Trying
to pen something off at the end of the day. The end of the day is always different. The end is near. It must be like the end of a life. There are graceful ways to end a day and
sudden ways to end a day, regretful ways to fade out, and triumphant, symphonic
summations to the inner audience.
And you’d probably be happy if you just stared back at it and surmised you were productive, and nothing too terrible transpired.
Muhal Richard Adams apparently taught himself how to play
piano. That’s beyond me. Guitar? Maybe.
Piano? But here he is
behind me playing it out confidently if strangely. I’ve got this 1977 set “1 Oqa +19” on the mix. I found it randomly by searching things
akin to William Parker, the bass player, who was akin to Chico Freeman and so
on. I am digging the cover of this
album, no doubt. I’d have stopped
and picked it up, just to check it out no matter where I saw that. It looks earlier than the year it is
from. I am considering, rather
than fully digging the interplay between Henry Threadgill’s exploratory
saxophone solo and Adams ambling, and occasionally, communicative piano
work. They are both burrowing
about wildly. It’s a wonderful
contrast to the calm of the cover photo.
Born in Chicago in 1930, he is still alive, still playing at
83. How does one stay fresh enough
to play with the boppers in the early fifties to driving the experimental loft
jazz movement in the 1970s? He must have stayed particularly hungry, curious,
searching. That song just now
“Charlie in the Parker” was lovely and angular. Nothing wrong with those who wanted to always play the music
they came up with. Dexter Gordon,
our first DB feature, comes to mind.
But hurray for the souls who just never stopped pushing for something
further beyond anything akin to anyone’s comfort zone, like Sun Ra or Mr.
Adams. We don’t always want to be
so far from terra firma, but without explorers, the music, like the world, would
be flat.
I had my second parents’ night tonight in a row. This was for middle school, and my
older daughter. Amid learning
about all the remarkable things they can take and will take and how they will
take them I had an uncomfortable feeling.
I think it was when the guy my age, in the suit was talking. It crept up on me: “I feel like I’m in America.” Indeed, most people in the audience
were ethnically Chinese, whatever their passports. The teaching staff had plenty of Australians or Canadians, I
suppose. But the guy in the suit
was American. His accent was American.
And so were many of the other teachers, and so sounded much of the
English being thrown about, everywhere I turned. It felt great to have a Chinese conversation with two
parents, who were confused about the confused about what to do as we regarded
the five pillars of school community with the cue cards and number two pencils we were given.
I’m not supposed to feel like I’m in America in
Beijing. I am decidedly 离乡背井[1], at least until next summer. America happens when you go back
home. But on two consecutive nights now, the unexpected familiarity continued to wax. The feeling was unmistakable, not unlike being at the Irish
Ball in Beijing and being surrounded suddenly by hundreds of Irish-looking
faces like some hall-of-mirrors, family reunion where the majority of faces,
suddenly look rather related to you.
No one is. You don’t know anyone. This feeling is surreal though because you’re in China, very far
from Dublin or South Boston. But
there it is. Erie staring back at
you from everywhere, in a wonderful, but artificial way.
For me, for a while now, my kids school has been a
challenge, as its all in Chinese and I have to work so hard at being non judgmental
and patient. And there was an ease
too because, no one expected me to completely understand and I only pushed myself so hard to "completely" understand. Now,
suddenly I understand absolutely everything, as one should, as is normal.
What’s more I have strong opinions and my preference are largely being balmed,
and massaged. Things I want and
expect are nearly all being completely addressed and as a result, I feel
buoyant. “We’ll be studying how
the media forms people’s opinions, revolutions of the world, and Chinese
geography and kids will be posting things on their blogs weekly.” Cool. Can I take this class?
My younger one wants to know if I prefer the school photo of
her wrapped on to a mug or the option wherein I can have her fashioned on to a
calendar. Tomorrow is the LAST chance to order these and other
remarkable products. “Do they have
just a square photo option? I’ll
take that and put it in a frame.” “Dad??!!” Chinese pedagogy isn’t so nearly well
covered, in comparison, when it comes to selling things and obliging you to make
purchases. It’s all rougher. Sophisticated, Amerian-style marketing
purloins your bills before you can consider that it was anything other than
normal. I think back to all the
mint cookies we sold to raise money for whatever it was we were raising money
for, baseball jerseys? Door to
door we went, earnestly. Some kid
always came back having sold a phenomenal amount more and you knew his parents
had deputized their friends to help. “ “Can you do that for us mom?“ "No. Parents who sell cookies for their children are simpletons. You do it yourself."
This isn’t America.
Even at the school. All the
annoyances have been carefully removed and rather it is like some kind of
Athenian America of one’s dreams. Some
other time, they’ll have to consider how to maintain equanimity amidst the
America with all the rough edges.
But there is a long way to go, for them at least, till nightfall.
[1] líxiāngbèijǐng: to
live far from home (idiom) / away from one's native place / to leave for a
foreign land
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