to be there is not to be in a nod-to-diversity. instead, the city embraces diversity. it is true to its intention. the rainbow flags and “proud” banners and painted buildings are emblems of this good intention.
but one must be wary of emblems, of symbols, of misspoken intents. to live in today’s world is to bring a bit of doubt to the table, to ask questions, to do your homework, to be informed. for not every mission statement will stand up to scrutiny, not every symbol of goodness will survive real review. it is surprising – at best – to realize that agenda has superseded goodness and has taken your trust for a ride. beware of generalizing virtue simply because it falls under the umbrella of a symbol.
i have been immersed in places in which i placed all my faith, sans skepticism or dubiety. i have been in communities that touted their transparency, their compassion, their participation in good mission. all the while, the flags of opacity, of hidden agenda, of untruths spoken and truths unspoken, flew quietly and deliberately in, usurping any good intention that remained, driving out the hard work of community-building, of the joy of the embrace. out of alignment, were the symbols capable, the symbols would shudder.
and so, i walk into the thick of the city, sensors on. i know there are issues, problems, but i know there is attempt to address these, to ask hard questions, to communicate, to resolve any perceived conflict.
and tomorrow we will go to chicago. we’ll metra downtown and walk to boystown. there will be sooo many people. and with them, we will stand on the corner of halsted and waveland and watch our son perform on-stage outside in the rainbowed city.
to say i am overjoyed at his producing of music these days would be an understatement. his zeal is full-on and he is squeezing every last minute of every day as he works in his professional position full-time and djs edm (electronic dance music) the rest of the time.
at his condo in chicago, in his studio, he demonstrated to me how he creates. as an analog artist, it was a fascinating experience to glean this complex digital mixing of tracks, layering, feathering, a sedimentary piece of music produced with great intention. it is hard not to dance as i watch. it’s hard not to be aware of the invisible bit of baton i hold, poised to pass. and i am aware of the contagious quivering of excitement, the gift of his sharing his process, how much i understand – on a cellular, heart level – how this creating feeds him. and then…then, there’s the joy…
different genres, but i still grok how my son feels. knowing that what you are producing is resonating with someone – someones, if you will – is powerful inspiration. i won’t forget the release of my first album and, even at number fifteen years later, it was with both the same excitement and vulnerability as the first. time and study and experimenting and lessons bank courage, though, so we each keep on keeping on, growing – much like anything in life to which we give time and attention.
i’d imagine that the day my yamaha c5 was delivered into my studio felt much like the day he upgraded his decks and gear. i’d imagine the day i stood in the sitting room with the chicago radio station on – waiting – and then my music aired – the first airplay ever – feels much like his tracks being signed to major edm labels, waiting to be released. i’d imagine the applause, stepping into the apron, at the end of a piece, feels much like the exhilarated dancing and cheers of the crowds at his gigs. i get it.
you know you are merely one artist in a universe of artists. humility. relevancy. there is much to learn. for both of us. always. the arc of an artist is never really done.
we have spent nights watching our son stream from clubs. 2am is later than it used to be but it’s a thrill to watch him in his element. we’ve listened to every single track he has sent us, every idea, every gesture in whatever iteration. we’ve connected our remote speaker and played his music during our happy hour, i’ve listened with ear buds on soundcloud, spotify, iTUNES. but tomorrow…
it is with much pride we will stand and watch our son. it is with much pride that we will be surrounded by his friends and by the community. it is with much pride that we’ll dance and cheer along with the gathered crowd. it is with much pride that we celebrate pride.
one time – probably about eight years ago – we had a giant argument under this vast ceiling. giant. there are not many places to go stew when you are at olgivie – it’s the terminal chicago station for the metra we take to the city and full of people. an uncomfortable time at best, it basically forced us to look at each other, invite in a little grace and figure it out.
one time – probably last week or so – we had a tiff on the trail under the bluest-blue sky. it’s not like one can go steaming through the woods, looking for a place to sit and sulk. one has to keep moseying on, down the path. and so, seething for those moments, we linked arms – as is our custom – kept walking, invited in a little grace, figured it out.
one time – ten years ago now – under the dropped ceiling of o’hare’s gate f8 – having both just flown in from different places in the country to meet there – david got down on one knee. never-minding the zillions of people walking by, pulling luggage, toting backpacks, crying children, coffee spilling, overhead flight announcements, we started the next part of our journey together – already in grace, already figuring it out.
