musical chairs

“Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may,
For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!

With lips unbrighten'd, wreathless brow, I stroll:
And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?

Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve,
And Hope without an object cannot live.”

~ Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Work Without Hope.

“Musical Chairs” is an old-fashioned children’s social game which I recall from such occasions as birthday parties and indoor recess times in grammar school. A line of chairs would be situated at the center of a large room. There must be one chair fewer than the number of participants. A moderator would operate a music-playing device, and while the music played, the group would process around the chairs- moving along while carefully eyeing the shortened supply of seats. Without warning, the moderator suddenly stops the music, at which instant each person must seat themselves in one of the chairs. Inevitably one person is left unseated, causing them to leave the game. With each subsequent round, one chair gets removed, the music recommences, and with another surprise halt, the diminishing group scrambles for an incrementally shorter supply of seats. There are always too few chairs for one-too-many people, and thus the game of elimination continues, right down until there are two people and just one chair.

The dynamic gets interesting when the game pares down to something like five chairs for six people. Those precious, remaining seats receive an intensifying, hawkeyed, hovering treatment. With each turn around that diminished set of places, the sense of urgency increases. As the group of contenders decreases, always with one-too-few corresponding possibilities, the game becomes increasingly competitive. As a children’s game, we can say the ramifications are very low, of momentary note, and quite forgettable. Some of you might remember the schoolyard song that ends with “the cheese stands alone.” Well, “alone” lasted barely a minute, long enough to move on to another game. The “cheese” might later wind up hitting a home run, or scoring a goal. Such situations had no enduring memory, broadly speaking.

Schoolyard at my grammar school, P.S. 13, in New York City.
Below: Seeing the P.S. 13 schoolyard, as a visitor with adult's eyes.

Then there are those among us who remember in sharp detail. Whether beneficial or not, we are able to see metaphors in things as trivial as children’s games. In the thick of New York City, playgrounds and schoolyards are paved like streets and sidewalks; all were interchangeable and seamless to us. My friends and I invented games, or we imposed our own usable rules upon known popular street games. Assembling to play “ring-a-leevio,” which combines hide-and-seek and tag (and sometimes running bases), we’d start by setting geographic perimeters. We did with our odd mutations of baseball and football, too. What is acceptable, and what is out-of-bounds? We didn’t dislike the kids who couldn’t exceed at batting, fielding, running, or throwing; we didn’t like the kids who refused to play by the rules. We didn’t know many “grownup” words, but we had our own version of “inclusion.” Ramon’s little brother Jorge had to play with us, because he was Ramon’s brother. Luis was with us, because he lived on the same block. Madhavan was with us, because he was with us in school. Such things went without question, and well they should.

Corona, in New York City.
Below: Schoolyard at my junior high school, I.S. 61, in New York City.

Departing from those childhood instances of mutually-accepted rules, time revealed more of the rigid variety- implied in “musical chairs.” Particularly when there is no infraction of the rules (or laws, or etiquette), exclusion can be a terribly negative force. Turning aside the rose-colored glasses, the same kids that called “do-overs,” and would add a 4th strike to allow for a more interesting ballgame, were also among those who ostracized other kids. We naturally know how to shun and leave others out, and such adolescent behaviors that reach adulthood and middle age practice subtle and effective ways to accomplish their ends. Sending a fellow child to the sidelines looks quite direct and overt, compared to how adults blackball each other from behind closed doors. There is also a bullying dimension to neighborhood gentrification, especially as landlords imitate their lesser peers who gouge residents and squeeze them out of their homes. As with schoolyard, workplace, and political bullies, if they can get away with it, they will. But conscientious people do notice. What seems as elusively opaque as boardroom doors is an equally elusive notion of the downtrodden transcending exclusion.

As some are either content or resigned to be overlooked, many are not. The latter can echo Coleridge, in the quoted Work Without Hope, stupefied and mystified at exclusion from fulfilling a vocation. The amaranth flowers of his poem bloom for those who have successfully reached and taken their brass rings. These blossoms adorn that last seat and its fortunate occupant. Indeed, the plight of the job hunter continues the legacy of musical chairs. But the adversity is much more complex, and life sustenance is in play. The rules appear simple: an individual makes inquiries and represents their abilities and accomplishments, aspiring to be able to demonstrate their qualifications in person. Honest play for honest gain, or at least it should be so.

Alas, as it was during childhood, there are innocence-threatening realizations to be made. Of course there are exceptions; at least I continue to resist succumbing to cynicism. In too many instances, hiring procedures tend to be woefully rigged and disingenuous, amounting to one of the last bastions of permissible bigotry. Many of us naively face the job market with high hopes that blend together hard-earned degrees, gainful employment histories, achievements, and adventurous can-do pluck.

Below: From the abyss of automated online applications.

