The Good Fight

Love is a Battlefield.

So sang ‘80’s pop-goddess Pat Benetar, in what has to be her catchiest tune. There was a time when everyone was humming that famous riff, which really was good pop rock ‘n roll. Man, the ‘80s were great. Like the calm before a storm. I think Eric Gale sang something like that in the early ‘90s.

I can’t say I agree with Ms. Benetar’s lyrics, because I never really listened to them. But I can’t argue with the title.

I took a stroll through Battery Park tonight. It’s been a while since I’ve done that. Battery Park is a war memorial. There is the original Ft. Clinton which defended Manhattan. There are statues and memorials all over the place, recalling all sorts of wars. The Korean War. Those lost at sea in World War II. There is a monument to the founder of the Salvation Army, a general in a different sort of war.

There is the sculpture of the Immigrants, who did battle against fear and oppression and poverty and made great sacrifices to be free -- kissing the ground; kneeling, arms raised to heaven as if they just arrived on its shores; grasping their hearts, clutching their little ones.

There is the statue of John Ericsson, “whose genius contributed to the greatness of this Republic and the progress of the world,” who did battle against ignorance and man’s slavery to the elements.

It began to dawn on me just how many battles I’ve waged here, in this war memorial, all those frigid nights this past winter, when I came here to say a Rosary and have my talks with God. Battery Park is still a battlefield today.

Tonight the neighborhood was swarming with suits from out of town, all abuzz about their big night in The City. I just wanted a few minutes of peace and quiet in order to fight a small skirmish in my War but there were too many excited little boys who looked like computer salesman running around and Talking Big. So I did what I always do: I escaped into the battlefield.

I walked up to that other sculpture, the one that somehow withstood the collapse of not one but two of the world’s grandest buildings only feet away from it – withstood with only a few scars. I literally said to myself, “Maybe if I stand by that no one will bother me.” I wasn’t there two minutes before a family came up yapping in some other language and taking pictures of themselves with The Sculpture in the background. I laughed to myself. It was not lost on me: they are immigrants. They are a family. This is what is supposed to happen here. This is their park after all.

That Sculpture, which was the centerpiece at the World Trade Center, was dedicated to "world peace" when it was placed between the two Proud Towers. But that is only the smallest of ironies that concern it. It survived that cowardly and barbaric attack on 9/11. Even as the blood, sweat and tears of world trade were turned into dust, ashes and memories, the symbol of the hope of world peace somehow survived, and largely intact except, as I mentioned, for the scars.

After September 11, 2001, the surviving Symbol of World Peace was moved. To Battery Park. To a war memorial. Right there on the opposite side of Hope Garden as the original Battery; right there by the streets of Manhattan. Right there in a living battlefield is the monument to the dream of world peace.

Bob Dylan sang, “you’re gonna have to serve somebody.” And it is, of course, inevitable. “It might be the devil, or it might be the Lord, but you’re gonna have to serve somebody.”

I guess the reality of today is, “you’re gonna have to fight somebody.” If the good fight isn't fought, the enemies of Good win by default. I think no kind of peace in any kind of realm is unearned. I think it must be won -- captured from the hands of an armed thief and guarded with all one's might. And God's help.

History watches. Over Battery Park, Lady Liberty raises her lamp. Maybe peace isn't a birthright, available just for the asking. Maybe it's a spoil of war.

Someone's Battery Park site.

about "The Sphere" by Fritz Koenig:

"For three decades, this sculpture stood in the plaza of the World Trade Center Entitled “The Sphere,” it was conceived by artist Fritz Koenig as a symbol of world peace. It was damaged during the tragic events of September 11, 2001, but endures as an icon of hope and the indestructible spirit of this country. The Sphere was placed here on March 11, 2002 as a temporary memorial to all who lost their lives in the terrorist attacks at the World Trade Center.

"This eternal flame was ignited on September 11, 2002 in honor of all those who were lost. Their spirit and sacrifice will never be forgotten."

more of what really matters.

some words, you realize, have been the background music of your heart all your life.

See the curtains hanging in the window
In the evening on a Friday night
A little light a-shining through the window
Lets me know every thing's all right

Summer breeze, makes me feel fine
Blowing through the jasmine in my mind
Summer breeze, makes me feel fine
Blowing through the jasmine in my mind

See the paper laying on the sidewalk
A little music from the house next door
So I walk on up to the door step
Through the screen and across the floor

Summer breeze, makes me feel fine
Blowing through the jasmine in my mind
Summer breeze, makes me feel fine
Blowing through the jasmine in my mind

Sweet days of summer, the jasmine's in bloom
July is dressed up and playing her tune
When I come home from a hard day's work
And you're waiting there, not a care in the world

See the smile a waiting in the kitchen
Food cooking and the plates for two
Feel the arms that reach out to hold me
In the evening when the day is through

Summer breeze, makes me feel fine
Blowing through the jasmine in my mind
Summer breeze, makes me feel fine
Blowing through the jasmine in my mind

-- Seals and Crofts, Summer Breeze.