when we go to chicago, we either drive the backroads or take the train down. we never drive the interstate there. it’s just too much – too frenetic, too rushed, too busy. we both feel that part of getting there IS the getting-there.
so that must translate to relationships as well. part of getting there IS the getting-there. and that includes the tough moments as well as the really easy ones. it includes the times when you are “ucky” (as the guy at the oyster bar said the other night) to each other and the times when you are generous. it includes the times you wonder what you’re doing and the times tears of gratitude rush to your eyes. it includes the times you know very well that your best-neighbors-to-the-west know you are arguing and the times that people-you-don’t-know stop you to tell you they love watching you wander the neighborhood arm in arm. all of it.
the architectural ceiling of ogilvie makes me smile. though we don’t live in chicago, the many times we have exited metra into the station have given us easy time downtown. the getting-there was simple – sit on the train and watch the outside woosh by. and each time we exit onto the platform and head into the atrium of the station, every moment we’ve spent there suspends from the high rafters. the good ones and the rare-but-admittedly-not-so-good ones.
and then we walk out into the day, under expansive sky, arm-in-arm, and get about getting to the next.
in 1971 he came up with it: “rural folk piano”. uncluttered, melodic, uncomplicated, “inspired by the seasons and the topographies and regions, and, occasionally, by sociological elements” – a reflection of where he was at. we – solo pianists and composers – owe george winston a debt of gratitude. he has just died, in the last days, but the impact of his work will continue to reverberate through speakers and earbuds and, significantly, through the works of those of us who have followed him.
i chatted briefly with george once. it was after one of his concerts early in my recording career and i can’t remember if he had put his shoes back on. he doesn’t speak much in concert; he lets his melodies do that for him. they are profuse and intelligent and articulate, always evocative. but just like some might think that they know everything i am thinking or feeling because of this blog or my music, a listener might think they know everything george was thinking or feeling because of his music. i’m guessing for george, but think neither is truly the case, entirely. blogs and music compositions, words and notes can certainly disclose some of the soul, but i suspect that, just as is true for me, the complete autobiography is not found in completion there – it is also found in the reflections all around us.
there are few people – instrumental aficionados, especially – who have not listened to george winston’s 1982 release “december”. it is exquisite. it went triple platinum and was on the billboard 200 for 136 weeks. his work – a plethora of gorgeous albums – gave serious credence to melodic solo piano and set the stage for a next set of composers – those of us writing emotional piano pieces, some solo, some with orchestration – and the subsequent contemporary radio airplay that ensued. by the time i wrote my fourth album, a/c airplay was possible and – for that purpose – pieces were kept under 4 minutes, and, even, closer to 3:30.
the reflections in the building across the river are entrancing. black on cobalt, it’s all a curiosity.
the reflection of those-who-have-come-before-us reveals in our own zeal to create, to speak, to have voice. artistry.
it is with gratitude and a deep appreciation for his wizardry that i thank george winston. his star will always shine with brilliance and his legacy will resonate throughout the ages.
it was a cacophony of sound in the restaurant. so.many.people. but it’s chicago and it’s summertime and it was a beautiful night and a trendy 7pm dinner hour, so it’s to be expected. we leaned in to hear our daughter speak and figured most eateries at that hour would be similar. i’d imagine that the frequency decibels would be all over the place and that any recording of the ambient sound would have to be compressed in mastering to accommodate the full spectrum, most especially the louds, the gain between quiet dinner and boisterous restaurant.
i’ve looked over the shoulder of my producer probably hundreds of times, watching the waveform of my music. reducing sound and hours of composing to crisp contrails, manipulating them, editing, mixing, ultimately mastering – it’s complexity, the telling of narrative, an artform in itself.
i would imagine that – somewhere – there is one colossal frequency wave. it started when all-time started and it keeps going. it builds and wanes and layers all manners of sound – the roaring ocean, a tiny peeper frog, a destructive tornado, a baby’s first cry. it mixes piano and the gentle ding of a triangle, cymbal washes and sweeping cello lines. it wraps in first graders singing in denver and the country artist on the flatbed in nashville and the happy guy in the shower in fort wayne. it expands with the din of the city and gets tiny under northern lights and the milky way. it soars over countries, soaking up rich sounds of tradition and ritual, vernacular music.
and then, the frequency wave – giant, unending, inclusive of all sound – is distilled by the wind. it becomes a bit less distinct, its edges are less rigid. particles break off and float, and, though they remain in the atmosphere a long while, they begin to fade, eventually fading as if to zero.
