On Sunday, I attended a drumming meditation at The Source in Albuquerque. I did not know what to expect. The leader of the circle, Issa, was a man in his 20s or 30s, whom I met at S's house back in December. We friended each other on Facebook, but all I knew was that he was a musician and did recording sessions. And that he had a Swedish girlfriend named Isa, which made talking about them very confusing.
But, he invited me to come, and I was going to be in the area, and what the hey, I am still looking for that perfect way to meditate. The labyrinth is good, because it involves walking and gives me a pattern to focus on, but I'm open to other suggestions.
The Source is less than a mile from my old home in the Parkland Hills area, but I just discovered it recently. M and I walked up one Tuesday morning and got coffee. The coffee shop is on the north side of a quadrangle of buildings that are rented out for yoga, lectures, drumming, and other healing arts. M is friends with the owner, and it is all very New Age. It's placed in a stark section of Carlisle, just off busy Gibson, near Kirtland AirForce Base and the Sunport. But if you could airlift it to Portland, it could be set down in the Hawthorne district without causing a blink.
I got there 10 minutes early and followed the sounds of drumming to a little one-room building with doors opening onto the deck and table area. Issa was inside, seated facing the door. He had set up a circle of floor chairs (the kind that are made of canvas, have a cushion on the floor and a long rectangular back set at an angle to the cushion. We used to have them in the kids' area of the library, and they could stack, one within another.) He was beating out smooth practised rhythms on a wide circular hand drum, strong stubby fingers fluttering along the rim, seeming barely to touch but producing a resonant pattering boom. He was dressed in black, with the sweater hanging over his paunch and giving him a cuddly teddy bear feel. His shoulder length dark brown hair curled around his face, his dark brown eyes looked slantingly down towards the drum, his profile showed clean and Semitic. Then he looked up and saw me and beamed, bouncing to his feet.
He had promised some extra drums, and I wound up with a beautifully inlaid doumbek, which he said he'd taken around the world. Bits of the mosaic were missing, given credence to a life of adventure, and the drum-head was made of a tough sort of plastic, not leather. I learned to make the resonant sound in the center of the drum-head, and the lighter "tek" sound along the rim. And, while I couldn't do it consistently, I was now ready to participate.
More people arrived, and we formed our circle. Ages ranged from mid-twenties to mid-sixties. People were dressed casually, in jeans and t-shirts mainly. There was long grey hair tied in a straight pony tail, long red curly hair hanging loose, short curly hair, buzz cut bald, short with a cap. And my short rakish salt and pepper hair fit right in.
We started with the singing bowl, passed around the circle. Each person said his/her name, and the rest of us chanted it three times. (It reminded me of the Unitarian Sunday School getting-to-know-you routine.) Then we spoke our intentions, and blew into the bowl before passing it along. Some spoke at length about spiritual connections with the earth, about losing patterns that no longer served. I was succinct: I want to let go of grief and loss and I want to embrace serenity and focus.
Then the bowl was set in the center, where it could collect the resonance from the drums. Issa asked the participant to my left to start us out with a basic rhythm. When it was settled, the next person took it up, then the next, then the next, all around the circle. When it reached me, I found it surprisingly easy to join in. I had the rhythm in my ears and I could feel it in the air. My doum-tek was tinny and soft, not like the deep sounds the others were producing, but it slid into the sound without stress, giving its own color to the rhythm.
I closed my eyes and gave myself to the drumming. Then I opened my eyes and looked around the circle. Some were grave, focused. Some were dancing with their hands, tossing their heads. Some had beatific smiles, some were expressionless. Issa looked up at me and smiled, and I shut my eyes again. The rhythm continued for 20 minutes or so, and then I became conscious of a deep insistent 'doum-doum-doum'....the rhythm had changed, we were all changing with it, and after several minutes we settled into a new rhythm. It was organic, there was no leader, it just happened. We played the new rhythm for another 20 minutes and then the sound got softer and softer until it just stopped.
Issa leaned forward into the center and struck the singing bowl so it rang, and our intentions and our drumming went out into the universe.
The whole time, I had been thinking, I've done this before. And then it came to me. In the summer of 1995, when T and my cousin were living with me, my friend Tim came by on a visit, He had driven from Oneonta, NY, staying with friends all across the US. I was his next to the last stop: after visiting his cousin in Seattle, he was going to Hawaii. From that trip, he never returned. Every once in awhile, I look up his name, hoping against hope that he turned up again. Instead, I find other people's blogs about that time, and what it meant to the people whose lives he touched. I dream about him. I blogged about him a few months back.
