Endless Knots

Start your week right with "Baby Dancer"

This is why I love the web

I may be the last person online to have seen this but, holy schmazoo...this is collaboration at its best. And it's all to the tune of the great Ben E. King song, "Stand by Me," itself enough to run the tears down the cheeks.

Playing for Change ("dedicated to connecting the world through music") is responsible; the musicians--from around the world and mainly from the street--are gorgeous. Check out what happens at the very end.

Comfy chairs, wireless, and a harp

Maybe it's this way in all such places. I don't know. Like you, I'm sure, I try to avoid them.,  But every so often, someone we care about has a "meeting" in one of these places and there you are, waiting. Such was the case this morning when a relative had a rather long meeting with a machine made of magnets. Anticipating that the magnets might be running a bit late, I brought along my computer, thinking I could work while waiting, hoping that if the meeting went on too long, I would be able to find a plug.

To my delight, I found a place to sit, a very comfy chair with a coffee table in front, a light on the table behind. Ah-ha! There had to be a plug. A three-pronger, no less. I turned on my machine and ...! Wireless with a welcome notice, allowing me in as a guest, without even registering or providing my name. A good strong 5-bar signal at that.

I got to work, opening, storing, deleting, writing...and then and then...just behind me, the gentle plucking of strings. A harpist had come in, set up, not ten feet from me, all so quietly that I hadn't even noticed until she filled the lobby with a celestial serenade, the lobby, that is, of Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center in Boston.

Mirabile dictu: Phish phans @ Phenway

Fotos by Eliza Stamps

Given the large number of Phish fans (and the hilarity that sweeps the phamily recalling the time I repherred to the band as "The Phish") and given that one such phamily member* went to the concert, I must repher phans to Sarah Rodman's review, "Phish and fans come back together for a pledge of mutual allegiance," in today's Boston Globe. I love her lede (the word phormerly known as lead but somehow transmuted in recent years):

"The Star-Spangled Banner" felt like an appropriate opener for the Phish show at Fenway Park last night, as the members of the Vermont rock band reconvened with one another and their nation of fans to pledge allegiance to the jam.

If band members were seeking a good omen for this reunion, following a five-year hiatus, they had to look no farther than the sky. In the time it took them to get back from the rain-soaked infield - where they performed an intricate a cappella version of the anthem in Red Sox jerseys - to the stage for the start of the show proper, the sun had broken through and a rainbow appeared over the outfield.

 

View from pitcher's mound

*First-hand report of small miracles: due to phamily scheduling conphlicts, said member was phorced to take a taxi to the T into Boston in a horrible downpour. As she departed the cab, the taxi driver gave her an umbrella. Moments later, she emerged from the T to phind her concert-mate at the appointed spot. The rain stopped, the clouds parted, the sun emerged, and as they took their spots, centers seats on the phield, the rainbow appeared.

Click on, Mama Africa

Miriam Makeba, musician and activist against apartheid, died yesterday, collapsing onstage after singing one of her most famous and wonderful songs, "Pata Pata," according to a beautiful piece by Celean Jacobson on Huffington Post:

JOHANNESBURG, South Africa — She died just how she wanted to _ singing on stage for a good cause. And her recorded songs wafted out of taxis and radios, as fellow Africans struggled with their grief at her passing.

Miriam Makeba, the "Mama Africa" whose sultry voice gave South Africans hope when the country was gripped by apartheid, died Monday of a heart attack after collapsing on stage in Italy. She was 76.

In her dazzling career, Makeba performed with musical legends from around the world _ jazz maestros Nina Simone and Dizzy Gillespie, Harry Belafonte, Paul Simon _ and sang for world leaders such as John F. Kennedy and Nelson Mandela.

Her distinctive style, which combined jazz, folk and South African township rhythms, managed to get her banned from South Africa for over 30 years.

Some young readers may not recognize her work but many will. Sad to see such a talent pass on; happy to have her on my playlist. I possibly have revealed this before: To keep myself sane while writing, I periodically crank up the ole (how ole can it be, actually?) iPod, typically blasting Miriam's "Click Song" -- and I dance. She's moved me, literally, for years.

