Who hasn’t been there? Staring down a smoking joint in an outstretched hand, a cliff overlooking a river, another shot of tequila.
And there I stood on that precipice between known safety and the unknown chasm of euphoria or disaster. The classic internal dialogue was racing.
“Go ahead, just this once…”
“No! You know better. Resist like you have so many times before!”
“Come on, a little can’t hurt…”
“Stay strong! Or else you’ll pay tomorrow morning.”
“You’re in Athens, you just saw the Acropolis. Come on, you’ve got every reason to party. Everyone else is doing it…”
It was futile even pretending to resist any longer. I was bought and sold the minute I stepped through the door, a lamb led bashfully but perfectly willingly to the slaughter.
My drug of choice? Not heroin, Vicodin, OxyContin, or adrenaline; I’d be tripping on something else altogether: Dairy--that comrade to many, scourge to me which adds such richness, such depth to its tantalizing palette. That patron saint of foods, so beloved and benevolent towards the masses, who violently rejects and punishes every gesture of kindness, every offering of friendship I stretch forth leaving me crippled and helpless, singling me out and shielding its forbidden fruit for the select many.
Fried calamari. Fresh. My own eyes had seen just that morning from the steps of the Parthenon the sea from which it had been plundered. Crispy at first, the savory fried batter (no doubt liberally laced with butter) pitted against tangy lemon juice exploded onto the palate before slowly receding, giving way to the totally satisfying meaty flavor and texture of the flesh itself, just enough body to chew but never chewy. Absolutely divine.
Saghanaki. A Greek Cheese that looks like toast and is served like a pie. At first it seemed like some kind of subtle cake or kisch. But just as the swallow was enacted my mouth was suddenly and completely overpowered by the sharpest and most profound cheese-induced euphoria it had experienced in years.
Pita Kebob. Rich tzatziki sauce spiked with large quantities of yogurt playing beautifully off of lamb, tomato, pepper, onions, and the most delightful pita I could ever remember: thick, light, flavorful, a food of the gods.
I was completely trashed beyond coherence, a dairy junkie whose life outside of his drug had faded from memory and wasted completely into nonexistence.
The inevitable hangover will follow. But I will accept my fate with dignity.
The juxtaposition is jarring: totally distinct and completely incompatible images flung together in a strange pastiche transcending time and place. Sometimes it’s east side L.A., murals of graffiti sprawling across every conceivable ledge, wall, door, or window. Sometimes it's an old-world main street, winding rows of quaint shops housing their keepers upstairs, vendors wandering the marble sidewalks in search of someone who will buy a rose, a whistle, a balloon. Sometimes it borders on the third world: dark narrow alleyways hiding who knows who or what, stray dogs roaming aimlessly or lazily curled up in a corner. The architecture can’t seem to make up its mind just how old it wants to be, the ruins of some archaic temple neighboring houses built 2 thousand years later. Yet somehow a noble serenity pervades this ancient city in spite of careening traffic and political uproar. And as I walk, stop, run, change directions, walk again, turn around in these narrow dingy streets--crowded at first, but soon deserted as a few drops turns to light drizzle turns to rain--I can’t help but periodically glance at the brilliantly lit Parthenon on the nearby hilltop just to make sure it’s really there.
What a pleasant surprise to discover that, on the very same day when Grishma and I had planned on visiting the Tate Modern, another highly esteemed colleague and artistic peer, Kieran, would be in town and eager to share this aesthetic journey! And so we embarked together into this world of artistic expression, setting sail with no premonition of where the waves would lead. As we drifted among the rooms and galleries I couldn’t help feel a profound connection with the tormented spirits which had poured their very souls into these masterpieces.
Take for instance, “Round Bar of Weed”:
Who can gaze upon this stack of colored bands resting precariously against the wall and not immediately realize they are in fact staring at a reflection of themself? Just as this bar leans precariously against the wall, only a slight nudge in either direction away from oblivion, so we at our most tenuous moments find ourselves teetering between suicide on one side and madness other, helplessly grasping for our sanity without any ledge or foothold to cling to.