And I remembered him last Sunday. Here is the story I shared with the drumming circle, a version of which went into his memory book and into that other blog entry:
One day, he was doing dishes in my kitchen, when he began tapping on the metal sides of the sink. The taps became hand slaps, satisfying reverberate booms. My cousin picked up chopsticks and began playing the bottles and jars of kitchen utensils on the counter. I drummed on the counter, and T started dancing. We must have jammed those rhythms without tunes for half an hour. I never forgot that feeling, and I felt it again last Sunday.
I don't know if it was a meditation, but it definitely helped me touch something deep. I think I'll go again.
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Transformations
I was trying to describe a fabulous collection of short fantasy tales,The Beastly Bride and other tales, and my interlocutor said, "Why do straight women always like that sort of story?" Well, I don't know, but ever since Beauty and the Beast, I've had a fondness for tales of selkies and other changelings. This doesn't include the Little Mermaid: she's too sappy and her tragedy isn't that she wants to be human but that she trusts in the love of a total stranger. No, I'm thinking of books like Owl in Love, in which the eponymous Owl grows into her dual self and eventually grows beyond her crush, or The Changeling Sea, which is atmospheric and wonderful like all Patricia McKillip's books.
So, when the Met broadcast Rusalka in HD, I was all over it. E was not, but I talked her into it by playing a YouTube of Renee Fleming singing her signature aria, Song to the Moon. It's a truly beautiful song, and she is a truly beautiful singer. I had watched her a few weeks before, singing the Star Spangled Banner at the Super Bowl, and I swear, it brought a patriotic tear to my eye. For the first time in my life, I heard the power of those lyrics. My god, it was a battle! And the flag was still there!! Yes, get an opera singer at the Super Bowl, and magic will happen. (It was the only magic of the day, the game being a major rout.)
Sadly, the screening of Rusalka was a disappointment. Don't get me wrong. The set was gorgeous, the singing beautiful, the actors excellent. In particular, Jezibaba played her witchiness with humor and wisdom - a crone, not a hag. But, but, but....Rusalka, the water nymph, makes her first appearance in a tree and doesn't come down for ages. She sits up there, writhing around the branches, and I am distracted, waiting for her to fall. Then, she becomes mute with the spell that turns her into a human, and she writhes all through the second act. Oy.
Still, it is a powerful story, the story of transformation, of wanting to be one with The Other. And it rarely seems to turn out well. In Beauty, the beast turns back into a prince and loses much of his attraction. But usually the transformation goes from beast to human and back. In Rusalka and The Little Mermaid, the transformation doesn't stick, and everyone dies. In Dark of the Moon, the Witch Boy is betrayed by his lover, she dies and goes to heaven, and he goes back to being an imp with nothing to look forward to but 2000 years.
The question is....can the transformation stick? and does anyone learn anything through the experience? Why do these stories have such a hold on us? Is it because we want to change, or because we are afraid to change, and we need the cautionary tales to give us an excuse to stay where we are?
So, when the Met broadcast Rusalka in HD, I was all over it. E was not, but I talked her into it by playing a YouTube of Renee Fleming singing her signature aria, Song to the Moon. It's a truly beautiful song, and she is a truly beautiful singer. I had watched her a few weeks before, singing the Star Spangled Banner at the Super Bowl, and I swear, it brought a patriotic tear to my eye. For the first time in my life, I heard the power of those lyrics. My god, it was a battle! And the flag was still there!! Yes, get an opera singer at the Super Bowl, and magic will happen. (It was the only magic of the day, the game being a major rout.)
Sadly, the screening of Rusalka was a disappointment. Don't get me wrong. The set was gorgeous, the singing beautiful, the actors excellent. In particular, Jezibaba played her witchiness with humor and wisdom - a crone, not a hag. But, but, but....Rusalka, the water nymph, makes her first appearance in a tree and doesn't come down for ages. She sits up there, writhing around the branches, and I am distracted, waiting for her to fall. Then, she becomes mute with the spell that turns her into a human, and she writhes all through the second act. Oy.
Still, it is a powerful story, the story of transformation, of wanting to be one with The Other. And it rarely seems to turn out well. In Beauty, the beast turns back into a prince and loses much of his attraction. But usually the transformation goes from beast to human and back. In Rusalka and The Little Mermaid, the transformation doesn't stick, and everyone dies. In Dark of the Moon, the Witch Boy is betrayed by his lover, she dies and goes to heaven, and he goes back to being an imp with nothing to look forward to but 2000 years.
