hour forty five minutes as folks vamped and sang across a surreal set of minced up doors rigged for sound. First virginity dies only to be resurrected as a slut, then a chanteuse. Best friends OD and impromptu funerals end up in escapes to deeper dens of inequities where homo-erotic jealousy prompts friend to murder friend. Clive is not a fiend. The drugs and drinks he imbibes in excess do not facilitate his hedonistic desires, they do not incite his murderous rampages, his disregard for life, his own or others. They are simply a medium of the times for all around him who attempt to share his wanton spirit. They serve to deaden the pain of knowledge, heighten the acuity of sensuality and lighten the mood of an otherwise doleful dirge. If Prince Hal woke up in Clive, he would have immediately recognized his Falstaff. A man for whom Honor is a lesser word and seldom if ever spoken. Lines like "you're a rat dying in the gutter. Who cares?" probably will not go down in theater history with the likes of "the better part of valor is discretion"' but in four hundred years, who knows? I do know if you have an adventurous spirit and you want to see movie stars behaving badly without it being a reality tv show :You won't leave Clive happy. But you will leave tremendously satisfied.




Kudos for the New Group in attempting a near impossible theatrical feat. Bravo the actors. In a world where stars do everything possible to show themselves in favorable light, these cats take the ultimate risks. There is no "good" light in this play. (That is not a commentary on the luminous lighting design by Jeff Croiter.)

Super Sandwich

The only preparation I made well before Super Sunday was to secure my growler of #9 from the beer distributers on Court Street. After work Sunday I missed my train and had to secure some quick vittles for the game without much time to spare before kick-off. Poor, poor planning on my part, I know. Where to go in this hood of eatery after eatery? As I walked along near deserted Court from Boro Hall, crossing Atlantic Avenue, I decided on Cobblestone Foods, and I am quite glad I did. I promised Mike, employed there since October, that I would write a review of his newly developed sandwich. I forget its name, but at twelve dollars I was a little taken a back. "Are you really hungry?" Mike asked. He read the look on my face and proceeded to sell me on the best sandwich not made in my kitchen since a Brie on Baguette I had for lunch one early June day in the south of France. Ah, Antibes...but that's another story.

Back to the sandwich. First I must say a few things about what I find essential to a great Sammy. I prefer quality over quantity. Two slices of mediocre bread stuffed with sub-par meat so you can't get your mouth around it and slathered with mayo, mustard, or any other condiment designed to mask the fact that you are eating the least expensive cut of meat poorly prepared in the most un-loving of methods is a recipe for acid reflux just thinking about it. I don't like the sandwich dripping onto my hands so that it takes a roll of paper towels to get through, and by the end I have to use a knife and fork if I want to finish it at all. I expect every bite to be packed with flavor and balanced.

That being said- The Sandwich that I missed kick off for while waiting for it to be made..."Brisket, roasted 20 hours," Mike said. Or something like that. I wasn't thinking brisket when I walked in, I was thinking pork. Pulled, spare ribs, loin, chop...anyway...Brisket? Slow cooked and then chilled and then grilled to warm it slightly, topped with sautéed onions and a special dressing which Mike got very cagy about when we started talking exact ingredients. His eyes opened wide and his full beard bristled as he mentioned the word "Barbecue". "OK, sold." I said, my stomach doing flip flops. "And give me the last spare rib," I said not completely convinced I would be satisfied. It seemed like it took forever to make, and when it was done, the size disappointed me a little. For twelve bucks I expected a freaking loaf of bread instead of a hero roll. But Mike gave me what was left of the Cole slaw as my side, and he could probably sell ice to Eskimos, so I grabbed my bag of food, shook Mike's hand as he introduced himself and made me promise I would write a review, and sped to the TV and my Super Sunday.

I got home. Shed my coat, set up my table, poured my beer, and laid out my food choices. I started with an appetizer of sorts, one bite into the spare rib to satisfy my Jones for pork. Took a swig of brew and then opened the foil to The Sandwich. The main event.

It was expertly cut in half all the way through, a squared eight inch cibatta roll packed with thick slices of brisket. Not the brisket of my youth, the stuff warming on steam tables floating in its own juices at bars like McCann's that catered to the working class on a half hour lunch. I took a look at the cross section, all I could see was meat. I took a bite, wondering if I was biting into shoe leather, dry and tough or... so fatty that all you could wonder was where's the beef?

What I got was a perfect bite of bread, brisket, onions and sauce. The meat melted in my mouth. It was so tender with just the perfect amount of juicy-ness, the onions, perfectly caramelized, sweet and accented with the lightest touch of barbecue sauce. Every bite was packed with these intensely rich flavors and textures from first amazing bit to last. I ate it slowly. Present with each chew. It took two and half pints of beer to wash down. That's how I kept myself from wolfing it up and being sad afterward that it was gone. No part of it leaked out onto my hands or table. It was perfect. Satisfyingly rich. I am making myself hungry just writing about it.

Thanks Mike. You sold me a quality product. I will be back. I might never order that sandwich again because I don't know if that level of perfection can ever be repeated, but I will be ordering every other sandwich on your menu.