but just as the wave feathers on one end, it grows on the other, pushing forward. and all things continue. all sounds have a place in the wave.
and we listen to live music and the birds at 4am. and we listen to the voices of beloveds and mournful foghorns. and we listen to laughter and sighs. and we listen to the rain and the silence of sunrise. and we listen to harmony and dissonance and cacophony.
we went back to the beach. it was only our third time there but it’s beginning to feel familiar. we know the driftwood to lean back against, the curve in the shoreline where the waves break. the sand is warm, the breeze off the lake is cool; it’s a perfect combination and we’ve brought sandwiches along. we walk with our heads down, searching for hagstones and beach glass. it’s a sanctuary minus the trappings – physical and emotional – one often finds in buildings with sanctuaries.
each rock is intriguing. there are infinite shapes and sizes, rocks of all imagination. i pick up more than i tuck away, but i appreciate the spectrum of diversity and i wonder where they have been before they arrived on this lake michigan shoreline. what’s the story behind each stone, behind the tiny bits of glass, behind the wave-beaten-smooth pieces of brick. each narrative counts.
we brought a book but we didn’t read it. we hadn’t started it yet. we do that later in the day. rebecca makkai’s “the great believers” – a good read for pride month, a profound novel highlighting the aids crisis starting early to mid 1980s. there are places familiar to us in this book – chicago, boystown, door county – we find it easy to immerse as we read aloud. we are transported in time – back to those days of early recognition of this dreadful viral infection. human immunodeficiency virus has not ceased and there are still millions of people with life-threatening and chronic symptoms. there are stories familiar to us in this book – for we are both artists and we both finished our undergrad work in the early 80s. there are people familiar to us in this book – though these are characters, in life they have been our friends and, now, they are the friends of our son, the tight-knit unconditionally-loving LGBTQ community. they are all treasured and unique hagstones and beachglass – gorgeous in human form.
the stash of rocks ended up on the dining room table, all fanned out on its worn surface. they are glorious bits of a stunning day. the stone that looked like a guitar pick with a feather beret cap stayed on the beach. i took it home in my camera instead.
we have plans for the next time. more snacks. maybe swimwear.
we have plans for pride in chicago. more compassion. maybe tie-dye.
we are merely two people walking on a vast beach, among zillions of beautiful rocks of all sorts, zillions of people of all sorts. it’s all familiar. it’s all unfamiliar. but it’s all a sanctuary under one sun.
and after we got off the train we walked in the brisk wind off the lake to the chicago auditorium. a stunningly beautiful landmark theatre, it was established in 1889, around the time my grandparents were born. the arches and tile floor and gilding tell over a century of stories. a joy to be in such an old house.
the first national geographic live event we went to was in breckenridge, colorado. the cinematographer and extreme adventurer bryan smith had breathtaking footage descending over waterfalls and climbing mountains. we sat next to the guy who owned the scrumptious soup shop in town (the one to which we quickly became addicted) and ooh-ed and ahh-ed in unison. we were hooked.
david doubilet and jennifer hayes were the speakers at this event – coral kingdom and empires of ice – and to watch the photographic essay of their work was to marvel at the life this 24/7-together-married-couple live. multiple times they encouraged people to contact them, to ask questions or ask for help. brilliant change-agent scientists. generosity and humility.
as two people who are together 24/7 we know the perils of such togetherness. artists have a wiiiiide spectrum of emotions and this can be detrimental at times, so i wondered about two explorers. david and jennifer poked fun at each other while honoring each other’s work; the dance seemed balanced. working with your life partner requires a good sense of humor and a good life raft. sometimes, getting in the river on the rapids is the only way forward. that and laughter.
the hardest time we ever had working on a project was during our rehearsals for the lost boy. a two person play written by david and inspired by his mentor tom’s family history, we were preparing it for the premier performance on stage in california. prepping was a little like two pieces of sandpaper rubbing together. the rough kind. not the fine sandpaper you use for finishing work. nope. the roughest sandy sandpaper you could pretty much find. somehow, and i’m not sure how, we made it through the memorization, the blocking, the nuances and weeks of rehearsing onto the plane to california. and mike – our director – took it from there.