The question is....can the transformation stick? and does anyone learn anything through the experience? Why do these stories have such a hold on us? Is it because we want to change, or because we are afraid to change, and we need the cautionary tales to give us an excuse to stay where we are?
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Rakish? Me?
One of the attractive things about online dating is the opportunity for reinvention. Reinvention is what I'm about right now, after all. Or, is it recovery? Hmmm. I am reinventing my lifestyle, sure, but am I reinventing myself? I don't think so.
I have always seen myself through others' eyes. I don't trust my self-assessment, and I'm constantly checking in: was that annoying? diverting? frustrating? enchanting? boring? fascinating? Can I trust the reaction? How much does it have to do with me, and how much with the other person's issues? Online dating puts all these questions into a sharp focus, because all you have to go by are the words. You can't be distracted by the smiles and laughter, the outward game face. Yes, there is obfuscation and outright lying, but the words are there, ready to be dissected. And if the grammar sucks, well that's one more thing to add to the critical mix.
So, I'm looking at other people's words and carefully crafting my own. In the process, I realize that I am not capable of reinventing myself, not really. My core is as it ever was, and I don't see any way to change that. I'm not sure I want to. A few weeks ago I had a bout of extreme weepiness. I was visiting S; he was working in his computer lab, and I was sitting nearby writing out my grief, tears dripping down (but I don't think he saw them). I wrote: I am the person I've always been. Stronger, but still needy. Resilient, but still fragile. Fragile. The song D sang to me at our wedding.
I won't share the rest of that writing....too whiny, too self-absorbed, too full of information about relationships, too full of self-recrimination, too sad. What's important is what came next. I was walking at sunset one day, and suddenly I felt like Sylvia Plath: the bell jar had lifted and I was free to the circulating air. Not only had it lifted, it was gone. I suddenly understood what others had been seeing for so long: in its absence it made itself known to me. In its place was myself.
And what was myself? At that moment, my self was walking in a landscape littered with juniper, pinon, rocks, and cactus. The sky stretched overhead, filled with blues and fluffy whites and yellows and pinks and oranges. The wind rushed through the branches, the mountains outlined on the horizons were grey-green rockpiles, filling in with slate blue shadows. And I saw every detail, FELT every detail, without that deadening sense of remove. I was actually there. I think I took a photo and wrote a haiku, as I have been doing endlessly over the years and months of my depression. But I didn't need to, as I have in the past. I needed no product to prove I was there.
So, I was there, but who was I? And why was I? I'm still working on that. Socrates says, Know Thyself. Descartes says, I think therefore I am. It seems that I have gone more elemental than that. I feel, therefore I am. I feel myself, I recognize myself, but I don't know myself, and I don't know what I was put here to do. (But, that's a topic for another blog.) What I do know is that the self I want to know was muffled under a coating of stress and grief and sadness. Pulling off that blanket and keeping it off are the tasks of the moment.
So, recovery, not reinvention. I want myself back. And it seems that it's happened, at least for the nonce. In my recent visit with my sister and brother, I felt that. And L did too. He wrote to my siblings: [She] looked good - that might have been an illusion but she appeared to be on the mend. Yes. I know that depression and anxiety and panic are part of me, but they don't need to define me, nor do they need to separate me from my life. And, in the meantime, I can toy all I want with lovers and jobs and creations. I can meet people online and at activities and through others. I can talk story (and every tale we tell is equal parts invention and truth, our own particular truth.) Those things I can reinvent. It might even be necessary to do so, to move far away from the people and things and thoughts that brought me into a marriage with D.
But what I can't do is hide who I am. The other day I was describing myself to a woman, unknown to me, whom I was scheduled to pick up at the airport: I am 5'10", 240 lbs, shoulder length white/grey hair, glasses. E later sent her another description: She is a big tall woman, maybe 5'11" and perhaps 230 lbs, with sort of rakish white/gray hair, big brown eyes, and a beautiful smile.
Not much disagreement there. But it doesn't reach the core of who I am.
I have always seen myself through others' eyes. I don't trust my self-assessment, and I'm constantly checking in: was that annoying? diverting? frustrating? enchanting? boring? fascinating? Can I trust the reaction? How much does it have to do with me, and how much with the other person's issues? Online dating puts all these questions into a sharp focus, because all you have to go by are the words. You can't be distracted by the smiles and laughter, the outward game face. Yes, there is obfuscation and outright lying, but the words are there, ready to be dissected. And if the grammar sucks, well that's one more thing to add to the critical mix.