We bravely and dutifully endure demeaning online procedures. Some of these strangely demand typing in such things like the name of our junior high school. Succinctly worded résumés and crafted letters, targeted to the position, are absorbed into data-dissecting web applications along mazes of pigeonhole questionnaires. These reside in a cloudy culture that belongs to the virtual world of passively choosing from formulated lists and thumbnails, like shopping, social media, news, and even dating. But for the job hunter, the genres are oddly enmeshed. The perfect impression is sought, to draw attention. Applicants are challenged to be personal and specialized, yet the process is vague and uncommunicative. Often, rejection notices are eschewed; there is merely silence with the assumption that somebody else got the musical chair. On the other side of the virtual curtain, many a search committee will hand the coveted position to a crony- regardless of experience or credentials. Insiders play their own private version of musical chairs. After all, we dwell against a fear-based culture; unknowns are distrusted and prejudices remain unquestioned. And many of us are astonished at our own naivete and purist expectations. There are those who would rather not play games. Despite all of this, stouthearted searchers continue on. Somewhere out there is a chair that will not be whisked away.

der blaue reiter

“Blue champagne
Purple shadows and blue champagne
With the echoes that still remain
I keep a blue rendezvous.”

~ The Manhattan Transfer, Blue Champagne


journey and journal

Gratitude increases with accumulated mileage, as my travels are accompanied by writing. Images and words gladly correspond with places visited. And I try to include sites that inspire the exploration of ideas, paralleling the places visited. The written continuum of journals provides a paper playing-field for the recording of locations, events, and gleaned words, drawn together from immediate environments. Like photo motifs and camera, wise words received require ready writing materials for their recording. Viewing errand as adventure provides an antidote to sameness. “Every day is a mini-project,” my father likes to say. Years ago, an elderly co-worker at a night-shift job I had used to tell me to vary my routes to and from work- to keep it interesting. My grandmother advised that I eat a variety of foods, “otherwise your intestines will get bored.” Such snapshots are enshrined in writing, woven through journeys of streets, workplaces, mountains, waterways, shops, and kitchens alike. Documentation becomes the abiding record of the journey.

discovery and treasure

Discoveries and treasures are authenticated by words and images. They are joined to our living histories. Collected gems remind us of where we’ve sojourned. And the returning individual is always- even subtly- changed by the travel, however humble it may have been. Ah, but to embark upon a journey of taking pictures and taking notes, some preparation is needed. Depending upon the extent and mode of transit, basics include notebook, pencil, pen, and camera. Then there are peripheral reinforcements such as extra ink, a sharpener, a tripod, a spare ribbon- when a typewriter is along for the ride. A few books, too: with every retreat, I bring The Cloud of Unknowing. When writing ideas are jumbled, that means it’s time to read. If I’ve just begun a new journal, I bring along the previously-filled volume. Our own words can also be worthy companions. A portable book or two and a pocketable Bible go with every adventure- even an average workday. This is simply to be prepared; provisions must not anchor. After all, some room must be left available for found treasure.


commerce and collegiality :

joon of new york

Although I brought sufficient sustenance for the journey, an enjoyable side of traveling is the ability to try new wares. New York has some great sources for the adventurous writer. In this era of anonymity, with the banality of big-box, it is refreshing and heartening to listen to experts in their retail fields knowledgeably discuss their wares.

My friend James works with the great folks at Joon of New York. Recently, James and I have been animatedly chatting about... ink. Yes, ink. But James’ descriptions of inks resemble those of a wine connoisseur. Our common ground is in the use of the tools- and our love of the written word. After regaling James about blue inks I’ve found through my travels, he offered some suggestions of his own. Blue shows especially well against warm-toned paper (just as sepia does with cooler and whiter tints). The boldest blue inks tend to be too thick for fountain pen use, and thus I’ve found two favorites for dip-pen writing: Daler-Rowney indigo- which I bought in Canada, and Winsor & Newton royal blue- from Bob Slate’s in Cambridge. Both are perfectly opaque, but their content would destroy the conduits of pens with plumbing. Fountain pen blue inks look weak and watery, compared to the pigmented calligraphy inks, and the best compromise I’d found was Aurora’s blue- bought in Maine. James patiently and jovially brought out a variety of blue inks, referring to saturation and boldness.

James helping me choose the right blue ink, using a dip pen.

Displays at Joon for Faber-Castell (note their salute to their graphite roots) above, and for Caran d'Ache below. Joon has been my resource for the Caran d'Ache fountain pens I use daily.

Sampling the Mont Blanc royal blue, which has the solidity of Aurora- though nicely on the violet side, I settled on this as the found treasure for the road. The moment James brought out the Mont Blanc bottle, I immediately thought of the Rocher Percé, which is in the peninsula region in Canada called La Gaspésie.

Above: Mont Blanc ink bottle.
Below: the massive Percé rock in Canada. To get a sense of how enormous the rock formation is, have a look at the photo I took below my long shot immediately below. I took the bottom photo during low tide; notice how tiny the people look!