at the end of the first performance we jumped and danced in the hallway, twirling around in the aftermath glee of success. i imagine this to be much like david and jennifer having made it back to the surface after sharing oceanic waters with sharks and crocodiles. the time when david – in the minutes of giant jaws within inches of jennifer – took photographs. i’m thinking they likely danced in the boat. in the category of 24/7 moments, some are better than others. they didn’t mention the “whatthehellwereyouTHINKING?!!” moments. but you know they’re there. we can attest to them.
i can imagine – one of these days – subscribing to natgeo live. there are usually three or four events a season and, in combination with the magazine that arrives every month and the tv channel we mostly land on, they would round out these opportunities to keep learning.
my sweet poppo received national geographic magazine for as long as i can remember. he’d immerse in it. just like my newer intense desire to know all the birds – like my parents – i find myself holding national geographic in high regard. my dad would have loved being in the same room as all of these explorers, sharing their adventures and discoveries. his wall-to-wall bookshelf of yellow magazine spines all lined up would vouch for that.
on the side of the willis tower – downtown chicago – is affixed the atmospheric wave wall. created by the same artist whose rainbow bridgewe loved at the milwaukee art museum, olafur eliasson’s piece is striking and imbues the colors of the lakefront – sky, clouds, water in all its moods.
in speaking about his piece, olafur – also a climate and community activist – says, “what we see depends on our point of view: understanding this is an important step toward realizing that we can change reality. it is my hope that this subtle intervention can make a positive contribution to the building and to the local community by reflecting the complex activity all around us, the invisible interactions and minute fluctuations that make up our shared public space.”
the steel catches the light of the sun. the piece seemingly shifts with the movements of everything around it, with time as time passes.
we have not yet seen it at night – lit from behind – but i imagine it is stunning – with light escaping from the intersection of the colored tiles. the places of light: in-between.
just as weird as it was to sit on the train it was equally with wonder to move freely about in the city – after all this time and so much that has happened in our country – sans innocence. it is with a bit of heightened awareness we move in the world now, though i don’t suppose heightened awareness helped any of the victims of the latest violent rages at the hands of angry out-of-control people. it is impossible to figure out why the wrong front door or the wrong driveway or the wrong ask-of-a-neighbor could elicit such unconscionably brutal responses.
we were driving to the grocery store. we took the route we usually take, a side street. two-thirds of the way down this road – before the traffic light – our attention was driven to a guy on the sidewalk, staring at us. brandishing something – we don’t know what – he flailed his arm around, pointing to the sidewalk, swinging, pointing, staring at us.
pre-whatever-phase-one-would-call-the-phase-that-this-country-is-in we probably wouldn’t have thought twice. we might have wondered what he was doing, might have wondered why he stared at us, might have pondered what he was brandishing. but we wouldn’t have been entirely creeped out and we wouldn’t have planned a different route home and, perhaps, a different route to our store for the continuing future. it felt like the place between was unsafe. and i find that devastatingly sad.
we live in a normal midwest town. only – i guess – not so much. our town is now known – in these last years of the more-unsafe-phase – for a plethora of events that have no light in-between. our small city is as broken as every other small city, as every other big city.
were there to be a wall of art to represent this phase of our world what colors would it be?
in his rush to get one of the coveted front spots at costco, the guy in the infinity cut me off in the parking lot. i parked in a different row, but watched as he got out of his car. he bent down and pulled out some kind of revolver, tucking it into the back waistband of his pants. then he walked into the store.
i must say – i haven’t ever felt a need to protect myself in costco. maybe from overspending, but never from violence. it was disturbing – almost to the point of turning around and going home – to know this guy was walking around – maybe getting a rotisserie chicken or ribs or a bottle of wine or eddie-bauer-sweats or glucosamine-in-bulk – with some big handgun in his pants. i told d about my reticence to go into the store.
we have a code word for anytime we are in a situation that suddenly feels unsafe. post-parade-massacres, post-grocery-store-shootings, post-concert-devastation, post-festival-tragedies, post-school-maulings – post-all-of-it and in the middle of all of it – we know to drop everything and get out or get away if either of us senses danger. no questions asked. no lingering. just go.
it is without light in-between that this country has come to this point. the intersections of peoples and genders and ethnicities and belief systems and economic statuses and, apparently, any differences whatsoever, seem to have no light. they are not backlit nor are they reflective of the sun streaming over this land.