Or how about this:
Who can gaze upon this piece of treated glass mounted upon the wall and not immediately realize they are in fact staring at a reflection of themself? And not self-consciously reflect that they are but a mere product of genetics and environment, that there is nothing about them which they can claim as their own, nothing that is not but a reflection of the physical realm which binds them?
So bold, so provocative is this politically charged piece which sends a terse message to our world leaders by clearly illustrating how shaky the foundation for their regimes truly is! The installation of a copy in every world and local capital would surely be a quick way to ensure efficient, effective, accountable political systems.
Upon catching sight of this next piece, Kieran broke into tears:
“This is me!” she choked out between sobs. “This is my apartment when I don’t do laundry!” Grishma and I respectfully paused and bowed our heads for a moment of silence as Kieran recovered her composure in what was truly a beautiful moment of self-confrontation and reconciliation.
It is this piece, however, which speaks most profoundly to the human condition:
Underneath the cocoon of social, political, professional facades behind which we hide our true selves, aren’t we all really just a misshapen piece of white paper stuck to a beige wall?
It was born quietly out of nothing. The room was black, lit only by a dull red glow at each table and spotlights on the empty stage. One man entered, casually slung an electric bass over his shoulder, played four notes, and stopped. And waited. And played them again. Another man entered with a cymbal in his arms. Four notes again. The cymbal was fixed to the drum set. Four notes again. Another entrance. Four notes. Hits from the drum set. Four notes. A fourth man entered, sat at the piano, and the band exploded into a heavy groove: bass churning, drums sizzling, piano shifting between harmonic shades as the front man alternated between manipulating his voice into a grinding electronic whine through a synthesizer and soaring above the cacophony on the reedy tone of his saxophone.
Amorphous, never stagnant, always fresh in its chameleon-like shifts between colors and textures. The drums and piano drift to double-time and back as the bass remains constant; the drums disintegrate into a totally incompatible tempo to which the bass and piano refuse to yield and they rip against each other like twisting steel until the drums suddenly snap back up to speed or the entire groove dissolves into a totally new landscape. Like the tide, the music comes in waves: first the lone bass, then suddenly the full force of all four musicians, then three draw back leaving the piano marooned, and some join and others drop out forming impromptu solos, duets, trios, quartet. Like a long conversation, as one musician drifts into a tangent the others effortlessly follow until an entirely new song has taken form and the original idea is not be revisited for a moment, an eternity, or ever.
No words are spoken, no introductions or explanations except the musicians’ names over a pounding beat before the final crescendo in the last moments. The first note is the start of an invisible journey, of the familiar presented unexpectedly and the unfamiliar synthesized in the moment, through scenes urban, country, tropical; of loneliness, romance, anguish, triumph.
And then, as unexpectedly as it began, it faded away never to exist again and the audience applauded and left and I truly felt I had witnessed the birth, life, and death of a man.
Robert Glasper (Piano), Chris Dave (Drums), Derrick Hodge (Bass), Casey Benjamin (vocoder/keytar)
The ancient grey stone buildings, pillars lining the walls, arches circumscribing the doors, stone work adorning each window, reposed contemplatively above the bustling street below which moved far too quickly to consider anything except where it was headed and the quickest way there. Inside a café on one street corner I sat at a countertop overlooking the street, my companion and I intoxicated on the scenery, the food, and the conversation.
“Sorry, I have no idea what that is.”
“Well I never took it cause I stopped at calculus, but basically the idea is someone does a problem and you can agree or disagree with it. And the numbers don’t even matter anymore, you could use any numbers, any symbols. I’d heard of literature being compared to math but this is math that’s like literature.”
“Wait, how does that work?”
“Well you have a set of premises and you do a problem based off them but if someone disagrees with your principles than they can just say ‘I disagree’ and why.”
“Almost like philosophy.”
“Yeah, and I mean after he showed this to me I spent an entire week just in absolute shock. I mean, i have a very mathematical mind even though I’m not studying math, my mind works mathematically, I like to put things in neat categories so they add up and make sense and I just couldn’t believe that even in math, the one thing that was invented to make sense of the world, when you go deep enough into it you just don’t know. I mean that really bothers me. I just want to know something for sure.”