So, I'm looking at other people's words and carefully crafting my own. In the process, I realize that I am not capable of reinventing myself, not really. My core is as it ever was, and I don't see any way to change that. I'm not sure I want to. A few weeks ago I had a bout of extreme weepiness. I was visiting S; he was working in his computer lab, and I was sitting nearby writing out my grief, tears dripping down (but I don't think he saw them). I wrote: I am the person I've always been. Stronger, but still needy. Resilient, but still fragile. Fragile. The song D sang to me at our wedding.
I won't share the rest of that writing....too whiny, too self-absorbed, too full of information about relationships, too full of self-recrimination, too sad. What's important is what came next. I was walking at sunset one day, and suddenly I felt like Sylvia Plath: the bell jar had lifted and I was free to the circulating air. Not only had it lifted, it was gone. I suddenly understood what others had been seeing for so long: in its absence it made itself known to me. In its place was myself.
And what was myself? At that moment, my self was walking in a landscape littered with juniper, pinon, rocks, and cactus. The sky stretched overhead, filled with blues and fluffy whites and yellows and pinks and oranges. The wind rushed through the branches, the mountains outlined on the horizons were grey-green rockpiles, filling in with slate blue shadows. And I saw every detail, FELT every detail, without that deadening sense of remove. I was actually there. I think I took a photo and wrote a haiku, as I have been doing endlessly over the years and months of my depression. But I didn't need to, as I have in the past. I needed no product to prove I was there.
So, I was there, but who was I? And why was I? I'm still working on that. Socrates says, Know Thyself. Descartes says, I think therefore I am. It seems that I have gone more elemental than that. I feel, therefore I am. I feel myself, I recognize myself, but I don't know myself, and I don't know what I was put here to do. (But, that's a topic for another blog.) What I do know is that the self I want to know was muffled under a coating of stress and grief and sadness. Pulling off that blanket and keeping it off are the tasks of the moment.
So, recovery, not reinvention. I want myself back. And it seems that it's happened, at least for the nonce. In my recent visit with my sister and brother, I felt that. And L did too. He wrote to my siblings: [She] looked good - that might have been an illusion but she appeared to be on the mend. Yes. I know that depression and anxiety and panic are part of me, but they don't need to define me, nor do they need to separate me from my life. And, in the meantime, I can toy all I want with lovers and jobs and creations. I can meet people online and at activities and through others. I can talk story (and every tale we tell is equal parts invention and truth, our own particular truth.) Those things I can reinvent. It might even be necessary to do so, to move far away from the people and things and thoughts that brought me into a marriage with D.
But what I can't do is hide who I am. The other day I was describing myself to a woman, unknown to me, whom I was scheduled to pick up at the airport: I am 5'10", 240 lbs, shoulder length white/grey hair, glasses. E later sent her another description: She is a big tall woman, maybe 5'11" and perhaps 230 lbs, with sort of rakish white/gray hair, big brown eyes, and a beautiful smile.
Not much disagreement there. But it doesn't reach the core of who I am.
Everything's up to date in Kansas City....
I went to Kansas City for a long weekend, catching the train from Lamy station, outside of Santa Fe. For reasons that pass understanding, there is no station in the state capitol. The official reason given is that the terrain is too rough, but considering the jaunt through Apache Canyon and over the Raton pass, that excuse just doesn't jibe. My guess is there was some gerrymandering back in the 1880s. Be that as it may, it's a beautiful little station, with old wooden benches inside and lots of brick waiting areas outside. One of Roosevelt's train carriages is at permanent rest there. I chatted with a couple bound for Chicago. They make this trip regularly to be with the elderly Mom. They say there used to be a nice restaurant (a former Harvey House) across the street, and the town itself was quaint and sweet. Now the restaurant is closed, and it all seems pretty derelict. And, it appears that the Lamy station may be closing, as well, with passenger traffic routed from Albuquerque through Texas, instead of up through Colorado and Kansas. That would be too bad: it's a beautiful ride.
The Amtrak employee was around my age. She called everyone "hon," and her name was Cheryl. I had spoken with her on the phone, trying to get the scoop on the parking lot. The Amtrak page said "NO LONG TERM PARKING!" and that just didn't make sense. Yes, there's a shuttle (the details of which are well hidden), but surely I'm not the only person who doesn't want to make friends or family drive for an hour to this back-of-beyond place. She said, well, we don't officially provide parking, but the townsfolk keep an eye on things, and nothing has ever been vandalized. That was good enough for me. However, I was apparently still a little nervous. Just as the train came in I thought, "Did I remember to lock the car?" Fortunately, the station is so small, a few steps to the side brought me close enough to the car to point my key and click the lock button. The headlights flashed reassuringly, and I boarded the train.