“our shared public space.” shared. from sea to shining sea.
how do we create the invisible interactions and minute fluctuations of a safe shared public space? how – in a country that seems to have insidious anger and no shortage of violence – do we find the light in-between us? because “we can change reality”.
if my photos are correct, the last time we were on metra – heading to chicago – was december 15, 2019.
and then, last week. over and over i said, “i can’t believe we’re on the train.”
we used to go on the train quite often…jaunting down to see our son, to catch dinner with him, to simply walk around downtown, to see holiday lights. we really live in a convenient place…pretty much midway between milwaukee and chicago with a hop-skip-jump to madison. each of these cities are within less than a two hour radius. but it didn’t matter during covid. we stayed away.
on the train with dear friends, we talked about the arc of the last three plus years. how 2020 was a watershed into the next, how impacted we all were by the pandemic, how the recovery phase has been slow. and we marveled at sitting on the train together, chatting with our seats facing each other, laughing, having a picnic lunch, taking the easy route to chicago. it was – truly – marvelous.
we don’t mind driving to chicago. we always take the back roads and enjoy the little towns and ravines along the way. it’s not that we are completely interstate-averse, but if there’s a back way and we can plan some extra time, we are going to opt for it. with a tiny bit more control of our schedule, we also felt a little more control of our airspace.
so we had virtually forgotten about the train. until last week.
our first-time-back on-board was kind of magical. much of the route goes along the back road, so new perspectives as we chugged past the towns we love to drive through. it made us all a little dreamy – so many possibilities of things to do together – simply by taking the train.
saturdays and sundays and holidays offer $7 weekend passes and weekdays – on an app – offer $10 full day passes throughout all the zones metra travels. the new ventra app makes it all easy. “easypeasy” as 20 says. i imagine we’ll be using that eataly giftcard we were given one of these days. it’s been tucked into a cupboard, waiting for some time now.
like us. we’ve been waiting. to move back into the world. it’s not like we haven’t moved about. not as much adventuring up to now as most, but we have roadtripped to see our kids, our family, have shared time with closest friends. but we can feel the difference now. we can feel the tug of concerts, the pull of town hall type talks, the visceral tapping on our shoulder of travel and experiences.
it was weird to sit on the train – after all this time – sans mask. there were a few moments i thought about it, a little wary, because the pandemic has left its mark on me. it’s left its mark on all of us. i don’t suppose there will be a time now that my purse won’t have a KN95 in it. and hand sanitizer. i definitely see the wisdom of sanitizer.
we exited metra at our northbound station, tired from the day but not in an exhausted way. a little bit had changed.
and we felt it. we talked it about it later.
life – and breathing a little bit easier – inviting us. on a tiny and a grand scale, both.
i hadn’t thought of it in those terms before. but – suddenly – it was just as obvious an interruption to me as night is to day.
resilience is a support organization in chicago – “empowering survivors ending sexual violence” is their byline. their presence is powerful, necessary, moving survivors forward in healing and advocacy, providing education and empathy. there was nothing like that on long island in 1978.
my life was forever interrupted. and i just realized that. because – back in 1978 – i filed it all away – all the trauma, all the grief, all the stripping of innocence, all the betrayal – i placed it on a shelf in my heart i didn’t want to access, a place i didn’t want to go. no one really talked about it. i moved on.
only i didn’t.
the night-that-turned-my-day-dark wrapped itself around me and, in all likelihood, affected every single decision – good and bad – that i made from that day forward. it acted like a filter – like the kind you screw onto the front of a 35mm camera lens, coloring every scene in the aperture, every experience in life. just as in so many of these stories, no one was made to take responsibility for this act of life-interruption, for the thing that would skew everything in my heart. i was nineteen and he was free. he still is.
there are defining moments in our lives that lay down a blanket of circumstance, that wound in all directions. sexual violence is one of those.
even now – 45 years later – though i cannot dredge up all the minute details as they seem locked up on that shelf – i can feel the interruption of my life – the unmooring – the visceral line of before and after.
the sun is setting through the trees and i suddenly see clearly through the woods, without underbrush. i can feel the night fall.
the thing that has helped is that 45 years has granted me people who have been there, who have held me in grace despite it all, who have loved me even as i – at times – flailed.
i wouldn’t hope for anyone to experience the pain of sexual violence of any sort. but, because women are insanely statistically likely to be victimized and betrayed in this way, i would hope for their resilient spirits and bodies to see the enormous life interruption for what it is and to rise in the sun the next day – surviving – accessing hope, surrounded by loving support, empowered.
reverse threading 