Listen to these songs. Listen to the Cowboy Junkies' Anniversary Song:

Have you ever seen a sight as beautiful
as that of the rain-soaked purple
of the white birch in spring?

Have you ever felt more fresh or wonderful
than on a warm fall night
under a Mackerel sky,
the smell of grapes on the wind?

Well I have known all these things
and the joys that they can bring
And I'll share them all for a cup of coffee
and to wear your ring

Have you ever had the pleasure of watching
a quiet winter's snow slowly gathering
like simple moments adding up?

Have you ever satisfied a gut feeling
to follow a dry dirt road that's beckoning you
to the heart of a shimmering summer's day?

Well I have known all these things
and the joys that they can bring
And I'll share them all for a cup of coffee
and to wear your ring

And I don't know how I survived those days
before I held your hand

Well I never thought that I would be the one
to admit that the moon and the sun
shine so much more brighter when
seen through two pairs of eyes than
when seen through just one

Have you ever seen a sight as beautiful
as a face in a crowd of people
that lights up just for you?

Have you ever felt more fresh or wonderful
as when you wake
by the side of that boy or girl
who has pledged their love to you?

Well I have known all these things
and the joys that they can bring
And now every morning there's a cup of coffee
and I wear your ring

-- Cowboy Junkies, Anniversary Song.

There is nothing to be added to these words. This really ought to be the last post.

The marketplace of ideas on the 4 Train Uptown platform, Wall Street.

blessed are the meek.

I rarely write with the iPod going. But tonight it’s different. Tell me if you notice a difference.

If your eyes are open, life will give you more stories in a day than you can keep up with. Even before noon. This morning found me in my usual Saturday spot – praying in front of an abortion site. First warm day in months.

This activity isn’t something you discuss in ordinary conversation. Not only is it an unpleasant subject to begin with, but the pro-abortion propaganda forces have enjoyed hegemony in the marketplace of ideas – well, actually, they’ve cornered it, insofar as it occurs in the collective media mind. That is to say, they’ve marginalized those people who not only see what abortion really is, but are so engaged with life that they allow their consciences to govern their actions and are therefore compelled to put their feet to the street in peaceful protest. Constructive protest. Prayerful protest.

Let me prove it to you. What is the first thing you think of when someone says, “I’m a person engaged in pro-life work who prays outside of an abortions site?” You think of one notorious incident in which a deranged individual shot an abortion practitioner dead, don’t you? If that isn’t all you think of, it comes to mind, I’ll bet. It is likely, at least, that you’re suspicious. Even I used to be. The unarticulated question is, "why rock the boat?" I'm sure German citizens felt the same way in 1939.

But do you ever hear about a 6’ 5”, 350 pound man cornering a 5’5” 150 pound sidewalk counselor for doing nothing but offering literature and Rosary beads and saying to him, “If you come at me again I’m gonna FUCK YOU UP!” as he “escorts” a young lady in to have her abortion?

Probably not. However, you would if the situation were reversed and allowed to escalate.

I was on my knees, oblivious and in prayer as this occurred, but not my sidekick, a former Transit policeman who, at 67, still has a plenty of Marlboro Man about him. More than most men my age. And far more time – decades more time – in this activity than I do. I’ve never seen anyone at any age move as fast and as purposefully as he did, off his chair like a shot and right into the mix. Even after the tense gentleman had changed his mind and peacefully walked his lady into the building, John’s great big hand was still locked into a great big fist. It’s good to have a great big fist, because just having it means you probably won’t have to use it. Ronald Reagan called it, “peace through strength.”

But this isn’t even my story. See what I mean?

My story begins a few minutes later, when Katherine strolled up with her dog, Blackie. Katherine looked to be age itself. If you had told me she was 90 I would have believed you. I had a hard time reconciling her at 75 with the ex-Transit cop at 67. There might as well have been 80 years between them, as 8.

Katherine was about 4 ½ feet tall with a face like very old, broken-in leather. Something about her eyes looked a bit off. She talked like she was drunk, but of course, it wasn’t necessarily so. The very image of what was once heartlessly referred to as a “bag lady,” especially with those eyes, yet something about her demeanor argued against that. She was not fat or skinny, but aged and worn and talkative and as well dressed as someone whose faculties are in question might be after even a real effort. She addressed my sidekick in broken English.

“You help me find 36,” she asked? “Over there” said, John, pointing over there. You sound like you’re German,” he offered. “Whaaaaa? I am a voman,” she corrected. Conversations like that don’t last too long. John repeated himself and she mumbled something about “so tired…walking too much…I need cab…” Once more John pointed “over there” and she said, “You reeelijiss, and you no help me.” And she walked away.