The train takes 18 hours to get from Lamy to Kansas City. It's an enchanting ride through north eastern New Mexico, past Starvation Peak, through S bends where you can see the other end of the train, and across the prairies. Both times I've taken this train, the moon has been full. Both times I've curled up on my seat and dozed. Both times, I've been exhausted when I reached my destination.
Union Station in Kansas City is old and beautiful, with vaulted ceilings, tall decorated windows and echoing marble. The wood benches are gone from the old waiting room, which is a long hall in the middle of the station. The current waiting room is small and low-ceilinged, with glaring fluorescent lights and unlovely vending machines. I don't get it: why not use the perfectly good and beautiful old space?
I arrived half an hour early, and M overslept, so I had breakfast at the Harvey restaurant (a nod to the old Harvey House, I gather.) The atmosphere was lovely: Judy Garland et al on the sound system, a circular covered structure in the middle of the lobby, dark wooden chairs and long tablecloths. I had really bad coffee and mediocre eggs and limp bacon. I could taste the oleo butter substitute. Erk.
Then M arrived and we drove back through the freeways to the Drury Hotel, out east on I70, across from the two sports arenas. Kansas City's downtown is encircled by a rounded rectangle of interstates, with state highways paralleling and intersecting. I couldn't tell if there was a reasonable public transport system, but we needed the GPS the entire time we were there. The maps didn't make sense, nor did the exits. D, who did most of the programming, said, "Trust the voice," and eventually we did. As a passenger, I never did figure out the topography. But it was typical of midwest river towns: the freeways soared through off-white sandstone bluffs and bottom lands filled with thin scrubby trees. The U district featured 2-story brick houses with wrap-around stone porches and the occasional porte cochere. Other districts had wood frame houses with wrought iron railings leading up to the concrete stoop at the screened front door.
It was cold and wintry, and I felt right at home.
When I got to my room, I was ready to crash for a bit. But, I'd called V from the train the afternoon before and this was the moment she called back: "What are you doing in Kansas City?" She was scratching her head a bit: while KC has apparently been on her list for the last 10 years, since the art museum built its addition, I had never indicated an interest. I said, I'm here to listen to a reputedly wonderful blue guitarist from Canada, and to visit the art museum. (And, as it turned out, to eat excellent BBQ.) She said, if you were going to wander on your days off, why not visit me in Phoenix, it's 70 degrees here. (It was 20 degrees in KC.) I promised to do some reconnaissance and come back with her when it was warmer.
We hung up, and the phone rang again. This time it was my sister E: "What were you doing in Raton?" I had posted a sunset picture of Raton station on Facebook: it was a smoking/fresh-air-break point. Apparently it is also a destination for gun aficionados, and she had received some excellent pointers when she and D stopped by en route to California. I explained again, and I could feel her shrug. Well, as long as you're okay, keep me posted. And we hung up.
Then I checked FB, and there was a message from JMR: "What are you doing in Kansas City?" I wrote back, listening to blues and eating BBQ, and then I went to bed.
D was not feeling well, so we left her to rest while we visited the City Market and the Arabia Steamboat Museum, which was located just off the Market. The outdoor part of the market is the main draw: booths and dancing and music and crafts, none of which are in evidence during the winter months. The market is ringed by permanent shops and vendors, all of which close around 2:30 pm. So, we focused on the Museum, which was quite enthralling. Apparently, the Arabia had run into a snag, back in the 1850s and by the next day was sunk into the mud and murk of the Missouri River. Salvage apparently wasn't possible right then, and the insurance paid around $10,500. In the 1980's the Hawley family and friends excavated the ship: the river had been shifted half a mile away and they were digging in a cornfield with pumps going non-stop to keep the ground water out. The original intent was to sell the salvage, but instead it is in this fascinating museum, providing a unique window into pre-Civil War life.
We spent a couple of hours there, and I could have spent more. M and our tour guide were both trained at the same institution, so they spent a lot of time chatting about that. She steered us to Jack Stack for our evening BBQ visit. I texted N and S, who had advised me to to try Oklahoma Joe's or BB's Lawnside. N informed me that the tour guide was a poor benighted Kansas City-an who didn't know from Texas BBQ. I said, what about Zagat's opinion, and she said, they don't know Texas BBQ either. S, the actual Texan, was kinder about it, but still suggested I go with Oklahoma Joe's.
