A poet came up to the open mic and told everyone he had just arrived from Los Angeles. He pulled out folded pieces of paper and began his rap on politics, life style and consumerism. The house was electrified. Many nodded in agreement and clapped enthusiastically when he finished. The poet was pleased, selected another piece of paper and recited another poem, in the same vein that dealt with the injustice, the hypocrisy, the blatant manipulations that are going on in our society. The house roared. He walked away from the mic a hero.
But the hero did not stay to be with the mass. He did not stay a minute longer to listen to the next poet. He opened the cafe door and walked out, shaking a few hands, much like a politician. If he had spoken the truth about the world, he had spoken the truth about himself.
“Round not round. Crescent not crescent. a mystical moon-rabbit resides at the center…”
A riddle? No, they are the opening lines of a Chinese poem by Su Shi (Song Dynasty). He was talking about the Moon-Rabbit tea, which were pressed into round tea-bricks and wrapped with the most delectable ribbons.
Have never heard of this Moon-Rabbit tea, which was grown in the Sichuan province. It probably doesn’t exist anymore. And tea poems! After drinking poets took tea to cure the hangover. They talked about fetching fresh water from a lake or a well, using wood that didn’t have oil or sap for a clean fire, the elegance of the tea wares, and wellness that affected the body. Calm after madness. I imagine a tender rabbit light on its feet.
Nixon in China. Photo by Tim Matheson/Vancouver Opera.
The idea was a good one—taking a major historical event and setting it to music—not just any music, but operatic music. After all, an opera could surely transform the meeting of East and West, Democracy and Communism into mythical proportion, when most of the players themselves had already achieved immortality.
Modern technology brought magic to the set, taking the audience into the air and landing on the runway in Beijing. Three and a half hours later, the audience realized they were still in the clouds as they left the opera house sour-faced and puzzled. The famous Nixon salute was greatly appreciated at the very beginning of the first act. After that, not a crackle.
As with most things, great energy is put into a work but the outcome is often less than desirable. We keep trying. For Nixon, his visit to China was a turning point in history, although not so memorable in an opera.
To be eighty-nine on the day of a full moon. To be walking without a cane. To hear giggles and laughter and loving words all around her. To stop midway descending the stairway named after her and show off her colorful socks. There ought to be a song that’s called “I Love Adah”.
She gives steady hugs to all, with champagne in one hand and flowers in the other. She wears a long white jacket that has hand-painted stairways of San Francisco. Once she asked me if I knew how many stairways there are in the city. “Eighty? A hundred?” That sounded like a lot to me. “No,” she rolled her eyes, “Over six hundred.” And she had walked them all. Her book, Stairway Walks in San Francisco, is in its 7th edition.
A child counted ninety-six steps. Another counted ninety-one. On the top of the stairway at Waller and Broderick is a bronze plaque: Adah Bakalinsky, Queen of San Francisco Stairway.
The other day I nearly stepped on a pile of dog shit. If that were to happen it certainly would not do me any good. But if the dog would do its business on the sidewalk garden just a few steps beyond, it would not be too much of a nuisance. In fact, the plants would welcome the gift.
I will never understand the complexity in bringing forth the blossoming of a flower. It’s more than just sun and water that comes the rose. The waste that one discards turning into food of another, the alchemy of living and dead things, the darkness of gestation; and the glory that manifests from all this, that brings splendor to the eye.
Sickness came quickly. In a matter of hours the body was battled down. I crawled into bed, and for two days, it was where I stayed.
Funny how everything seemed so distant and uninteresting even though the nerves were hypersensitive. The body has its own way of dealing with foreign invasions–shutting down what’s not necessary–I let it do its work.
I slept until I couldn’t sleep anymore, and bounced out of bed like a fully charged battery. The air smelled fresh, colors came back, the mind began to question all sorts of things, and food looked incredibly inviting. It was a victory, thank you. But how did “I” do it, if in fact “I” did anything? I can’t tell you a thing.
Written in the style of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, this “tale” describes Jack Foley and his favorite restaurant, Nong Thon:
Jack Foley and Al Young at Nong Thon.
The Foley’s Tale
“Yum yum,” quod Jack in his demented weye.
“Nong Thon I go!” as it wolde him purveye
a blissful meal, in cas ye care to woot,
it maketh him to daunce with merry foot.
The menu he inspecteth full greet deel,
and none escapeth his devoted zeal.