I had formed a picture of a woman with Alzheimer’s out walking her dog who just couldn’t find her way home. She wasn’t crazy – she was old. And lost. She said as much. And tired because she’d been walking around, lost, with Blackie, faithful Blackie, for some time. Who knows how long?

I haven’t been in New York long enough to let someone like that walk away and convince myself she’s going to manage. And I never will be, even if I die here. This was an aged, partly incompetent woman, walking the streets – the streets of New York City, nearly clueless and nearly defenseless. I thought these thoughts long enough to watch her turn the corner at the end of the block. I thought them a little longer, before I could take it no longer, and left my sidekicks to find her and get her a cab, at least.

I thought she had disappeared but, no, there she was, drifting back into the direction she had come from, on a street a block away. “Hello,” I called, as I caught up with her. Blackie regarded me with an alert gaze. She turned and looked at my face. Her eyes – blue, slightly crossed, the lazy one overcast with a cloud of a cataract. “I’m so tired,” she said. “Been walking so long…” When she talked, her upper plate looked as if it was about to take flight from her mouth.

“Come to the corner with me,” I said, “and we’ll get you a cab.” I was talking in the sort of voice you use when talking with a toddler or a very elderly person. I don’t like using that voice. “Do you know where you live,” I asked.

She started to rattle off an address and I said, “OK, just tell the cab driver. Come to the corner.” Blackie strolled alongside, confident and contained. At the corner he began to bark at me. I told him to calm down. It was there that I asked her the name of the dog. It took me three tries before I understood that “he is black. His name is Mr. Black, but we call him ‘Blackie.’” He was nearly feisty now. I looked him square in the eye and told him, “Blackie, you take care of her, now.” But he didn’t need to be told that.

At least two cabs passed by a block or so away. I decide to try to find one but before I left Katherine to do so I fished an “Our Lady of Guadalupe” prayer card from my overcoat pocket and give it to her. I don’t think I articulated a prayer but if I had it would be, “Our Lady, watch over this helpless woman.”

Two cabs went right by Katherine while I walked up the block looking for one. There is a cab parked outside a house, the driver obviously off duty and probably in bed. I never noticed that cabs in New York do not have telephone numbers on them. No need, as they’re always prowling about looking for you.

I decided to walk back to the corner, into Lena’s coffee shop, to ask Lena or her cook if they know the number of a cab. The cook called a car. “Five minutes,” he says. I return to Katherine’s side.

Blackie lets me have it. “Where did you go,” he barked? Katherine addresses me. “You are Jewish,” she asks? “No.” “My son-in-law is Jewish,” she said. “He is a very good man.” “Probably,” I thought. “But what’s he doing letting you walk around and get lost in Long Island City like this.” But what I said was, “I’m sure he is.” She has children, a daughter at least. Where are they?

That was when, despite my good manners, my curiosity about her age got the best of me, and I asked her, “How old are you.” I instantly regretted it. “Seventy-five,” she said. When she spoke, she made declarations, confident and sure, as if the words, “and that’s that” were attached by default to the end of every sentence. It was rather charming; it reminded me of a little girl explaining how the world works to her parents. “I figured you for fifty,” I joshed. “Fifty” she snorted!

After a moment a shiny, charcoal Town Car pulls up. The passenger windows descend, and the words, “you call?” reach our ears in broken English. “Yes, yes,” I say. Leaning into the passenger window, I hand the driver a bill and say, “Please get this woman home. She knows her address.” I open back door for Katherine. “OK, in you go.” She and Blackie settled in, looking as natural as could be.

[...to be continued]

you know it's spring when...

kilts start coming out.

Too bad the camera-phone isn't sharp enough to get the big tattoo on his right calf.

42nd Street and 3rd, this morning.

away with your inner lawyer.

it's all a dirty business -- talking trash for a living, and making a victim of someone for one's own gain. I still say the first is folly, while the second is evil.

But Imus has apologized. Is anyone big enough to accept it?

***
Is anyone big enough to accept an apology? To extend a forgiveness? To stop punishing the offender, to reach out a hand to restore the offender, as well as the offended?

A week ago was Good Friday. A thief on his left and right, the Man who went about doing good hung beaten half to death, awaiting, eduring the other half.

"Forgive them, Father," he said of those who spit on him as he dragged a heavy cross to the hill of execution on a dump outside the city gates; of those who drove spikes through his hands and feet; those who gambled amongst themselves for possession of the garment they had just torn from his body; those who would run a spear into is gut to make sure he was dead. "The know not what they do."

To the thief who admitted his guilt, he said, "Today you will be with me in paradise."

As an example, this pretty much binds all of us -- offender and offended -- to forgive all of us -- repentent and future-repentent.

Who is it that seeks to keep the wounds open, to stoke unforgiveness, to capitalize upon the misfortune of others? No, not just lawyers. Perhaps there is a little lawyer in all of us. When Shakespeare said, "Kill them all," maybe that's what he meant.

