PJ My bird
on close inspection
I can see how his feathers
resemble fish scales.
Look at the bird and the fish.
Did you ever consider
how easy it is to see differences
and how deep we must dig
to note similarities?
PJ is not a peacock
nor a tropical fish
The air is like water
in which he swims.
As the water is like air
to a fish.
Why do I care?
Just thinking about the great diversity and variation in nature…and the greater similarities that point to ONENESS.
Aliens ???
This is incredible news. UFO’s sighted over the cell? On Wednesday? Yeah. That was reported by the Daily News and delivered to us by our very own Alex Zoppa, one of the inimitable Zoppa triplets who are out of this world. We were so busy with the Zoppa Brothers’ production here, that we never noticed the commotion on the street. Can you imagine a divine creature cloned from generous parts of Janis Joplin, Madeleine Peyroux, and Stevie Nicks with a pinch of Bette Midler thrown in? Billie Holiday is surely turning in her grave! We were over the moon with “Catch a Falling Star” and the shining Angela McCluskey playing her amazing self. Not only were we smitten with her act, but her story left us wanting more. After wishing, hoping and begging her to stay, we had to let her go. Hailing from Scotland, the visitor now resides on another planet, namely Los Angeles, the mothership to which she had to return. We’re plotting to bring her back. But for now, we’ll turn our attention to the heavens and hope the UFO’s are carrying aliens as refreshingly unique as Angela.
Excerpt From My Opus It was music that led me to the cell and my so-called “career,” as we know it. It was the nineties. My kids were getting big. I had been pregnant from 1981 to 1989. Really. Four kids in eight years. I know you think that is totally nuts. Who in her right mind would do that? Ya, well, due to this folly, I totally missed the eighties, which is to say I didn’t miss much, musically. Except for Madonna and U2, who were pretty impossible to miss, I’d say I was glad to be in the family way, preoccupied with the mundane. However, this is not to say I was happy. No, no, no. I was always wondering, “What am I going to do when I grow up?” I swear to god, that thought was there day and night, night and day.
Somehow, in my sparse time, I was always in school. I took classes in absolutely everything. I think if I added up all my credits, I’d probably have a dozen B.A.’s. I almost got a Master’s in psychology, but I dropped the program the day I heard I was expecting a baby. I have a very basic, well-rounded education. But I never could choose a specialty. I was interested in everything, good at nothing. Except maybe getting pregnant. Oh, and I also liked to carve stones.
So burdened with a bundle of useless chiseled rocks, superficial knowledge and a heavy heart, I decided to turn my attention inward. I started writing poems. Poetry was something I did always. When I was in fifth grade I won a poetry contest. When I was in seventh grade I wrote an award-winning poem. Maybe I peaked in seventh grade. I probably did.
After that, I continued to write here and there, never really exposing my silly thoughts beyond paper. But suddenly, with the nineties upon me, and a freakish fear of global warming, I felt this uncontrollable urge to put my pen to the page and rhyme my troubles away. Next thing I knew I was writing a musical. Yeah, a musical! Now this was in the last century, a few years before the millennium. The story was centered on the idea that the messiah would return and the world would, in fact, end due to the negligence of humans. “SIN” was born. I think the time may be right to revive that project.
In the Moment 9/18/10
I’m cutting string beans for stew,
listening to music.
I am present.
I’m listening to music,
cutting string beans for stew.
I am present.
I am in the moment,
dreaming,
as if the present is all.
I am the sum of my moments.
Why forget them?
A moment of pleasure,
the product of fate,
a wish to remember.
My thoughts are sailing,
future to past,
and back,
in the moment.
I conjure a witness to the dream,
the shared fate,
only the other can corroborate.
My mind,
a dream projector.
My witness,
a projection.
Then there is Facebook.
Dropping Like Flies 9/20/10
It’s not a good feeling to plan a season and suddenly have the rug pulled right out from under you. I am sad to report that many of our scheduled events are being cancelled. Finances have forced many performers to cancel their shows. The cell has worked very hard at slowing down the process of creation. God and God Knows Who may be successful in churning out a universe in 6 days, but we, at the cell, are not quite so adept at that brand of high-octane delivery.
While it has become the rule in the community to churn out a show with limited rehearsal time, we pride ourselves on the nurturing process so necessary for the development of art as we see, hear, feel, taste, and breathe it. Evidently, stretching time is not the only problem. Most of our artists work at the kind of jobs that allow them to focus on their art. This means they struggle to make ends meet and in this economy, they struggle more. There are musicians, sets, and myriad things which all require financing in order to make a show. Many artists work to finance their own productions. It is only the minority who are lucky enough to use OPM.
People think the Arts are not a charity, believing they should give money to social services, or starving people in foreign countries, even though there are many hungry artists right here in our own New York City. Let me ask you this: Do you spend more money on products made in America or elsewhere? Which products finance the TV shows you watch? Do you know or care who sponsors what? Are we just a culture of deaf, dumb, and blind followers who never question where the money ends up once it leaves our hands?
Artists do not choose art. Art chooses artists. Mostly artists are people who struggle to make a decent living while seeking time, energy, resources, and an audience to create meaning for their lives. Our artists are cancelling because they can’t afford the time and money it takes to produce a work of art. What would your life be like without entertainment? If that isn’t social work, I don’t know what is….
