I Can't Find U Anywhere

Old Man in Red
1654

Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn

The Hermitage, St. Petersburg, Russia.

They sat together in the park
As the evening sky grew dark
She looked at him and he felt a spark tingle to his bones

(Bob Dylan, Simple Twist of Fate)

I can’t find U anywhere*

Not in the pantry. Not on the porch. Not in the basement or the mezzanine. . Not coming or going on any of the 131 stairways, 19 escalators or 13 elevators. I searched each of the 284 rest rooms to no avail. I know how silly this seems, nonetheless, I even looked in each and every one of the 672 fire hose cabinets. I agree, all of this seems desperate if not downright insane. Hey, what can I say? That’s what love does to people. “This is the brain on love.” Fried like an egg. Love can make fools of people easier than rabbits can make babies.

I went to the garden for a smoke, sat down on a bench next to an old bewhiskered man in a ratty black trench coat and asked him if there were any secret corridors that the average visitor like me wasn’t aware of. He looked kind of official. There was some sort of insignia on his red beret and he was wearing a badge of some sort, mostly hidden by the lapel of his coat, making it impossible for me to read what it said. He definitely had a strange demeanor; a presence that was not ordinary. Stately, I would say. Yes, stately is an apt way to describe him.

He appeared to be thinking. His eyes seemed to be riveted on something far away. I wondered for a moment if he was a Knight Templar who somehow got lost in time. Me and my imagination. Watching the History channel too often. It was more like a Monty Python skit. He was eating a bologna sandwich. There was mayonnaise on his bottom lip and some more of it dribbling down his chin. It was nasty. I felt a bit bad for the old fellow, and yet, at the same time, I didn’t want to embarrass him and bring it to his attention by offering him a napkin. I never know what to do in cases like that.

Nevertheless, I wasn’t going to let anything sidetrack me. I was on a mission. I showed him the photograph I always carry. The one where we are sitting together on a park bench feeding pigeons right next to the “Do Not Feed the Pigeons” sign. He looked at it, took it from my hand, moved it closer to his eyes and peered at it as if he was examining evidence. Forensic love evidence. I was afraid he’d get mayonnaise on it so I took it from him quickly and slipped it back into my pocket. I persisted. “I’ve looked everywhere. I can’t find hide nor hair of him. He can’t have disappeared into thin air.”

He cocked his head to one side, smiled cynically, and looked to the sky as if searching for an answer, then he raised one bushy eyebrow and said, “Who knows. Maybe he did.” He reached into his pocket. “Oh good,” I said to myself, “he’s finally going to wipe that mayonnaise off his face.” I wasn’t prepared for what happened next. Instead of a napkin, he retrieved a harmonica. Yep. That’s right. A harmonica. I handed him a napkin. He wiped his face. And then he started to play; “It ain’t me, babe, no, no, no, it ain’t me, babe, it ain’t me …....."

*The letter "U" is nowhere to be found in the above short story, except for the title of course.

by Leocadia (2008)

    

Bob Dylan - Simple Twist of Fate from Félix P. on Vimeo.

……….

Blackie

Original image from the film, Jesus of Nazareth, Franco Zeffirelli

When Jesus was nine years old he wanted a dog. He wanted a dog sooooooo bad. But his mother hated dogs, she was bitten by one when she was a young girl and still had a nasty scar on her right forearm to remind her of that awful experience. Whenever young Jesus brought a stray dog home and asked his mom if he could keep it, the answer was always the same. "Jesus. How many times do I have to tell you?   No!   No dogs!  And that's that!"  Then she would get out her broom and shew the poor smelly creature away.

One day Jesus was taking a walk when he came upon a gang of boys throwing rocks at a little black lamb.  It was the same group of boys who bullied him whenever they had the opportunity, mostly when there were no adults around.   Jesus felt for the little lamb.  It gave him a pain in the throat to see the lamb being tortured like that.   He yelled for the boys to stop throwing rocks at the innocent creature. They ignored him of course, and called him names like idiot, weirdo, white trash from Nazareth.   They threw a few rocks his way too.

Just as he was about to turn around and head home the shepherd who owned the herd from which the little black lamb had strayed, came by and told the gang of boys to get the heck off his property or he would kick their butts. They fled. The shepherd's name was Moe Finklestein.  He was a big dude. Moe saw that Jesus had been crying and assumed it was because of the bullies, but he didn't want to humiliate Jesus even further so he acted like he was clueless and said, "What are you crying about, kid?"  Jesus wiped his nose on his sleeve, looked up at Moe, and said, "The little black lamb."