We went with Jack Stack, and I flirted with the 30-something waiter. Clearly, I'm feeling better about myself.
The concert was at Knuckleheads Saloon, a ramshackle collection of indoor and outdoor spaces hidden away in an industrial district. The Voice sent us around a General Mills factory and over the railroad tracks, and we ended up in a gravel lot catty-corner from the bar. There was a lot of neon (my favorite proclaimed "no pissy attitudes allowed"), and plastic sheeting surrounded the outdoor venues. Our venue was an intimate (read TINY) space, with some tables in the center, backless stools around the perimeter, and a small area with rows of seats off to the side. We settled to the left of the entrance. Ages were mixed, but most of the tables in the "spray zone" were filled with older couples. A row of rowdy plaid-shirted young men and women sat across the back, nearby. I would have been annoyed, but they clearly got the excellence of the performer, once he arrived, and it became part of the scene.
Matt Andersen is an ENORMOUS young man, with long scraggly red hair which he tosses back at intervals. A wispy moustache sits above a cherry bud mouth from which a gravelly voice issues, and he wore the plaid shirt and jeans that are apparently his trademark, as he made mention of it during one of his intro monologues. He was totally worth the trip: could play the hell out of the guitar, and could also introduce subtleties. I can see why M was impressed by him when he won the International Blues Competition a few years back. I'd see him again.
Afterwards, we checked out the cover band in the larger venue, but were unimpressed.
The next day was dedicated to the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art. They were featuring French Impressionists and photographers, and I could spend several days here. The special exhibit was a mere $7, and the rest was free if we so chose. As usual, I got pulled in several different directions. The Asian art is pretty amazing, I was enthralled by the Islamic art, and there is a room dedicated to Thomas Hart Benton, whom I studied in college. (It makes sense that he would be featured: he was a Regionalist and settled in Kansas City at the KC Art Institute.)
We spent 4 hours and then met another of Mike's online friends at BB's Lawnside. D ordered a BBQ sundae, which was all about the presentation: pulled pork, beans and cole slaw layered in a glass. It was tasty enough, but not enough pulled pork: word to the wise. I got burnt ends, which were new to me and quite wonderful: all the taste and texture of ribs without gnawing on the bones. However, the whole point of the place is the party atmosphere. Live music is the name of the game, and there are no tables for two. The bar is at one end, and the stage at the other, while in between are ranged long narrow picnic tables covered in red and white checked plastic table cloths. We were lucky enough to find four chairs together, two on each side, in the middle of the table farthest from the door and music. The noise was deafening. Our waitress took advantage of a brief lull to get our orders, but there was no conversation for some time. The music was so-so, but it was neat because it was a jam session. These folks have been getting together on Saturday afternoons for 28 years. Ages ranged from 20s to 70s, and the lady playing the spoons was worth the price of admission (okay, it was free, but you get the point.)
We went back to look at the art museum by night: the new portion is totally lit up from inside and it looks like a floating iceberg on the dark hillside. A bitter wind kept M in the car, and D and I ran outside to take pix with her phone (mine being out of juice by then.)
Our final day was spent at the Jazz museum and a sports bar (for the AFL playoffs. Broncos won). The museum was at 18th and Vine, and included a video of the area history. There are actually two museums: the other is the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum, which only M visited. He said it was great. However, I was absorbed enough by the jazz museum, and D got her own free concert, courtesy of a janitor who was testing out the Blue Room piano. I spent a fair amount of time on the interactive displays that let you mix your own recording (shades of the Experience Music Project) and even more time in the area dedicated to old soundies. The problem there was that the three screens were within a very small space, and you could hear all three simultaneously, which meant you couldn't hear any of them well. It's an amazing collection, though.
After pizza, beer and football, they dropped me at Union Station. Almost everything was closed, so I went to the big screen theatre and watched Frozen (not in HD.) It was worth the $8 price tag, passed the time nicely, and gave me a chance to see a movie that none of my friends wanted to see. And now I read that one of the songs is up for an Academy Award, so I'm vaguely in the cultural loop. This is a good thing.
When I go back with V, I'll want to revisit the art museum and the BBQ joints, take in some music in the Blue Room, and check out the City Market in good weather. I'll also want to have dinner at the Savoy, and maybe spend a night or two. And I'm sure we'll find something else to occupy our time.