“Sounds to me like you need to find yourself a good religion.”
“No, that wouldn’t work, I’d still just question everything the whole time.”
“No, no, the whole idea is not to do that, to acknowledge we can’t know everything but the divine does and while we can’t ever understand it, we can rest assured and take comfort that the divine does.”
“Isn’t that weird, though? That humans invent something to understand what we can’t understand? So that something will understand it?”
“But did they invent it? How do you know that?”
“Ha, I guess I don’t. That’s just the way it would seem from what I’ve seen.”
“And we worship this thing because it understands everything that we cannot.”
“How about you? You seem like the kind of person that’s OK with not knowing everything.”
“Yeah I guess so…I mean, not to say I don’t have my moments now and then, but I’m working on trying to be ok with acknowledging that I don’t know everything and working from there rather than trying to pretend I do. Though I still try to figure stuff out. Take our arguments about art. While we’re going back and forth I’m genuinely trying to piece together what exactly art is and how it functions. I find a lot of times I explain my views on art and music to people and afterwards I don’t like what I said, I think that’s not what art is, I didn’t capture it, I misrepresented it. Say, I ever tell you about the jazz sax teacher at ASU, Bryon?”
“No…I only know the one who leads the Latin band.”
“No no, that’s Dom. Bryon, he’s an interesting guy, I really like him. I took jazz theory with him last semester. Get this, The class starts at 6:20 at night and we’re all in there and he comes in and he says to the class with a totally straight face 'Good morning' and we’re all thinking ‘what? It’s at night!’ And then he just sits there. and waits. And stares at us. And waits. And sits. And stares. And the silence seem to drag on for hours you know, we’re all totally uncomfortable and he’s just sitting there nonchalant, like whatev. And finally, after an eternity he goes ‘I always like to start the semester with an awkward silence.’ And we’re just like ‘is this guy crazy or what?’ Man I love that guy. Tell you what, first day of class and we’re going over the syllabus and he gets to supplies and he pulls out a pencil and his voice gets all nostalgic and he’s like ‘See this pencil? This is a fine pencil. This is a Dixon Ticonderoga. The lead is silky smooth, the wood shaves off so cleanly every time, the eraser never leaves a smudge…’ and he’s going on and on about this pencil, having people try it out and everything, and we’re just like ‘Is this guy for real? I thought this was jazz theory?’ But anyways, I digress, I went into Bryon’s office hours one time to talk about an arrangement and he asks me about being an English major and if that has anything to do with jazz and pretty soon he’s asking me what book I like and why and another and another, and pretty soon I somehow get into my views on art and literature and music and all this grand stuff and at the end of it all I turn to him, this saxophone player I admire so much, and I ask ‘What’s your philosophy on art?’ and he says ‘I don’t have one. I just do it.’ I was shocked. But I’m wondering if I’ll come to the same conclusion, if art isn’t something we can explain and fully understand.
“Or maybe he knows but he wants you to figure it our on your own.”
“Could be…I guess I wonder if in trying to figure out what art is we actually taint the act of making art by making it too self conscious? I mean once we set up expectations then we start to try to meet them and doesn’t that make it contrived in a way? Maybe we just need to say we’ll never understand it.”
“Ah…but I’ll never be satisfied with that.”
“Say you wanna try some of this pasta? It’s al dente, just perfect…”
The library demanded a smoking jacked and a pipe. An aristocratic British accent, a leather chair, and a glass of wine at 3 grand a bottle. The dark wood cabinets lining the room stretched to the ornate ceiling, filled with countless leather bound, gold-lettered volumes spanning the spectrum of disciplines. But, locked safely behind panes of glass, I could only gaze as they mocked me, a middle-class American cultural philistine in their eyes. What I wouldn’t give, how thrilled It would be to crack open a few and bathe in the ceaseless flow of words. Look at these titles:
What even is “Miscellany” anyways? Needless to say, a new life goal for me is to write a book with “Miscellany” in the title.
Was it merely an extraordinary coincidence when these three extraordinary W’s--Warburton, Walsh, and Whitelaw--joined forces to write a grand history of Dublin? I think not, nothing but fate could come up with such a combination.