Can anyone forgive? Of course they can. Most would. I believe if Mr. Imus were to meet face to face those who were the butt of his remarks, and in true contrition offer an apology and seek forgiveness, he'd get it. And the offended would embrace the offender and each would be strengthened, because every wrong forgiven is like another girder to strengthen the bridge to heaven; it's another stone in the wall around the Great City.

But don't look for that on the news. CNN wouldn't be there to capture myopic images that can be distorted by spin doctors and talking heads for the benefit of... of whom? Who benefits? Hatred and bigotry are big business. Big, dirty, business.

Remember Reginald Denny? Mr. Denny was the trucker who was yanked from his cab in LA during the "Rodney King Riots" and beaten severely, his offense being the wrong color in the wrong place at the wrong time.

In what must be one of contemporary history's classic moments of Justice, his beating was also captured on videotape. Only instead of political operatives organizing a riot to exploit that videotape, the rule of law was observered.

The record will show that in the courtroom, Mr. Denny approached and embraced those men on trial for beating him. One of the young men's mothers was quoted as saying, "My son did wrong. He deserves to be brought to justice."

I don't know where CNN or the LA Times or Al Gore or "Reverend" Al or anyone else was that day, but I know that healing took place. Something in me was healed and strengethened just hearing about it.

on imus

I am confident that world could probably continue turning without me venturing my opinion about the Imus emission. You know, the racial one. All the other ones weren’t, apparently, offensive enough to arouse a sense of “community decency,” but when there is political capital at stake, the flames of moral outrage roar as from gasoline dumped on a campfire. And are about as useful.

That is just one of a long list of very unfortunate observations one can make about it. And not the chief one.

The chief one is that the remarks were despicable. It really doesn’t matter to me whether Mr. Imus is a racist – what goes on in his heart is his business. I'm not sure his unfortunate remarks are an indicator of racism any more than they would be coming, as they so often to, from the mouths of black americans. I think in both cases, given what the words have come to mean, it's more like bad manners. But there’s no excuse for bad manners, for megaphoning insults about anyone of any color. And doing so in such a racially charged time and place is beyond irresponsible. It’s got to be close to stupid.

Even as a ratings stunt, it’s inexcusable – as most things that are done for ratings are.

Another despicable thing is that there is a double standard, and everyone knows it. Double standards are unfair, obviously, and are a form of entrapment. And, usually, the irresponsible and stupid are easy catches. But the innocent get ensnared too, sometimes.

I had a long and heated talk with a close friend about this double standard. And I found myself convincing myself (if not my friend) that, while there is no excuse for a double standard, and while the past is past, insulting a black american is a particularly grievous thing to do, considering the suffering that is built into the history of black americans.

I am not saying that anyone alive today is responsible the for suffering of anyone who lived 150 years ago, or that anyone alive in america today suffered like slaves did. But I am saying that slavery is the unfortunate truth of the black experience here and it is just too fresh a wound to tamper with.

People who exploit the wound for political gain, however, ought to be thrown out right alongside Imus. They should have gone out first. It's one thing when the playground loudmouth says the wrong thing. But there is something really sinister at work when the teachers use his fault to elevate themselves.

Everyone's wounds are too fresh to tamper with. We ought cut one another way more slack than we do. We are all, despite our outward demeanor, far more sensitive than we probably even realize ourselves.

We ought go out of our way to treat others with dignity -- especially those whose lineage is owed a greater debt of dignity.

street of dreams.

For some reason I can’t connect to the ‘NET at GCT, so I’ll write this in Word. It lacks the sense of “connectedness” – I am not sure if that is a pun or not – but that sense is virtual anyway. It probably is a neurological sort of response, similar to what a person who smokes might feel when holding a cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other.

I guess I’m saying that internet “addiction” can be two-way. And frighteningly subtle.

But in this case, as I’m writing off line, it can be said to be a more rational process. We’ll see if it turns out that way.

What compelled me to write at this moment is something I encountered along Wall St. while leaving work this afternoon. Something simple…and simplicity itself will be the subject of another post, with some thoughts on that venerable topic I cased out this morning.

But on Wall, after work... an unusual beggar. This man honestly did not look well. And he was calling out, “Can someone help me feed my daughter?”

Sure, it could all have been an act. But even if it was, and I don’t think it was, it was a desperate act. And if it wasn’t an act, it was all the more desperate an action.

I approached the man. He really did not look well. He looked…desperate. Strung by green household wire about his neck was a cardboard sign, every square inch of which scrawled upon in pen with small letters; what must have been a very long story. As he noticed me approaching, he swiveled his body in such a way as to make sure the sign hung as intended. The only word out of the whole long story that registered with me was “AIDS.”

I don’t know what the substance of that story is. But I felt something – literally – in my heart as I faced that man. I don’t know what I felt. A palpitation, some sort of visceral reaction. It wasn’t pain. It was more of a thump. As if to say…”pay attention?” A marker? Maybe he was praying for me, and maybe God answered him on the spot.