The Amtrak employee was around my age. She called everyone "hon," and her name was Cheryl. I had spoken with her on the phone, trying to get the scoop on the parking lot. The Amtrak page said "NO LONG TERM PARKING!" and that just didn't make sense. Yes, there's a shuttle (the details of which are well hidden), but surely I'm not the only person who doesn't want to make friends or family drive for an hour to this back-of-beyond place. She said, well, we don't officially provide parking, but the townsfolk keep an eye on things, and nothing has ever been vandalized. That was good enough for me. However, I was apparently still a little nervous. Just as the train came in I thought, "Did I remember to lock the car?" Fortunately, the station is so small, a few steps to the side brought me close enough to the car to point my key and click the lock button. The headlights flashed reassuringly, and I boarded the train.
The train takes 18 hours to get from Lamy to Kansas City. It's an enchanting ride through north eastern New Mexico, past Starvation Peak, through S bends where you can see the other end of the train, and across the prairies. Both times I've taken this train, the moon has been full. Both times I've curled up on my seat and dozed. Both times, I've been exhausted when I reached my destination.
Union Station in Kansas City is old and beautiful, with vaulted ceilings, tall decorated windows and echoing marble. The wood benches are gone from the old waiting room, which is a long hall in the middle of the station. The current waiting room is small and low-ceilinged, with glaring fluorescent lights and unlovely vending machines. I don't get it: why not use the perfectly good and beautiful old space?I arrived half an hour early, and M overslept, so I had breakfast at the Harvey restaurant (a nod to the old Harvey House, I gather.) The atmosphere was lovely: Judy Garland et al on the sound system, a circular covered structure in the middle of the lobby, dark wooden chairs and long tablecloths. I had really bad coffee and mediocre eggs and limp bacon. I could taste the oleo butter substitute. Erk.
Then M arrived and we drove back through the freeways to the Drury Hotel, out east on I70, across from the two sports arenas. Kansas City's downtown is encircled by a rounded rectangle of interstates, with state highways paralleling and intersecting. I couldn't tell if there was a reasonable public transport system, but we needed the GPS the entire time we were there. The maps didn't make sense, nor did the exits. D, who did most of the programming, said, "Trust the voice," and eventually we did. As a passenger, I never did figure out the topography. But it was typical of midwest river towns: the freeways soared through off-white sandstone bluffs and bottom lands filled with thin scrubby trees. The U district featured 2-story brick houses with wrap-around stone porches and the occasional porte cochere. Other districts had wood frame houses with wrought iron railings leading up to the concrete stoop at the screened front door.
It was cold and wintry, and I felt right at home.
When I got to my room, I was ready to crash for a bit. But, I'd called V from the train the afternoon before and this was the moment she called back: "What are you doing in Kansas City?" She was scratching her head a bit: while KC has apparently been on her list for the last 10 years, since the art museum built its addition, I had never indicated an interest. I said, I'm here to listen to a reputedly wonderful blue guitarist from Canada, and to visit the art museum. (And, as it turned out, to eat excellent BBQ.) She said, if you were going to wander on your days off, why not visit me in Phoenix, it's 70 degrees here. (It was 20 degrees in KC.) I promised to do some reconnaissance and come back with her when it was warmer.
We hung up, and the phone rang again. This time it was my sister E: "What were you doing in Raton?" I had posted a sunset picture of Raton station on Facebook: it was a smoking/fresh-air-break point. Apparently it is also a destination for gun aficionados, and she had received some excellent pointers when she and D stopped by en route to California. I explained again, and I could feel her shrug. Well, as long as you're okay, keep me posted. And we hung up.Then I checked FB, and there was a message from JMR: "What are you doing in Kansas City?" I wrote back, listening to blues and eating BBQ, and then I went to bed.
D was not feeling well, so we left her to rest while we visited the City Market and the Arabia Steamboat Museum, which was located just off the Market. The outdoor part of the market is the main draw: booths and dancing and music and crafts, none of which are in evidence during the winter months. The market is ringed by permanent shops and vendors, all of which close around 2:30 pm. So, we focused on the Museum, which was quite enthralling. Apparently, the Arabia had run into a snag, back in the 1850s and by the next day was sunk into the mud and murk of the Missouri River. Salvage apparently wasn't possible right then, and the insurance paid around $10,500. In the 1980's the Hawley family and friends excavated the ship: the river had been shifted half a mile away and they were digging in a cornfield with pumps going non-stop to keep the ground water out. The original intent was to sell the salvage, but instead it is in this fascinating museum, providing a unique window into pre-Civil War life.