I love Miriam Makeba for her verve, her expression, her range, her courage (not an easy life at all, despite her fame), and what she sings about, in this case, a wedding song. I've listened to it so many times that I know the lead-in by heart:

In my native village in Johannesburg there is a song that we always sing when a young girl gets married. It's called "The Click Song" by the English because they cannot say, "Qongqothwane."

Thanks to the interwebs, you can watch "Pata Pata," as per above, or go here, where she sings "Qongqothwange" and explains her language, one of the Xhosa family. I don't like the tempo of this one as much as I do the one I listen to regularly but her explanation of trying to pronounce that "click" and the use of consonants is wonderful. Here are the words to the song:

Igqira lendlela nguqo ngqothwane
Igqira lendlela nguqo ngqothwane
Sebeqabele gqi thapha bathi nguqo ngqothwane
Sebeqabele gqi thapha bathi nguqo ngqothwane

And here's her obit by Alan Cowell from today's New York Times. Click on, Miriam.

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Clancy hands

Thanks to wonderful friends, we attended the season opening of Boston's Celebrity Series (link is to its blog, of course) on Friday night, which got me thinking about hands. My father loved and constantly listened to classical music, which, as a little girl I reportedly pronounced "clancy," so he was with me too during the piano recital celebrating Leon Fleisher's 80th birthday (the program here).

I was not familiar with Fleisher's work or story but it's why I'm using my hands now to write about hands. For nearly 40 years, this astonishing pianist lost the ability to play with his right hand because of "focal dystonia." Then recently through treatments, including massage and botox, he's regained its use.

He played on Friday night, including three duets, meaning four-handed pieces, where it was hard to tell whose hand was where, a dance of hands.

Our hands are remarkable, astonishing, capable of beauty and miracles. With them, we feed ourselves, make food, art, music, and love - and so much else. I'm looking at my own hands as I type and thank them for allowing me to express myself, even though two fingers on my left hand have been numb for more than a dozen years because of MS.

And I can't post this without thinking of MC Escher's ode to hands.

Meet Henry the Fiddler

After Networking, our first book was published lo' those many years ago, we received many letters, phone calls, and visits from readers around the world who felt kinship with the ideas and networks we wrote about there. One early correspondent was a guy with the curious name, Henry the Fiddler (click and you'll see why). We wrote back and forth for a while, talked on the phone, and he once came to visit - or we met up at a conference somewhere (I'm sure Henry will correct me!). Henry introduced me to Burning Man, the crazy, wild, unlike-anything-else gathering, which he rightfully called a network and, from that point on, whenever I saw anything about Burning Man, I thought of Henry. Last I heard from him was perhaps a dozen years ago.

Fast forward to a month ago when our Dutch friend, Ton van der Hoeve, posts pictures to his Facebook page from this year's Burning Man. Of course, I thought of Henry and instantly wrote on Ton's Wall, in the Facebookish way of enthusiasm and multiple exclamation points: "Ton - have you run into Henry the Fiddler yet? Great pics! Don't get sunburned!!!"

Comes then last night's email. Guess who? Henry the Fiddler - but he wasn't at Burning Man, has never heard of Ton...instead, he's reappeared via this path:

So here's a blast from the past.  Here is a good full circle networking example:  I started at Worldchanging.com, took the off ramp to my old friend Gil Friend, took the next ramp to Gil's blog, and bingo ... an off ramp to Jessica Lipnack's blog!  I recall talking to you from Memphis back in '96.  Good to see you are still at it and still on the networking trail...

Thanks, Gil! And nice to "see" you again, Henry. And please, readers: feel free to post your coincidence stories. As often as it happens, never ceases to amaze.

Margaret Fullerenes - The Film - Friday, May 23

Delighted to share this good news: filmmakers Ron Mortara and Kim Romano will join our Margaret Fuller birthday gathering at Mount Auburn Cemetery this coming Friday, May 23 (meet inside front gates at 8 AM, then proceed to the Fuller lot on Pyrola Path).