He bringeth wyf, he bringeth all his freendes
but telleth noon especially the feendes.
O Thai ice tea to sooten first the lippes.
His gat-toth wyde as with alle sippes.
Imperial rolls priketh his corage.
A bowl of beef pho is his pilgrimage.
His heer crispeth like that of squid and shrimp.
Dessert a must, or else the day lieth limp.
“Most thynges are wood and few are very holy.
But eating well is God,” seyde Mr. Foley.
*
and Jack answered,
The Foley’s Tale / With Clarion
(Two poete fowles makynge melodie!)
“Yum yum,” quod Jack in his demented weye. Ah, Clara comes to the heroic coup
“Nong Thon I go!” as it wolde him purveye Insted of balking thir, she eats it up
a blissful meal, in cas ye care to woot, She counteth syllables and maketh rhymes
it maketh him to daunce with merry foot. Hir inspiration’s hotte and gretly steams
The menu he inspecteth full greet deel, She writeth Middle English with such es
and none escapeth his devoted zeal. None wolde wiste that she was born Chinese
He bringeth wyf, he bringeth all his freendes She also liketh to go to Nong Thon
but telleth noon especially the feendes. She eateth all that is the menu on
O Thai ice tea to sooten first the lippes. She drinketh tea, she slurpeth up her pho
His gat-toth wyde as with alle sippes. (She redeth of the Wyf of Bathe also)
Imperial rolls priketh his corage. She hath gone far—though not to Walla Walla–
A bowl of beef pho is his pilgrimage. She liketh taking trippe and telling tale
His heer crispeth like that of squid and shrimp. Though Hong-Kong born, she is a pilgrim certes
Dessert a must, or else the day lieth limp. But nonethelesse enjoys hir swete dessertes
“Most thynges are wood and few are very holy. It’s rare, she saith, that I be caught in error!
But eating well is God,” seyde Mr. Foley. She is a verray parfit poet: Clara!
Sitting in the airport waiting to board a delayed flight, time moved slowly. And because of that, it created the most favorable condition to write a poem in heroic couplets. Since reading Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales in Middle English, I was challenged by Jack Foley to write a verse imitating the style.
Four hours later than originally scheduled the plane landed in Portland. I carried the luggage and my first draft out of the airport and into the light rail. Sitting opposite from me was an elderly gentleman. He was very kind and patient with me when earlier I had difficulty getting a ticket from the machine. We acknowledged each other with a smile. He opened a pocket-size book yellowed with age. I opened Chaucer, equally yellowed; and my draft, which was fresh and new. I wanted to tell him I had written a verse in heroic couplets but was too shy. He would have understood and shared my happiness.
Nothing is sweeter than having waffles for brunch. The aroma of sugar and butter, the sizzling sound as the batter cooks, the dark crispy burnt edges, the tiny squares that hold melted butter and maple syrup so well, and the slightly chewy texture when I bite down. My friend Lori has perfected her recipe, using buckwheat and tapioca flour.
On the table–blueberries, strawberries, cantaloupe, chicken and apple sausages and potato salad–all there to compliment the waffles. Sitting in her colorful kitchen, for once I’m not interested in squeezing out the secret recipe from my friend. The urge is to eat and to eat only, until not a speck is left on the plate.
Listening to Charles Ives’s Concord Sonata and reading the lives of Emerson, Hawthorne, the Alcotts and Thoreau gave insight to the movements that were named after each Transcendentalist. Emerson’s tempestuous chords brought in Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony’s fateful knocks. And, almost Biblical, after the storm came a sweet quiet. Hawthorne’s collage followed: A hymn that was sabotaged and bombarded; a whimsical circus-like melody stitched together with ever changing harmony. After the Alcotts’s tenderness and Thoreau’s subliminal evocation, the sonata vaporized before the listener.
As his music exploded on the score, Ives made me think of the expanse of the page, and how to write to the edge and fall off…
A poet came up to the open mic and told everyone he had just arrived from Los Angeles. He pulled out folded pieces of paper and began his rap on politics, life style and consumerism. The house was electrified. Many nodded in agreement and clapped enthusiastically when he finished. The poet was pleased, selected another piece of paper and recited another poem, in the same vein that dealt with the injustice, the hypocrisy, the blatant manipulations that are going on in our society. The house roared. He walked away from the mic a hero.