Moe scratched his head. "Don't take it so hard," he said. "That lamb is worthless. First of all it's black, secondly, it's a runt, and third, the rest of the herd despise it because it's not like them. Even its own mother doesn't want it. No one passing by on their way to Jerusalem will buy it for a sacrifice, they only want the whitest lambs I've got. I just came out here today to get it and slaughter it for dinner tomorrow. So don't waste your tears little buddy."

Jesus felt like throwing up when he heard that. He said "How much do you want for it, Mister?"

Now Moe, he was a pretty discerning guy, even though he didn't look like much of a scholar. "Well, I'll tell you what. Are you any good with a saw and a hammer?"

Jesus' eyes lit up. "I sure am," he said. "My dad's the best carpenter in town and he's teaching me everything he knows." Of course, Moe already knew that.

"Well then," said Moe, "Howsa bout you coming over to my place on Monday morning, 7 am sharp. I got a shed that needs some mending and the Mrs. has been wanting a new table for a long time. In return, the black lamb is all yours. Deal?"

"Deal," said Jesus.  He and Moe high-fived it and then he picked up the little black lamb and ran home with it lickety split.  He couldn't wait to tell his mother of his good fortune and ask her "pretty please" could he have the little black lamb for a pet. "Maybe it's only dogs she don't like," he thought, hopefully, joyfully.

Mary was hanging the wash when he got there. Jesus put down the little lamb, it bleated and walked slowly over to her, licking her hand as she reached absentmindedly into the basket for another garment to hang. She was startled out of her reverie.  She had so many reveries, she was always looking off into the distance deep in thought, sometimes Jesus had to say "Mother" a gazillion times before he got her attention. "Jumping Jehoshaphat," she said. And then she knelt down by the lamb and nuzzled her nose against the black fur. "I had a little lamb like you when I was just a wee girl."

"Can we keep her, Mother?" asked Jesus. "Can she be my very own little black lamb?"

"Jesus" she said, using a school teacher's voice, pretending to be stern, "what have I told you about sharing?" And then she laughed. Jesus laughed too. And hopped around on one foot singing "Zippity Doo Dah".

Mary asked, "What are you going to name him?'

Jesus said, "Duh. Blackie. What else?"

(by Leocadia)

Beginning Life Anew: a story that bears repeating

Sir Anthony Van Dyck

It was a part of our Lord's ministry among men to restore to health the body as well as the soul. He was often moved with compassion by the disease and suffering which he saw as he went about Galilee or passed through the streets of Jerusalem. St. John, the evangelist (chapter v.), relates an incident which took place at a pool called Bethesda near a sheep market in Jerusalem.

There were here five porches in which lay "a great multitude of impotent folk, of blind, halt, withered, waiting for the moving of the water." It seems that at certain intervals the waters of the pool were troubled, as if moved by some unseen agency. It was believed that the first person stepping in thereafter would be healed of any disease he might have.

"And a certain man was there, which had an infirmity thirty and eight years. When Jesus saw him lie, and knew that he had been now a long time in that case, he saith unto him, Wilt thou be made whole? The impotent man answered him, Sir, I have no man, when the water is troubled, to put me into the pool: but while I am coming, another steppeth down before me. Jesus saith unto him, Rise, take up thy bed, and walk. And immediately the man was made whole, and took up his bed, and walked."

In our picture, Jesus has already brought the paralytic to his feet, and now sends him on his way. Two other men complete the group, but take no part in the conversation. One is a disciple, perhaps John, who accompanies the Master, the other is a spectator peering curiously over the paralytic's shoulder.

The restored paralytic carries under one arm a rug, which has been clumsily rolled into a bundle. This is the sort of "bed" used among the poor of Eastern countries. He is but half clad in a garment which slips from his shoulders, showing his emaciated form. The face is sharpened by suffering; he is altogether a strange and repulsive figure, representing a degraded class of humanity.

He leans now towards his unknown friend in a pitiable effort to express his gratitude. The eyes have a look of dumb devotion like those of a faithful dog. He lays one hand humbly upon his breast. Jesus turns to him with an expression of infinite compassion. He reads the man's heart with his searching glance. Thanks he does not need; his first care is to send the man forth to begin life anew.

The sequel of the story illustrated in our picture:

It happened to be the Sabbath day, and, as the restored paralytic passed through the city, the Jews said unto him: "It is not lawful for thee to carry thy bed."