He thanked me profusely for the token of change I put in his cup. I didn’t have very much to begin with, unfortunately. I did not give enough, and I may never have that opportunity again. I don't think I've quite processed that. Maybe that thump to my heart was a kick in the seat by God.

A block away, there was a display of very exotic cars in front of the most exotic residence in the area – Cipriani. (It will be noted that Wall Street is now largely a residential street, and that I don’t think that’s a good sign for business, but that is a very different post).

Collectively the three cars might have been valued with seven figures. I couldn’t help but notice the eager, mostly male faces – male faces accompanied by pretty female ones – about the display. If I could read the faces, I think I’d say they were telling stories of bravado, of greed, of insecurity, of power-lust. I’m not saying that’s all there was to see in the faces, but only that, on the face or two that I noticed, I might have noticed that.

The cars were pretty, and for anyone interested in cars or even in gadgets, they held an understandable fascination. In their own way, they were beautiful. Does beholding beauty or power make avarice show up on a man’s face, necessarily? I don’t think so. But Wall Street is no ordinary street.

Well, that notwithstanding, what I wanted to get across in this post is that there were not crowds of admiring or avaricious faces surrounding the beggar a block and a half away. There were no beautiful women floating around him. He wasn’t anyone’s destination or dream.

virtuous, not virtual

cool title, hunh? maybe I can turn it into a post later.

Twain's Law

states that a good book is something everyone talks about, and no one reads.

Train's corollary states that, a blog is something everyone talks about, and no one reads.

Train [of Thoughts] holds that the odds are, if someone knows what a blog is, he's probably writing one, which means he's way too wrapped up in his own story to give a flip about yours.

Train adds that a blogger is someone who has worn out the ears of all those around him (however many or few that might have been) and therefore has created a "virtual audience," to whom he waxes eloquent about his "virtual life."

On considering this revelation, one can't help but wonder, why bother?

As long as the words come, I suppose...

having heard her speak

I have no reservations recommending the courageous Dawn Eden or her book, "The Thrill of the Chaste."

The last thing I wanted to hear about was chastity, when I headed for Theology on Tap tonight. However, Dawn manages to dignify it and even make it sound attractive. Why? Because it's the truth. And the truth is beautiful.

For example, chastity does not mean "sexlessness." No, chastity is way of conducting one's self with honor and propriety.

All I really wanted was to go out and shoot the breeze and have a couple of beers. I stayed in spite of myself, and wound up buying the book. You would too.

No, it didn't hurt that the Yankees were playing, and that it was televised. I mean, when a woman is talking about sex a guy needs something to stare at. It was perfect. But when they were ahead by 5 in something like the 3rd inning, well, yeah, they've been known to make it a roller coaster, but even still, the game sort of got boring. But Dawn's talk got interesting.

I can't believe that I can drink 5 beers and not even be drunk. You can bet I'll be hung over, though. That's my life. No buzz, all hangover.

Get the book! It's got a cool cover, and a cooler message.

mechanical romance

so, what's a nice cone like you...




a nice rack.





livin' large in Bushwick.





whachoo lookin' at?

Divine Dice-Roll

Let's pretend you are sitting down to play a game of poker. Among your opponents is....Jesus.

Do you think you stand a chance of winning? Even if he plays fairly which, as God, it ought to be presumed He would.

Unless he let you, that is. Do you think any experience, any skill at counting, or any other devices could give you an edge over...God?

Really. How much would you bet against Jesus at a card game?

What about dice?

Now, what if, instead of money, you were playing for your soul?

And what if Jesus wants you to win?

***

I call it the Divine Dice-Roll. Jesus enters the Garden of Gesthemane, after the Last Supper, where he tells his disciples, basically, "Let's Roll" (no pun intended).

There begins the awfulest night any man has ever had to endure. Everyone deserts him, the authorities abuse him physically, and they finally crucify Him. Jesus did this to save men from their sins.

But men have free will. What if they don't bother to accept his salvation?

Does Jesus walk away from the table a loser?

If you went up against him and his Love with all your free will, and the stakes were your soul, and he wanted you to win your soul even more than you do, do you think, do you really think, Jesus would walk away from that table a loser for eternity, just because you're a moron and don't know a Good Thing when you see it, because you have been given the gift of "free will," and given it by him to begin with?

Gravity is a universal law. But there is a higher law, called "the law of lift." Lift trumps gravity.

Grace trumps ignorance.

Always has, always will.
This is why there is hope, even for you.

Let's Dance

Yesterday at the gym was perfect. First off, it was nearly empty, and so there were no bozos there to give me a hard time about using the punching bags.

Next, the Yankees were playing, and A-rod hit that awesome grand slam, mentioned below.

Too, I'm getting stronger. I can hardly believe how strong my thighs are. My speed bag action is very rewarding.

