Bach in the DC Subway

"As an experiment, The Washington Post asked a concert violinist--wearing jeans, tennis shoes, and a baseball cap--to stand near a trash can at rush hour in the subway and play Bach on a Stradivarius. Partita No. 2 in D Minor called out to commuters like an ocean to waves, sang to the station about why we should bother to live.

A thousand people streamed by. Seven of them paused for a minute or so and thirty-two dollars floated into the open violin case. A cafe' hostess who drifted over to the open door each time she was free said later that Bach gave her peace, and all the children, all of them, waded into the music as if it were water, listening until they had to be rescued by parents who had somewhere else to go."

David Lee Garrison, Sweeping the Cemetery: New and Selected Poems, Browser Books Publishing, 2007.

Vito Sails

David called to ask if he could tell a story about Vito the sailor (my fictitious alter ego) at a workshop at his church. He wants to talk about Vito's "rare and persistent faith." I said, "That sounds like a disease." Felt honored nonetheless.

Friendly Pillows

Managed to wake up in less than my usual Saturday morning morass. A relief to feel befriended by my pillows. The room was flooded by light. When I opened the window, the bamboo was rustling. The bees my housemates are raising below my window were probably rustling too but I chose not to pay attention to them. Just the goodness of wanting to be awake, of having a few errant optimistic thoughts.

My Favorite Critic

"I need an audience," I said to my friend, Dee, on the phone. "Oh, good. Oh, wait a minute, I have to turn off the radio." I read her the poem I'd just finished. About two sentences in, she started laughing and laughed through the rest of it as I had hoped she would. "My dear, the world of poetry would be missing something so wonderfully strange without you." And then because she always closes our conversations like this, she added, "I leave you with that thought."

Breadcrumb

A day burdened by unimaginable lethargy and the lyric, "You sheltered me from harm, kept me warm..."

Soap

Clean clothes. The feel of them. Resting on my skin, fresh from the dyer and, therefore, unwrinkled. Not bliss. A small quiet victory. A little headway into the chaos. All about soap.

The Sailor Man

My friend David emailed me that Vito is making another appearance in the newsletter David publishes to support the mental health program at his church. Vito is me. According to my cover, Vito is a "compact, handsome man [...] brave as any sailor." It's odd to read about yourself thus disguised. Even odder that, in my mind, I am now referring to myself in third person. What does Vito need?