Riding
out 101 to SFO this morning from a Martha Brother’s coffee shop on 24th
and Vicksburg. Coffee with
friends. Cab courtesy of Uber and
the app on my friend’s iPhone. The
sun always, so incredibly strong here, cutting in to the morning with its relentless
optimism. Wall murals, thirsty
eucalyptus trees, hills with rows of houses and off to the left the remarkable,
tidal Bay itself defining this area, that has attracted so much of the world’s
talent and defies the simple assignation “civic.” Think of all the water that is drawn in every day, beneath
the Golden Gate and later flushed powerfully, out to sea once again, like an
enormous bladder.
Sitting out in a friend’s back yard in Protrero Hill yesterday,
with one more remarkable, distinct view down to the mighty water body. The familiar steep walks that are the
same in Bernal Heights or Diamond Heights or Protrero Hill, absurd with a large
piece of luggage. Parking
precipitously, work that hand- break and cut the wheel into the hill. Unique
aspects to any San Francisco life.
And as I try to pen this off with a the ride out it another distinction
becomes clear, the airport is so close. What a different ride this is out to SFO when compared to the
meditative heaviness of the dash out Eastern Parkway from downtown Brooklyn
through the Brownsville of my twenty-year-old mind, en route to JFK.
Soaring above Alaska now, I suppose. There’s state, a world, properly, that
I have never seen. Isn’t it
supposed to be one of those remarkable things that everyone should do: to sail
up the coast of Canada to Alaska and consider what “unspoiled” means. I usually get drawn to places on
account of human achievement. But
given the rather paltry range of life forms extant there in contemporary
Beijing, perhaps a “nature tour” is rather important to consider.
Bill Evans “Re: Person I Knew” from “The Bill Evans Album”
is on. I’m assuming I know the
bass player, who also used to play with Ornette. His finger work is punchy and
commanding in my ears. I can’t place his name. I want to say it’s David. David who? I just took the time to look up the David’s on my iPod. None leapt out. I don’t have any other off-line
research tools at my disposal, do I?
don’t think I’m going to drop money on this flight to secure wifi,
though I could and then, I could immediately verify this “David” vacuum in my
mind. I can see this mystery gent in
my mind. He’s got glasses on. He’s white, and a bit overweight. I remember seeing a clip of
mystery-bass-player talking about playing with Orentette for the first time in
New York. On opening night, Mingus
and half a dozen other jazz luminaries were sporting scowls, there in the
audience there to check him and the others out. Still, I’m search for his name.
(The name, with the convenience of an internet connection,
is Charlie Haden. But the person
playing bass on “The Bill Evans Album” is actually Eddie Gomez, whom I’ll have
to learn more about)
I just went through an entire New York Times newspaper on
the first hour of flight this morning..
The United lounge in SFO was giving them away for free. There is no question that I, for one,
engage a physical newspaper differently from the way I’d engage a an-online interface. The physical paper commands my
attention. I read everything. On-line I cruise right by things that
are not of pressing, immediate interest.
I read four stories editorials about the landing at Normandy
as this is the anniversary, including the one that was arguably the most
interesting, written by a former German soldier. If I saw that article in the online interface there is very
little chance I’d ever have bothered to read it. When you get to the physical section of the paper, where the
editorials are presented, it commands your attention to stop and engage, look
at the illustration, in a ritualized manner. You can almost hear a pedantic voice from somewhere beyond
saying, this page is always important to engage with. “You always should read
the editorials, John”. http://www.nytimes.com/2014/06/06/opinion/memories-from-normandy.html
Sat in a car last night at the edge of a road somewhere,
near a port facility, where no one was going by and played music really, really
loud with a friend in his car. Not a soul around and it was a perfect setting for tunes as 振聋发聩[1]. Dead
Kennedy’s, Cream, Hendrix, Fela, Monahan Street Band, Howard McGhee, Orchetre
Parakou, Bill Hardman. Your
turn. My turn. Your turn and on and on for a bleeding
out of all the music that we’d each had ringing in our heads since the last
time we hung out, a few month’s back.
Nearly complete mapping overlay on musical fascinations, so that
wherever this person goes in the realm of music will be weighty. Anywhere I drive the experiential onslaught
will be similarly well received.
Together we’ve informed each other’s musical maturation for just about
thirty years. Most salient
reference points are all held in common.
With a glance up to the countless television sets up before
me, it becomes obvious that I am not, in fact over Alaska. It looks like I’m about fifty miles out
to sea over the coast. Does that
count? If I was on a boat, down
below and the sea wasn’t choppy would I be looking at Killer Whales feed, below snow capped
peaks, or just see rough sea down there from which you can’t consider a bit
of land. Sea that is too far out
to be contextualized as ‘coastal Alaskan. ‘ The cruise I imagine in my mind is
all about coastal visuals.
62% of battery life remaining. Off to read things I need to read that are stored on this
computer with just about half its battery life remaining and a good eight hours
of flying left to fly.
sounds like listening to tunes isn't much fun :)
ReplyDelete