Clarion Music Center

Farewell, Bill

lunation5 — After a reading at Santa Clara University, with Bill Mercer and David Wong. Bill’s paintings on the back.

Maybe he is Buddha. But for seven years Bill Mercer was in flesh and blood. It couldn’t have been a dream. We read poetry and accompanied each other with musical instruments for as long as we’ve known each other. Tonight I heard he left his apartment keys to another friend and took off in his van to Louisiana, where he came from.

Without a goodbye Bill disappears into the mist. Seven years ago he appeared at my shop, picked up one of the shakuhachis on display and filled the room with breathy and unharnessed sound. Bill became a regular customer at my world music concert series and we bumped into each other at Sacred Grounds’ poetry reading.

A constant friend and poetry partner, we read all over the Bay Area as Lunation. Bill cared for my cats while I was away. Up to two weeks ago he was helping me to take care of my aging father.

His brush paintings hang on my walls, somehow I know Bill won’t been back for a long time. Steve Mackin called him “Buddha of the Bayou”. There is something mystical about the number 7.

Who Bought My Book?

Clarion carries copies of “Mystique”, my book of poems. I’m always curious when I notice a copy is missing from the shelf. First thought: someone stole it (which has happened before). But when it is clear that there was a transaction, I always want to know about the customer.

Lu, the owner, told me one day: “This guy walked in looking for instruments but ended up buying your book.”

I pressed him. “Tell me more.”

“He kept saying ‘beautiful, beautiful’ and asked me who was the poet.”

“What did you say to him?”

Lu laughed. “How should I know how to describe a poet? I told him she’s downstairs teaching piano.”

“Who was this man, then?” I imagined the man leafing through the pages of my book. Which poems did he read? Which ones did he like?

“He said he’s Italian… how should I describe an Italian?” He scratched his head, “eh, a funny guy.”

What Price is Sound?

Two women walked into Clarion as I was waiting for my piano student to arrive. They played the collection of singing bowls, finger cymbals and shook all the sound makers that could be shaken. One of the women was entranced by the overtones of the Tibetan tingsha cymbals and decided to test all of them. She found a pair that she loved and proceeded to pay for them.

“It’s thirty-five dollars.” Jien the owner rang up the sale.

“Oh, that’s too much. I’m sorry but I wasn’t prepared to spend that much on a set of cymbals.” The woman said.

Her companion was shocked. “If you really like it…”. But the woman was adamant about her decision and she escaped with her purse tightly zipped.

Retail! Jien and I looked at each other with bemusement. Down at Union Square people don’t give a thought spending money on clothing and shoes and toys and cosmetics. But what price is sound, especially the one that makes you stop and listen and wonder?

Jewel In The Haystack

After a reading at Sacred Grounds, Dan Brady and I took the N Judah to Irving to catch the 44 bus. We were talking about poetry when a Chinese man (about our age) looked up from his reading and smiled at me.

“Hello.” He said. “You work at Clarion. I work at The Pot Sticker down Waverly, remember?”

Sometimes it was hard for me to recognize people when they appear out of context. But I realized he was the waiter who took my take-out orders.

“My name is David. You go to poetry readings? I like poetry too.”

David spoke very good English. I told him we used to have poetry open mikes at Clarion. I would have invited him if I had known.

“What are you reading, David?” He showed me the cover of his book. It was Carl Jung. I was blown away. All the years I worked in Chinatown I had not met one person who had the slightest interest in poetry, psychology or philosophy. David and I could have been great friends. I told him I had sold Clarion. He too, looked disappointed.

I had too many questions but we were approaching our stop.

“Come to the reading at Sacred Grounds.” Dan and I urged him. He couldn’t. He had dinner shift on Wednesdays.

I saw David again some months later, at Eric’s, another Chinese restaurant on Church Street. He was a little distant when he saw me, and because he was working, we couldn’t talk too much. The last time I went to the restaurant, he had stopped working there.

Shaman and Jumping Rice

Hmong International New Year 014 — Shaman with new gong and family. Hmong International New Year 2003, Fresno

When the H’mongs enter Clarion Music Center they go straight to the back where gongs are hung on the walls. They carry a soft mallet and a plastic bowl. A piece of paper with a small hole in the center is held over the bowl by a rubber band. The H’mongs are small in height, sturdy and seasoned by the sun. Most of them work in the farms in Fresno.

They select the gongs with bent edges as if they have been crushed by force. The bowl is placed on a small stool. One man takes a few grains of rice out of his pants pocket and carefully puts them near the hole in the center.

The gong is played one at the time. The H’mongs watch the bowl intently. When there is little activities on the surface of the bowl another gong is selected. They play until the magic begins, when the rice start vibrating and moving toward the hole, then falling into it one by one. The H’mongs are pleased, speak among themselves. When they see me watching they give me a big smile and thumbs up at the gong.

These men are shamans. The gongs are used for healing purpose. Many years ago they came to Clarion in search of their lost gongs. Unable to find their own type of gong they had to buy what the shop carried. Only after many years when one old shaman had enough confidence and courage to share the gong that he brought over from Vietnam was Clarion able to go to China and found a maker to replicate it. Now when the H’mongs come in they try the gongs out like shoppers for new clothes. Sometimes a whole afternoon is spent in finding the right one.

I spent three days in Fresno in 2003 selling the H’mong gongs and participating in the Hmong New Year celebration. It always happen during the week after Christmas and before New Year.

The Shakuhachi Man

My poetry partner Bill Mercer and I have a duo called “Lunation”. Aside from being a poet, Bill plays the shakuhachi, a Japanese bamboo flute. When I first heard him play I was still running Clarion Music Center. I was struck by his sound–free–was the only word I could use to describe it. You can’t plot his notes because there is no scale. You can’t define them because there is no meter. You can’t confine them because there is no rhythm. He plays by how his great body and mind feel. His music is like the cosmos, infinite and mysterious.

We practice regularly before a performance. The challenge for me is to harness his freedom so that my verse and his music may come together and not be entangled. After five years we are beginning to tap into each other’s psyche. He understands my needs if I can verbalize them. There are moments in our practices and performances that are exquisite and heavenly but they will never be repeated. Only a memory remains, but indescribable.