But something really cool happened in the other room, where the heavy bag is.

I was, first of all, encouraged to find the bag already hanging, which meant I wouldn't have to wrestle it up there all by myself.

After my first set, a grandfather-aged man, a short Italian, not unlike the memory of my grandfather and namesake, actually, walks in. I am revolving my sets, so, after one on the heavy bag, I was going to the speed bag, which is in another room at this NYSC. As I was leaving, he said in an old man's voice, "Don't leave, I might fall!" Of course he was saying, "Don't let me drive you out." He was very nice. I told him if he fell I'd send someone in after him.

Having "revolved" back into the room, I was greeted by big-band music coming from the sound system. It was beautiful, the sort of music my mother used to play on the piano. I recognized all of the tunes. And there was my friend, slowly dancing around the room. I noticed that his arm was in a cast, and I supposed this was his stroke-recovery therapy. How absolutely cool it was.

I did my set on the heavy bag, while this aged gentleman slowly danced around the room, enveloped in a cloud of glorious, dignified music. Heaven comes in bits and pieces on earth. It was a very joyful and peaceful experience. For all I know, that man was an angel.

I told him, "My mother used to play all these tunes on the piano." He said, "Oh?" but that was it. In his own world. I wanted to make a remark about how he should have a dance partner, but decided to leave him in his reverie.

He was the very picture of class and dignity. Eons removed from everyone else in the gym, with gangsta rap and death metal and vainglory coming through their iPod earbuds, images of sluts and studs and barbarians and T&A filling their minds from the LCD screens mounted on their Stairmasters. Man, I can't get across what a beautiful contrast it was.

Except for one thing: the message of the moment. A man dancing by himself. It's not right. It's freakish. It's unbalanced; a lonely, sad curiousity, not unlike the mobiles discussed below. Devoid of balance and the beauty thereof.

God, are you paying attention?

I Love Easter

Lent gets to be a real drag around the third week of March.

But Easter! He is risen! Death couldn't hold him! You can't kill him twice! Somehow the burdens of life are lighter because everything He said is true. Because He is risen, everything has meaning.

As we read at Mass tonight, "What would life have meant to us if Christ had not come?" I had never, ever thought of that before.

He is risen. Peter, when he heard, rushed over to the grave -- Peter, who denied him three times, and must have hated himself for it, found a purpose in that empty tomb. And Jesus came to him, looked him in the eye and said, "Do you love me? Feed my sheep."

What kind of love IS this?

Innocence restored. Who wouldn't give his entire life to have his innocence restored?

it's a little cryptic but

this song has earned a spot on the iPod, being one of my favorites from the unforgetable '80s.

It was a favorite then, not only because of the laid back melody and sort of blue-eyed funk the Stevie Winwood gives us, but also because it was his comeback album, he played every instrument, it is so optimistic, it is good music, and, especially, it is a love song. Even if the story is a bit hard to follow, the essence of what must be the universal call of a man's heart is clear.

Once again, you somehow feel good because even the possibility of love is better than nothing.

She bathes me in sweetness I cannot reveal
For sharing dreams I need my woman
This humble expression meagerly dressed
My eyes so mean it has no meaning

But jealous night and all her secret chords
I must be deaf on the telephone
I need my love to translate

I play the piano no more running honey
This time to the sky Ill sing if clouds dont hear me
To the sun Ill cry and even if Im blinded
I'll try moon gazer because with you I'm stronger

Arc of a diver effortlessly
my mind in sky and when I wake up

Daytime and nighttime I feel you near
Warm water breathing she helps me here

This time to the sky Ill sing if clouds dont hear me
To the sun Ill cry and even if Im blinded
I'll try moon gazer because with you I'm stronger

Lean streaky music spawned on the streets
I hear it but with you I had to go
cause my rock n roll is putting on weight
and the beat it goes on

Arc of a diver effortlessly
my mind in sky and when I wake up
Daytime and nighttime I feel you near
Warm water breathing she helps me here

With you my love were going to raid the future
With you my love were going to stick up the past
Well hold today to ransom 'til our quartz clock stop until yesterday

Steve Winwood, Arc of a Diver.

what life in the city is really like

You decide to run a "quick" errand up to 42nd to do a favor for someone, which you do. On your way back, as you pass through Grand Central (the hub of this literary masterpiece), you notice that the only thing that keeps you from your usual stop for coffee at Zarro's is the fact that you feel more inclined to visit the men's room. Way more inclined.

So you pass Zarro's and walk to the other end of the place and see a line about 50 deep for the men's room. The day before Easter Sunday...you should realize that it's a big travel day.

You really have to take a leak, but you console yourself with the thought that "it's a short train ride home." GCT is absolutely packed with clueless tourists, which you have to wade through to get to the subway. A quick ride home.