___________________________________________________

arthur brown

Later in the week, I stopped in at Arthur Brown- another favorite purveyor that has kept me armed for the battle for a long time. Art Brown has a dizzying variety of journals- along with writing and drawing materials. No less than three of their brilliant salesmen brought out looseleaf books of ink sample swatches, and we pleasantly talked shop as though we were in a hardware store in New England. One of the gentlemen talked about the coverage of types of inks. “You can’t really compare pigmented calligraphy ink to fountain pen ink,” he observed. “Imagine pouring toothpaste out of a drinking glass, or dispensing water from a toothpaste tube.” He gave me some great pointers, but they will wait until I’ve emptied my new supply of Mont Blanc. Indeed, as the abundant opportunity presented itself, I purchased a few journals, adding to my found treasure for the road.


libraries and museums

Above: window at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Below: Tiffany ink-wells (and yes, that's a gold pen) at the "Met."

Beyond sources for artisans’ materials, large cities offer immortal works of art to reward the souls that seek them out. For the purpose of this writing topic, it will have to suffice to mention that sharing the Metropolitan Museum with ancient manuscripts and artifacts are enormous chambers filled with classical paintings, sculptures, and numerous extended structures to house the best-of-the-best of fine art. I call the Met “the Louvre of the western hemisphere,” and treat it as such: visits are targeted to specific sections, thus avoiding sensory-overload. Amazement remains inevitable, particularly among the Rembrandts, El Grecos, and Holbeins.


pierpont morgan library

Downtown, and a few blocks east of the New York Public Library, is the stately Pierpont Morgan Library. The Morgan has always been my favorite New York museum, with memorable shows such as Beatrix Potter’s original illustrations, Degas’ and Ingres’ sketches, music manuscripts of the great composers (including the original handwritten Messiah of George Frederick Handel), and their unforgettable exhibit of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s manuscript- with the watercolor illustrations- of Le Petit Prince. My introduction to the Morgan was through their William Henry Fox-Talbot show; with wide-eyes, I marveled at the glass-topped table displays of the first-ever photo negatives with their companion paper contact prints. Their collections, largely focused on paper-based works pre-1800, include medieval illuminated books and- not one, but three Gutenberg Bibles (1455).

Above: The East Room, (C)by the Pierpont Morgan Library & Museum, used with their kind permission.

Below: Since photography is not permitted inside the Morgan, I sketched Charles Dickens' travelling ink well. The ink well is included in one of their current exhibitions called "Dickens at 200," which is filled with manuscripts. The ink well has a glass chamber with a silver lid, and it pivots into a wood frame.

new york public library

The famous New York Public Library, guarded by sculpted lions, includes vast research collections, great reading rooms, and an unusual assemblage (2 photos down) of pencils and typed pages. Now there's a thought!

The front courtyard of the NYPL is a great writing-perch. I noticed how my sentiments are shared by others.

waystations

More writers- this time at the Caffe Reggio, in Greenwich Village. Indeed, I made the opportunity (below), with my Caran d'Ache "Ecridor" filled with Mont Blanc ink.

Reminding us that we are always upon our way, whether close to home or far afield, waystations are integral to the voyage. The French word relais explains this well, referring to a temporary place of rest. “Une étape entre deux points,” is a stage (as in a milestone, or a landmark, or a stopping-place) between any two points. If conversations, exhibits, and long walks represent reading, the waystations represent writing the connections between jots. We determine our relais, and- I hope- when they are favorable or necessary. These are the counter-forms among our typographic symbols. When the occasion arises that an étape can be along 5th Avenue, I can gladly recall such places when my midweek coffee breaks take place on the Portland waterfront. This surely works vice-versa, as my senses longed for Maine while I peered out for water views between the office buildings in Manhattan. With treasures to write with and upon, there is a winter for me to eagerly embark upon- and more anticipated travels.

(a little further reading, "blue ink and blueberries.")

pilgrim steps

“...that small, interior world widened
as I learned its names and its boundaries;
as I discovered new refuges...”

~ Dylan Thomas, Quite Early One Morning.

My elementary school, Public School No. 13









Above: Saint Patrick's Cathedral- a place of quiet respite on 5th Avenue.







Looking at class photos and trading stories with the current and retired principals at P.S. 13. I had read a portion of my journal to a group of school administrators. The photo immediately below shows the P.S. 13 schoolyard.



Entering one of the classrooms in which I'd been a pupil, to speak to the children.












Taizé at a New York City church : the view from my music stand.






Dylan Thomas, visiting from Wales, read and staged his works at this theatre in Greenwich Village.




The Minetta Tavern was a favorite of many writers, including Thomas and his good friend e.e. cummings.





The Church of Saint Luke in the Fields was the place of Dylan Thomas' funeral (1953). The church's first pastor, in 1820, was Clement Clarke Moore, the original namesake of P.S. 13.

“And one man’s year is like the country of a cloud,
mapped on the sky, that soon will vanish into the watery,
ordered wastes, into the spinning rule,
into the dark which is light.
Now the cloud is flying, very slowly, out of sight,
and I can remember all of that voyaging geography.”

~ Dylan Thomas, The Crumbs of One Man’s Year