I would be interested to read these 18th or 19th century British commentaries on the United States Constitution. Too bad I’m not rich or influential enough to have access to this library.
But, of course, as an avid reader, writer, and lover of memoir, it was this book which stood out to me as the most tantalizing find in the library.
How many hours I’ve spent hidden away in some secret closet or attic wondering, yearning to just get a glimpse into the secret and intriguing life of wool—now I could finally find out but no! Alas! Memoirs of Wool, that holy grail, inches away from my fingertips, and it might as well be a million miles away! Dejected and rejected, I hung my head in defeat and left in silence.
Pick two of your favorite late-60s rock stars--Jimi Hendrix and Janice Joplin, Jim Morrison and Grace Slick--touring nonstop and playing in dives trying to stay ahead of the bills, just got to London for a big gig. They mount tiled steps and stumble into the tiny lobby of a dingy hostel squeezed in among a row of imposing hotels. The man behind the desk, bleached mullet and cockney accent, produces the key to their room, and, weighed to the ground with instruments cases and baggage, they begin the 6 storey ascent up a steep narrow staircase lined with mirrors, metal panels, and the occasional psychedelic mural or window; passing countless numbered doors jammed in seemingly every cranny, some cracked open to reveal a gypsy-like band tripping on who knows what or a man and a woman harmonizing softly to his acoustic guitar, others closed but unable to contain the ruckus of drugs, sex, and rock’n’roll.
THAT’S the hostel we’re staying at. Well I mean, minus the 60’s rock stars, gypsy-like band, man and woman harmonizing to his guitar, and the drugs, sex, and rock’n’roll. But still, it's pretty sweet.
I landed in London at approximately noon and was ecstatic to discover outside of customs one of my dear friends Grishma, perhaps a bit travel weary but decked out in the baddest plum--you heard correctly--jeans you've ever seen. If you're feeling any pangs of jealousy about the jeans I assure you my envy is far greater. Soon we were on our way into that great city to tread the very same soil which Pip, Jude (the obscure), and countless other literary heroes have (fictionally) trodden. As we walked the fabled cobblestone (and asphalt) streets I was overwhelmed by the grace of the ancient brick edifices and enthralled by the intricacy of the Victorian lattice-work. Most impressive was the sheer mass of truly beautiful buildings--not one here or there but seemingly every building on every street for miles. However, before too long an eerie, uncomfortable prickling began working its way down my back and finally settled into a stale gnawing in the pit of my stomach. Something wasn’t quite right here. But what? I couldn’t place it. I began to notice strange details. Like this:
Notice anything unusual about this seemingly inconspicuous door? I’ll give you a clue, look at the handle—it’s in the middle of the door, not the side. One of the richest parts of London and they put the door handle in the wrong spot. And it’s not just this door, every door on that street is like this. Strange. Or how about this:
Notice this gravestone outside a quaint chapel in London. There’s no name. What’s a grave stone without a name? Certainly NOT a gravestone. Here I began to grow truly suspicious:
Now, I’ve been on this world long enough to know that people just don’t build houses like this. Anyone who’s lived in a suburb of Phoenix can attest that houses follow one of three floor plans, and this isn’t one of them. Then the awful truth dawned on me: either this is some sort of awful illusion or London doesn’t exist. Shocking, yes. Hard to swallow, yes. A bitter and disilusioning truth to acknowledge. Once I realized London is but a fantasy I began noticing all kinds of other flaws in the illusion. Take this quaint scene for instance:
Lovely, isn’t it? However, I regret to inform you that Grishma is actually standing in front of a painting here, the light pole is hiding the edge where the brick wall meets the backdrop. Or how about this street corner:
Absolutely beautiful. As I strode towards the arched doorway I couldn't help wondering what was to come--a sprawling urban garden? More breathtaking scenes from England's best architects? Eagerly I quickened my step and turned the corner to discover...a dingy wall with a door labeled “Epcot Center Employees Only”. Upon this discovery I was furious, but determined to have the last laugh. Here I am deliberately ignoring the lovely brick building behind me. Take that, London.
