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It's almost April Fool's Day and that means MFA Applications are due at CCNY.
In the pouring rain, one may say words reminding another of a time forgotten when snakes lived on the island and stones were carved with elaborate, symbols of hope, maps for the future from the past. Place something in the ground believing that three hundred and ten years later a leaf will fall. Last year, a t-shirt was silk-screened with the name of a small group of musicians who rattled a tune loose from the ladder everyone was afraid to climb. Words are spoken. Words are written down. Words are whispered and then forgotten, only to be remembered late one night in a dream. Carving something out of wood, carving something into stone, one remembers the rhythm of ancient songs. Sea Chants work, songs lift the soul out of poverty and carry the spirit along to places forgotten or unknown, real and imagined for battle or verse. Never before have the planets seen a fireworks show such as the one that will happen tomorrow or next week for every thing is slightly different now than it was. What remains constant? Earth is still rotating. Sun continues to burn, a baby is born but this one is not like any other. This baby is slightly different. A tree falls but the sound echoes differently than one that fell yesterday or last week or the ten that will fall tomorrow. Along a river, a person jogs, listening to the music of her footsteps. The sound of her breath is rhythmic and deep. In her breath one can hear dark stories of earth, and fire. In the water lurk transparent creatures that need little light. Has someone placed a turbine there? Canvas hangs on a wall in a gallery. The image presented is abstract, hewn from linen, linseed oil, and the finest ground pigments. Next door another gallery, with flat acrylic cartoons on wood hung on drywall, screwed to an aluminum frame. Aluminum is lighter and less expensive than wood. The artist lives a monastic life. He wakes early, meditates. He listens closely to the music of the street. He loses his identity and becomes a vessel for a spirit, the spirit of the city. Everyone works in harmony. The music of the city is an elaborate, spontaneous ballet. There are time honored methods for dealing with the inevitable. Death, taxes. There is truth in the belief that many heads are better than one. Cars come and go. People spend money they have been ruthless in acquiring on cell phones, wireless computers and cable TV. Space is treated as a commodity. Airplane traffic was non existent two hundred years ago. Languages have died and been re-created. Documentation is on the rise. Ahead, on the left is a large hole in the ground. Santiago is working here. Across the hole stands a tall dark tower, a graveyard and St. Paul’s Chapel. The chapel is painted pink and blue. The chapel is neo-classical.