RARE ACT OF ECO-ACTIVISM

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/01/28/dolphin-in-gowanus-canal-examined-cause-of-death-polluted-waters_n_2566061.html








In a rare act of eco-activism, a dolphin committed suicide in the Super-Fund wastes of the Gowanus Canal. The determined animal made its way almost to the end of the infamous inlet, finally coming to its final resting place between Union and Sackett Streets in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn, New York.

This is the first documented case of eco-activism perpetrated by a dolphin protesting the deplorable conditions in the long polluted industrial waste site since it was assigned Super Fund status by the United States Environmental Protection Agency back in 2010.

On-lookers stood by helplessly as the doomed animal breathed its last breaths. However, before its life was completely spent, in a heroic gesture benefitting all humanity, the dolphin scrapped at the sedimentary muck of the canal with its nose and displayed it to the crowd in an effort to draw attention toward what a sad state lies at the bottom of this legendary waterway.

Rescuers were hoping against hope the animal would change its mind and abandon its plan, but those hopes were crushed with the setting of the sun. An necropsy is being performed to determine the exact cause of death.

Last fall this poet wrote a brief verse about the Gowanus:


It sits still
and nicely there
object of my fixation

Industrial backwater
green as anti-freeze
surface tension like mud
slicks of petroleum
rainbow reflecting
cold winter sun

Gowanus

Gowanus

Gowanus

Highway miles above you
so to bumper to bumper drivers
you appear as an
Asp slithering
from Liberty Bay.



Photo credits:

Statute of Liberty by MDRansom

AP photo from Huffington Post of dolphin in canal. For more go to:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/01/28/dolphin-in-gowanus-canal-examined-cause-of-death-polluted-waters_n_2566061.html

Cat on a Hot Tin Roof!

During the whirl-wind winter break, Jen and I tried to catch up on a season of theater going...and then some. Not in chronological order...impressions follow.

Our Christmas celebration included a treat of theater: Tennessee Williams' Cat on a Hot Tin Roof which was everything you could hope it to be. Brilliantly cast and acted with a set that would make the late John Scheffler proud. Would love to see it again.

Cat on a Hot Tin Roof with Benjamen Walker, Scarlett Johansson, Ciaran Hinds and Debra Monk! A memorable experience we will cherish for a life time. Fully engaged, delivering the play, Walker as Brick and Scarlett Johansson as Maggie rock Broadway.

Johansson's take on Maggie is a bit trashy, a lot sexy and way smart as she plays down the blatant sensuality of Williams' frustrated femme fatale (if that's possible as she struts and bellows about for the first third of the play in a slip), but she plays up where Maggie comes from and what's at stake for her. Walker's Brick is quintessential, totally detached and looking for the "click" in the bottom of a bottle of Bourbon until Maggie pours a little salt on his open wound. Just to make sure he is still "alive" as she is. Ciaran Hinds as Big Daddy and Debra Monk as Big Mama give fresh takes to the legendary icons of theater history. We saw it in pre-views, it opens January 17th.



A close second to Cat,a recently closed Playwrights Horizons production of the Whale, written by Samuel D. Hunter and directed by Davis MaCallum, the power of this play is not so much in its text but in the visceral tragedy played out on stage which made us all feel like we were together with the cast in the belly of a whale along with Jonah seeking redemption.

Thirdly we saw Peter and the Star Catcher (finally) delighted by the perfect performance of all and especially none other than a personal favorite of ours Matt Saldivar. Closing January 20th, but re-opening at New World Stages! A great family show.

I also saw, on my own, American Bard Theater Company's production of King Lear by Shakespeare, which I absolutely loved. So good!!!

And last...an historic revival of 1960's era: The Killing of Sister George A Naughty Comedy by Frank Marcus and adapted by Jeffrey Hatcher at Long Wharf Theatre. Starring and directed by...Kathleen Turner. Two things. British comedy is hard. Really, really, really hard. Directing yourself...even harder. Valiant attempt, high production value.

GREETINGS 2013

I ended 2012 and began 2013 on a sour note battling this monstrous flu that has been going around. Being laid up has given me more time than usual to reflect on things. Today was one of my first days out and I went to the Book Court to cheer myself up on a dark day in this dark time of year. I purchased two volumes of Philip Levine poetry. In one is scrawled an autograph by the author, and I thought myself fortunate, but then decided to check it against my 1991 autographed copy of "What Work Is" to compare, which led me to the hiding place for the last birthday card my father ever gave me.

Which leads me here, back to blogging in the New Year. May it be a year of pure poetry.

Of Guldens Spicy on Whole Wheat

I am eating a loaf of bread because
it is a gift from a friend (don't ask)
who advised me never to write again
for all that flowed from my pen

was pain

My words, plucked from the air
like breath
meandering and undisciplined
never exhibit Mercy
at my own expense
and form awkward sentences
which often make no sense

But I love a good
Genoa salami sandwich
because of you and What Work Is
In spite of you, too
I do

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