Ron will film, Kim (check out the trailer for her film Muriel) will do sound. "We" [she smiles toward Ron] plan to make a very short film about this gathering. The "script" goes something like this: We'll take a quick tour of the Fuller graves, I'll read from Fuller's work, anyone moved to speak will do so, and we'll end with John Halamka playing a mourning song on his Shakuhachi (Japanese flute).

I had the chance to work with Ron three years ago on his film, The Beat. Ron used his knowledge as an ex-neurosurgeon for this imaginative piece in which a scientist discovers that the same part of the brain that recognizes rhythm is responsible for violence. In the film, I played the scientist's artist-wife. We filmed in my friend Emily's painting studio. Here's Ron on the set of The Beat.

For those who love water, whales, sailboats, and beautiful essays, you must see Ron's short, HUNGER ANGER LOVE PLAY, his meditation on what a whale might be thinking.

Local readers and those in Boston this Friday, please, all welcome to join.

Margaret Fullerenes - Fri, May 23, 8 AM, Mount Auburn Cemetery

Last year l-r: Jeff Stamps, me, Ruth Nemzoff, Annie Marascia Luongo

Friday, May 23, 2008, is the 198th birthday of Margaret Fuller. As usual, we repair to the Fuller Lot, Pyrola Path, Mount Auburn Cemetery at 8 AM to walk around, pay homage to Bucky and Anne Fuller, and talk about Margaret. This year, special guest John Halamka - it’s his birthday too -  plays a Japanese mourning song on his Shakuhachi (Japanese flute). Please join us.

John writes: "I'll play Banshiki, which comes from the Itcho-ken Temple in Hakata, on the island of Kyushu,  Japan.  This very Buddhist honkyoku (meditation) recounts the soul's journey from this life, full of attachments and feelings, toward the peace of enlightenment, which lies beyond. The word 'shiki' in the title means to 'pass or cross over.'"

"This little machine surrounds hate and forces it to surrender"

Photo by Karl Rabe/The Poughkeepsie Journal, December 5, 2004

My friend Jane rarely makes prescriptions but when we talked last week she gave me an Rx: Go see the Pete Seeger movie, this after I described the time we recently spent with the Dalai Lama. Now, to my knowledge, the Dalai Lama doesn't play the bango and Pete Seeger doesn't wear saffron robes but having seen Pete Seeger: The Power of Song, I understand the connection. Jane's preface to the advice was this:  clear light comes through both men, the power of conviction.

Documentaries of this sort can easily slip into paeans, genuflections to the great. This one doesn't. First, there's the music, the songs so familiar that they evoke sensations like those of your favorite childhood meal or, pushover that I am, tears. Next, there's the example of a person who believes in a way of being in the world and pursues it, not by stepping on people but by simply continuing. And there's the honesty: his wife of forty-million years, Toshi, says: "If only Pete had been chasing women rather then causes,  I could have left him." Anyone with a purpose-driven spouse understands.

Politcally persecuted (HUAC came after Seeger; he was blacklisted; and his career was ruined more than once), Seeger just kept singing. This post's title, "This little machine surrounds hate and forces it surrender," is lettered on Seeger's bango and explains what five strings and a big heart can do.

Children have been his greatest audience, a truth I must have absorbed without realizing it. I wrote a scene into a novel where Seeger gives a concert at the summer camp attended by the main character. (Truthfully, I've never heard him in person.)

Watching the film, an image kept recurring: To hire a bus and drive around to the houses of all my friends, load them in, and circle back to the theatre to watch this together. How old-fashioned when I can simply post here, have you click on the trailer and at least get a flavor. Don't miss this film--and don't be surprised if I show up at your door.

Personal note: Just as the singing was to begin at Carolyn Goodman's memorial service, her son David said that Pete Seeger had been planning to attend but was not feeling up to it. I never inquired what the problem was so I cannot report whether he is truly ailing or only had a cold but, at 88, this man has the strength of ten or a hundred.