We went with Jack Stack, and I flirted with the 30-something waiter. Clearly, I'm feeling better about myself.
The concert was at Knuckleheads Saloon, a ramshackle collection of indoor and outdoor spaces hidden away in an industrial district. The Voice sent us around a General Mills factory and over the railroad tracks, and we ended up in a gravel lot catty-corner from the bar. There was a lot of neon (my favorite proclaimed "no pissy attitudes allowed"), and plastic sheeting surrounded the outdoor venues. Our venue was an intimate (read TINY) space, with some tables in the center, backless stools around the perimeter, and a small area with rows of seats off to the side. We settled to the left of the entrance. Ages were mixed, but most of the tables in the "spray zone" were filled with older couples. A row of rowdy plaid-shirted young men and women sat across the back, nearby. I would have been annoyed, but they clearly got the excellence of the performer, once he arrived, and it became part of the scene.
Matt Andersen is an ENORMOUS young man, with long scraggly red hair which he tosses back at intervals. A wispy moustache sits above a cherry bud mouth from which a gravelly voice issues, and he wore the plaid shirt and jeans that are apparently his trademark, as he made mention of it during one of his intro monologues. He was totally worth the trip: could play the hell out of the guitar, and could also introduce subtleties. I can see why M was impressed by him when he won the International Blues Competition a few years back. I'd see him again.
Afterwards, we checked out the cover band in the larger venue, but were unimpressed.
The next day was dedicated to the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art. They were featuring French Impressionists and photographers, and I could spend several days here. The special exhibit was a mere $7, and the rest was free if we so chose. As usual, I got pulled in several different directions. The Asian art is pretty amazing, I was enthralled by the Islamic art, and there is a room dedicated to Thomas Hart Benton, whom I studied in college. (It makes sense that he would be featured: he was a Regionalist and settled in Kansas City at the KC Art Institute.)
We spent 4 hours and then met another of Mike's online friends at BB's Lawnside. D ordered a BBQ sundae, which was all about the presentation: pulled pork, beans and cole slaw layered in a glass. It was tasty enough, but not enough pulled pork: word to the wise. I got burnt ends, which were new to me and quite wonderful: all the taste and texture of ribs without gnawing on the bones. However, the whole point of the place is the party atmosphere. Live music is the name of the game, and there are no tables for two. The bar is at one end, and the stage at the other, while in between are ranged long narrow picnic tables covered in red and white checked plastic table cloths. We were lucky enough to find four chairs together, two on each side, in the middle of the table farthest from the door and music. The noise was deafening. Our waitress took advantage of a brief lull to get our orders, but there was no conversation for some time. The music was so-so, but it was neat because it was a jam session. These folks have been getting together on Saturday afternoons for 28 years. Ages ranged from 20s to 70s, and the lady playing the spoons was worth the price of admission (okay, it was free, but you get the point.)
We went back to look at the art museum by night: the new portion is totally lit up from inside and it looks like a floating iceberg on the dark hillside. A bitter wind kept M in the car, and D and I ran outside to take pix with her phone (mine being out of juice by then.)
Our final day was spent at the Jazz museum and a sports bar (for the AFL playoffs. Broncos won). The museum was at 18th and Vine, and included a video of the area history. There are actually two museums: the other is the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum, which only M visited. He said it was great. However, I was absorbed enough by the jazz museum, and D got her own free concert, courtesy of a janitor who was testing out the Blue Room piano. I spent a fair amount of time on the interactive displays that let you mix your own recording (shades of the Experience Music Project) and even more time in the area dedicated to old soundies. The problem there was that the three screens were within a very small space, and you could hear all three simultaneously, which meant you couldn't hear any of them well. It's an amazing collection, though.
After pizza, beer and football, they dropped me at Union Station. Almost everything was closed, so I went to the big screen theatre and watched Frozen (not in HD.) It was worth the $8 price tag, passed the time nicely, and gave me a chance to see a movie that none of my friends wanted to see. And now I read that one of the songs is up for an Academy Award, so I'm vaguely in the cultural loop. This is a good thing.
When I go back with V, I'll want to revisit the art museum and the BBQ joints, take in some music in the Blue Room, and check out the City Market in good weather. I'll also want to have dinner at the Savoy, and maybe spend a night or two. And I'm sure we'll find something else to occupy our time.
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