On the platform, you're dimly aware that yellow caution tape is obstructing the express side of the platform. No worries, you think, you'll just grab the local. What'a few more stops? The un-blockaded part of the platform is jammed with...clueless tourists.

The train arrives and when it gets to 14th you realize you'd better switch to the R or else you'll have to walk from City Hall. Why do that when, with just short walk through the station and wee bit of a wait for the R, you can be dropped off a block from home?

You wade through an ocean of clueless tourists and the usual really aggressive [insert nationality here] kids at 14th and make your way to the R platform. To kill time, you look at the service map to see which other train makes the same stops. W, so you have R and W, like your father's initials. Cool.

A train comes and you get on. You have your iPod turned up so loud that everyone else can hear "Angel de Amor" by Mana with you. You're glad to share the music, 'cause it's such a cool song. A little while later, you're awakened from your reverie by daylight, which you should NOT be seeing on this train. You realize you're on your way to Brooklyn because, oh, you got on the wrong train. Not the R or the W, like your dad's initials, but the N. You're aware that you really have to go to bathroom.

You resign yourself to the fact that you've made an absentminded blunder, and begin to formulate the blog post. You rationalize that the view from the Manhattan Bridge is really cool and if you had been paying attention at the station, you wouldn't get to see it. So it's not a total loss.

You also realize that you're sitting beneath what has become your favorite poem, "Wilderness," printed on a placard in the car. It's by Lorene Niedecker, who, if she hadn't passed away 37 years ago, you'd probably want to marry. Instead you think, "does she have a granddaughter?" You realize that, at least someone, at some point in history, would have really loved you. That's similar to your best thoughts when your neighbor wins the lottery. You think, "hey, it's possible!"

Halfway to Bay Ridge, the train stops and you walk up and over to the other side. There you can catch the R train. Naturally, you arrive on the platform in time to see the letter "R" on the last car speeding away from you. The R's usually don't run like clockwork. You figure, "another 15 minutes." Thank God the battery in your iPod hasn't quit yet.

Oh, you don't bother to leave the train station to find a men's room because finding a public restroom in New York is a bit like finding good food on the interstate. It's a dice-roll at best. Plus, why blow another two bucks? It's only a short ride home.

You double check the service map. You see the flyer offering a reward for clues in a gruesome murder, which you really wish you hadn't read, because it makes you think depressing thoughts about human nature and you wish the world was a better place and what kind of person could do something so awful and you wonder if he was inspired by "Silence of the Lambs" and you wish people wouldn't make movies like that. Two songs later, the R shows up. You're on the home stretch.

It's so cold, and you're exhausted, but one hour and eleven minutes after you realized you really had to go to the bathroom, you arrive at yours.

the day the world stood still

It's awful quiet out there.













Now what?

seemingly precarious states of balance

Once upon a time, during an earlier period of apparent "purposelessness," my sister's first husband, who'd known me since I was 9 or so years old, helped me get some work.

Though he was a mechanical engineer by trade, he moonlighted as a house painter / jack-of-all-trades, and he was handing off to me a customer that he just didn't have time for anymore. Tom Newell needed help painting his house.

It was in Wayland, which is a nice, old, Boston suburb. I liked Wayland, I liked the people I'd met there, I nearly grew up there, what with spending so much time on my father's jobs. I felt natural showing up at Mr. Newell's house one cold late fall morning.

He was a musician - a French Horn player for the Boston Pops. His wife played strings for the Boston Symphony, if memory serves. They were in their '60's at the time, and that big, old Colonial needed a coat of paint before the weather got too bad. They were a dysfunctional couple, and my memory of Tom suggests a broken heart, though I couldn't have identified it at the time.

Money must have been tight, because Tom insisted on working with me to save some of it. I think he paid me $8 an hour. Naturally, we talked as we painted, and a few things stuck with me.

Tom taught me how develop my ear for pitch. "Think of a song," he'd ordered. So I thought of one of my favorites at the time. He said, "Sing it!" I self consciously did. To this day I can tune my guitar by thinking of the intro to Steely Dan's "Ricky Don't Lose That Number" (E E, B B, E E, B B...).

Tom was a creative supernova. Not only was he out painting with me in the cold, he also kept a mini lathe in his basement, upon which he turned his own mouthpieces for his horn (sadly, Tom had developed lip cancer, which is about as bad luck as a horn player can have. He was suing his doctor for not catching it earlier). He painted pictures. And made mobiles, like Alexander Calder. That's what I fell in love with.

They were all over his house, these little mobiles. And some "stabiles," which were like mobiles, only they sprung from a base, as opposed to hanging from the ceiling. Fine wire and sheet metal contraptions that, no matter how asymetrical they looked, were perfectly balanced. They captivated me, and I started making my own.

I only spent a couple of weeks with Tom, and over twenty years later I realize how much that man inspired me. I just figured out in the process of writing this post what a great metaphor mobiles can be and the sorts of visceral moods their mysterious, precarious states of balance can evoke. They speak of order in the midst of apparent chaos, which evokes a suprise sense of hope...perhaps I'll develop the logic more later.