How We Pray/Prey
“To pray is human, to sing is divine.” Lila Smalls
Why would people who pray prey upon others who want to pray?
There’s a hot debate going on about the building of a community center downtown. I have to admit that at any given moment, I can stand on either side of the fence. In my fearful moments, I fall prey to those perpetrators who warn us that we are not safe from an expanding Moslem world. Most of us have heard stories of people who waited too long to leave Europe because they didn’t see the writing on the wall. I get many emails that support this fear-based philosophy. On the other hand, I want to believe that the numbers of Terrorists do not comprise a threat to our freedom. Like the liberal Jews, the peace-loving, liberal Moslems among us far outweigh the fundamentalists that are the culprits who threaten our freedom.
Worship is a very personal and necessary element of human being-ness. I would argue that even atheists practice worship of nothingness. Why not allow people to pray wherever and however they are comfortable to do so? We at the cell, for example, are from different backgrounds, yet we enjoy communal reverence. Last Sunday, we gathered for our first Soul@ the cell, which we are expanding as a monthly series. The idea is to create an hour of worship through music. What, after all, is more pure and sacred than music? Music brings about a feeling of joy, peace and well being unparalleled by the sermons and mythical stories that are the fodder of human folly. According to our own Pat Jones, music lifts the vibration of the soul. I think it lifts the vibration of the universe. We can pray for peace, or we can be peaceful. Music transports us to the place for which we all pray.
ONCE A New York Story
Sometime last year, when the weather and I were agreeably warm, Alan and I went for brunch at the agreeably warm little crepe place around the corner from the (agreeably warm) cell. As is typical in these sardine can café’s, one can feel disagreeably close to one’s neighbors while dining. This brunch found us sitting next to a disagreeably cold couple…disagreeable to one another. I gave them a cursory glance and smile, noticing something distinctive and familiar about them. Too close to them to whisper to my husband, I quickly sought my blackberry and googled “Once” finding a poster of the little movie that made it big, even winning an Oscar for the theme song.
Ya, uh huh, it was them. That couple.
Meantime, the first party of the second part (Glen Hansard) excused himself while the second party of the second part (Markéta Irglová) sat teary eyed and quietly sad. All the while, the first party of the first part (me) was desperately trying to inconspicuously convey this news to the second party of the first part (Alan). I held up my blackberry to show him the poster and signaled with my eyes look at the couple next to us, mouthing “Once” to no avail.
Soon, as the imposing scruffy-bearded read-head was returning to his table, I compared his unmistakable resemblance to his tiny blackberry poster image.
Ya, uh huh, it was him, that guy.
He sat down a hair’s breadth away from me. I tilted towards him, politely shoving my blackberry in his striking face and asked, “Is this you?”
“Uh, ya, that would be us.” His Irish accent was spot on.
I then blurted out my schpiel about the cell, our intimate little performance space, and invited them to perform sometime. Then, politely, I asked him what brought them to New York City.
HE: “Oh, we’re performing here this week.”
ME: “Really. How wonderful! Where?”
HE (a superbly modest Irish brogue): “Radio City Music Hall.”
Message in a Bottle 8/15/10
This message, sent to me by my son Michael (age 21 on August 25th) is worth repeating. I would like to dedicate this week’s blog to Michael and everyone with a dream for a habitable planet. Our actions matter!
CHAIRS 8/23/10 the cell has a decision to make and we thought we’d ask for your vote. We are preparing to open our new open-air stage, which will require some new seating. We found fabulous chairs. Here’s the thing:
We were about to make a deal with an importer, but she ran short of the number of chairs we need. If we order now, we can get the balance of the order in 75 days, which is no big deal, but ya never know… The chairs come from China, and we all know about the situation for workers there. But isn’t cheap labor better than starvation?
Meantime, we found another manufacturer of almost the exact chairs, with the number we need, ready to go, ‘Made in America’ …for a significant increase in price. Now, we do like buying American. But we don’t like people in other countries to starve. We are a not-for-profit, so every penny counts. But we do feel a responsibility to our audience to do the right thing. Unfortunately, we don’t know what the right thing is. Please help us out!
Send us your vote. Your contribution would be nice, too. Donate Here!
Remember our video: CHOOSING CHAIRS
Food for Thought 8/12/10
We were sharing a long communal table at a tiny Mexican restaurant near the beach. The Mexicans came to Long Island and made good. The food used to be cheap. $1 for a taco. Prices have gone up. It cost us about $15 each for lunch. Still a bargain. It was one of those situations where eavesdropping is expected. What I overheard was not. A couple of nice young women were chowing down, while leafing through a directory for the area; The Hamptons, famous for the famous. One of the girls was reciting from the tourist guide, “Personal gourmet chef for your dog.”
I cringed. I am a dog lover with 2 dogs who eat (brace yourself) dog food. “No!” I heard my own involuntary cry, as if my dog was stealing a T-bone from under my nose. “That can’t be true.”
In a time when people are jobless – nice, decent, hard-working people are showing up at food pantries to feed their families, let alone the nice, decent homeless who have no choice. I feel utterly embarrassed and disgusted with a system that has allowed, indeed encouraged this to happen.
I an sure many (can there be many?) who treat their dogs to personal chefs also give to the hungry. But honestly…I don’t know about your dogs, but I can tell you that my dogs will eat just about any crap they can sink their teeth into. And that’s no bullshit.
