NEW YORK

NEW YORK

Bluebell woods in Brooklyn Botanics

No culture shock here.  Just a shocking change in the weather:  first day blowing a gale; day two, frigid in the park; day three, 70 degrees and rising; 85 degrees in the evening before we leave on an Amtrak train for Niagara.  But a sweet memory of a sunny day in the Brooklyn Botanic Garden before I go.

America's a country of contrasts:  break dancing to Hari Krisna musicians in Union Square; transparent, industrial-strength wrappings on packets of food – or am I getting older and weaker? – names that conjure up America’s history, especially its American Indian past – Poughkeepsie, Milwaukee, Utah, Chesapeake and Chicago; elegant old ladies in Central Park; people walking dogs raped in bespoke, sartorial chic;  

Break dancing in Union Square

The Hudson High Line walkway affords a view to the west, the dark water flowing out to the Atlantic.  And natural woodland, like I saw in Japan, the variegated greens of the various trees rolling over the hills, unlike the serried rows of conifers that cover large ares of Scotland and that stay dark green throughout the year.

Americans seem to love their flags, their god and their country.  That’s the impression anyway.  They take a pride in what they are and what they do.  That self-critical mode of thinking that you find so much in the UK is missing.

Flags in the garden

Then there are the rich and the poor; the sane and the crazy; the young and the old. All are embraced as one community and people just get on with what they’re doing, mostly.  But the effects of America’s history can still be felt.  Especially amongst the African Americans.  So many of the poor souls are lost in the city, wandering around with their minds totally lost.  They are the dark ghosts of the past, never having been able to fit in to society and once down, staying down.

I leave a New York I never really knew in the past.  Now a city of homogenised stores and corporate businesses, there are still unique corners and enclaves with surprisingly singular names:  Berried Treasures, fredflare, Seaburn Book Store and Krause's Candy Kitchen.  

In Flushing, there is an amazing sculpture of a globe, about 60-feet high with the land-masses cut out to reveal their silhouette against the blue sky.

The globe in Flushing Meadows

There's so much of US still to see.  Maybe the next trip, if there is one.

NAKED LENNON

I dreamed last night I was checking in to the Dakota in NYC with my wife.
Although I'd only ever stood on the outside with my nephew being snapped by a French tourist, the detailed chaos of the interior was a set piece which would have done justice to Polanski's TheTenant. For reasons unexplained, my wife and I were alloted separate rooms and I ended up in a filthy bedroom with clothes scattered everywhere. Suddenly, at the reception desk, I showed our passports indicating that we lived at the same address in Scotland; this seemed to suffice and it was agreed that we could share a room.

As I set out to look for her and as this was PC (pre-cellphone) finding each other in this cavernous yellow submarine became a panicked ride to the 42nd floor (hey, this is a dream!) and a stomach-crunching plunge to the street in a battered cage of a lift-enough to waken the dead, which it did.

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Last night I watched Lennon Naked on BBC 4: John loses his father; loses his mother; marries Cynthia; discovers Yoko; leaves Cynthia; leaves Julian; fights the world; takes his irascible self off to US and doesn't return-ever; continues taking a lot of drugs; doesn't believe in anything except himself.

His intermediate life between the break up of the Beatles and his flight to US, and his appearance, down to the schook, are brilliantly represented by Christopher Ecclestone. His acerbic wit biting all around him...except Yoko, played by Naoko Mori in high def verisimilitude.

I recall walking in Central Park and coming across an old hobo. Could have been John's father for all I know. There he was, the centre of attention amidst the milling tourists who had come to see Yoko's tribute to John-Strawberry Fields- across from the Dakota. The picture of John at his white piano was ignored and the only evidence of remembrance was a white rose .

Meanwhile, the old bum sat there the centre of attention with a swarm of cameras clicking away and I couldn't help thinking, "He knows where he's at and he knows what he believes in: himself!" Could have been an reincarnation of John himself if he hadn't been so old. "There's no half singing in the shower, you're either a rock star or an opera diva," Lennon said. With the old hobo, he knew who he was and gave it the full Monty. "Why lie, I need a beer and peace and love," said the sign, "and lots of sex" was added underneath.

Lennon had it right. How many millions of us are thinking we could have done so much more if only we had been driven by the angst that's necessary to create our inner world around us, the courage to be who we are. As Lennon says to Brian in a taxi, to paraphrase, "I am who I am." Implying, you'll just have to get on with it. Maybe we're more like John's pathetic father Freddy brilliantly played by Christopher Fairbank who keeps his Liverpudlian humour almost till the end, spiraling into a whirlpool of despair as John plays Mother and asks him what it's about. The screaming cadences at the end is a reminder of just how much emotion Lennon put in to a song. Unable to understand that the song is about him (or is he pretneding not to understand?) he says, "It's not the Beatles." He finally and tearfully replies to John's tirade against his father, "I tried my best,"

Very little of the beauty and tenderness of Jealous Guy and Mind Games: more Power to the People and Cold Turkey.

Paul's parting rejoinder to John's demands that he started the band and now he's finishing it, "If you do, you do: if you don't, you don't", are mocked with John's characteristic sardonic reply, "That could be the title of a song," or fuck you, Paul. I'm off.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00sv451

शांति शांति शांति

Back in action...

Back in action again after a lull, not helped by the alcohol I've been drinking. Not much, but enough to divert the mind to activities other than writing and keeping this blog up to date.



Winter sweeps in again and the frost lies on trees and grass. Seagulls squawk in the park across the road, searching for food or fighting over bread scattered on the ground.



I have a story of a friend of mine. I was reminded of him while watching a film of Ideal School in Kathmandu. I think the year was 1982 and was shot on video which later had convered to dvd. He appears at the side of the stage during a public concert held by the pupils of the school.

Watch the next blog.