Hmm. This theme seemed like a good idea this morning, but here it's kind of falling flat...

gone at last

I guess as long as the words keep coming, I'll keep posting them. Even if they are someone else's. Some more Paul Simon:

The night was black, the roads were icy
Snow was fallin', drifts were high
And I was weary, from my driving
And I stopped to rest for awhile
I sat down at a truck stop
I was thinking about my past
I've had a long streak of that bad luck
But I'm praying it's gone at last

CHORUS:
Gone at last, gone at last
Gone at last, gone at last
I had a long streak of bad luck
But I pray it's gone at last
Oo,oo,oo...

I ain't dumb
I kicked around some
I don't fall too easily
But that boy looked so dejected
He just grabbed my sympathy
Sweet little soul now, what's your problem?
Tell me why you're so downcast
I've had a long streak of bad luck
But I pray it's gone at last

CHORUS

Once in a while from out of nowhere
When you don't expect it, and you're unprepared
Somebody will come and lift you higher
And your burdens will be shared
Yes I do believe, if I hadn't met you
I might still be sinking fast
I've had a long streak of that bad luck
But I pray it's gone at last

CHORUS

-- Paul Simon (with assistance from Phoebe Snow), Gone At Last.

Sometimes, after such a streak, so many things go right you begin to wonder when the Sword of Damacles is going to drop. It takes humility to accept good luck, as it does bad. Maybe even more so.

blue shirts

It just struck me today. Up until a couple of years ago, even last year, security in certain areas of the Financial District was remarkable. Working as I did at the commodities exchange, where (what may still be) the world's most important crude and derivative product markets is housed, I was accustomed to guys in black Kevlar suits, with dull black machine guns, and bomb sniffing dogs. Gradually, they began to appear a bit less frequently. Now, it is rare to see them.

Over on Wall, at the NYSE, they still have a visible presence of course, but it's still nowhere near as intense as it was last year.

Except in one place. There is one building -- it's not even an exchange, it's an office -- where the bouncers in cold blue Kevlar stand like sentries conquering the world. Their presence is offensive, intimidating, a half-step shy of menacing. When I realized that it was the DeutscheBank building they are arrayed in front of, I couldn't help but think of them as "blue shirts" and draw Nazi parallels.

Bearing the image of uncompromising, mechanical power, how could one fail to?

joe

there is another kind of person on Wall Street. Or near it.

Joe hangs around Our Lady of Victory sometimes. He seems pretty healthy for a homeless person - I hate to use the term beggar, but Joe will not turn down a handout. Well, not always. There was the time that he walked into the chapel one day and gave me back the dollar I gave him....

He is a handsome black man, and he'll talk you're ear off. He'll toy with your collar, like he's straightening your tie. He used to make jokes as people passed by. His mind wanders, it seems. A little Joe goes a long way.

Joe and I have an interesting relationship. I used to spend more time than I do talking to him, listening to his story, offering advice. After a while, you quit offering advice and just listen.

Joe went through a phase where he was almost harassing people who were attempting to enter the church. People would sort of clam up and try to slide by him. One day I asked him, "Joe, can you please give people a little room coming in?" That was the day he gave me back the dollar. I had hurt his feelings, and I didn't realize it.

At certain intervals, Joe could be seen across the street from the Church entrance, arms folded, looking at the church, shaking his head. Whatever he was thinking, he didn't look happy about it.

But he was always there. Except when he wasn't -- for a short spell he was gone (he once mentioned family in New Jersey; and that he was a painter by trade). But recently he's returned, and looks almost as good as new.

Joe was standing on the corner that morning during Lent that I almost flattened a Wall Street pretty-boy for playing a game of Loafer-Tag with me. I stood there, begging the kid to knock the big, fat chip that was on my shoulder, off my shoulder. And then I realized, "wait, Joe is back there. He sees that you don't act like a good Catholic boy all the time."

Joe has seen me at my best and at my worst. Lately, something interesting has been happening. I'll come from morning Mass, and I'll hear a low, "Hey!" And I'll turn and from my mouth will escape an enthusiastic "Hey!" It just comes out of me. And I realize, "I'm glad to see Joe."

And I go over to him, and he comes over to me. And the last couple of times, I've been emptyhanded and had to say, "Joe, I'm sorry -- I don't have a dime on me." And I hate to do that. And he says something like, "It's not about money! You listen to me! YOU care."

And I say, "lots of people care, Joe." And he says he likes my scarf and he pretends to straighten it and he gives me a hug and says, "Somedays it's a New Day! I'm gonna make it! You say a prayer for me, now!"

And I say, "of course you are, Joe! You stay strong! I will say a prayer for you."

"Hail Mary," I begin, walking away, aware of an uncanny sense of dignity.