He answered them, "He that made me whole, the same said unto me, Take up thy bed, and walk."   Then asked they him, "What man is that which said unto thee, Take up thy bed, and walk?"   And he that was healed wist not who it was: for Jesus had conveyed himself away, a multitude being in that place.

Afterward Jesus findeth him in the temple and said unto him, "Behold, thou art made whole: sin no more, lest a worse thing come unto thee."   The man departed, and told the Jews that it was Jesus, which had made him whole.

Take up they bed and walk

 

Christ Healing the Paralytic

c.1619

Sir Anthony Van Dyck (1599-1641)

Acquired by George IV

This is the work of a supremely brilliant 20-year-old Van Dyck working in Rubens’s studio and very possibly executing a Rubens design, under the supervision of the elder master. This compositional type - an intense, spectator-jostling drama where the canvas area is barely able to contain a small number of half-length figures - was invented by Caravaggio (1571-1610). An excellent example, the Calling of Sts Peter and Andrew of c.1605, is in the Royal Collection. The type was frequently copied by Italian and Netherlandish artists during the first two decades of the seventeenth century. Caravaggio also invented the idea of divine, classically dressed figures rubbing shoulders with the meanest member of the modern street. This encounter has here been rendered more acceptable by basing the paralytic on an antique statue, then thought to depict the death of Seneca and recorded by Rubens in a series of drawings - one of which (when reversed) provides the precise model for this figure. The man is clearly a wretch: he has the bodily imperfections - rounded back, gnarled muscle forms, prominent veins and mean physiognomy - which contemporaries would have read as the outwards signs of an unfortunate and a sinner. Yet at least his wretchedness is expressed in the language of classical antiquity. He makes an obvious contrast with the nobility of the Apostle to the right, who could be based on one of a variety of classical busts familiar to anyone working in Rubens’s studio.

In this intense drama Van Dyck (or more probably Rubens) expresses the way in which St Matthew’s Gospel (9: 2-8) describes a calling as well as a healing. It immediately precedes the calling of Matthew himself (9: 9). Christ sees the faith of those attending the paralytic and outrages some Pharisees by first telling him that his sins are forgiven him. This, he says, is more difficult than the simple task of healing, which is then duly accomplished. In this powerful image Christ draws the man up from his knees, and ushers him from out of darkness into the light, in an interaction similar to depictions of the Harrowing of Hell. The Apostle here is most likely to be the recently called St James, the pilgrim saint; all three characters in the drama seem to be setting off on a pilgrimage.

Commentary and Magnification  on and of this and other paintings in the British Royal Collection

Happy Birthday Patti

Patti Smith is 65 today.  I've always been drawn to her.  I'm not really sure why, but if pressed to give a reason I would say it is her realness.  I strive to be real myself, though I think it comes natural to Patti, it isn't something for which she has to strive.  She just is.  It's not easy to be real in such an unreal world.  Somewhere, somehow, in my unconscious meandering, I have made Patti an archetype of the female, my Anima, my alter-ego.  She seems to have struck a balance that I want to strike as well.  Perhaps I have and just don't know it.  Stranger things have happened. 

I wrote this poem after waking from a dream about thirty five years ago.  I didn't know very much about Patti at the time, which should be evident to anyone who knows her or who has followed her life and career.  This, admission however, isn't offered as an apology.  It's a reflection on how little we know at times of someone, and yet, with just a few raw facts, some hearsay,  a scattering of observations, a couple of half-baked conclusions, we make a decision to either reject them or take them into our heart.  Often, the decision turns out to be all wrong, costly, regrettable, but once in a while we strike it rich and form an admiration and attachment that lasts a lifetime.  The latter is the situation I find myself in with Patti. 

Punk Dream

Harvey cut my hair too short.

I didn’t tip him.

It took me a month

maybe more

to adjust to my new-wave reflection.

Thank God

I wasn’t going anywhere special

Oh

how relieved I was

to wake up in my bed

next to Johnny-not-so-rotten

and oh

how relieved I was

to learn I hadn’t really

gone to do the shopping

with safety pins

in both my ears

and oh

how relieved I was

to know it wasn’t me

who pulled down my pants

and peed on all those crackers

in the Acme.

An Arabic Christmas Carol (Byzantine Hymn of the Nativity)

For Isabel in the Wild Blue Yonder

In Madrid there stands a castle

made of tinsel so they tell

and within there lives a lady

by the name of Isabelle

All the dukes and princes court her

for her love and land as well

but there's none the king finds worthy

for the hand of Isabelle

Me and Isabel, Summer of 1966

 

Mrs. Isabel _____________ 52, wife of ______________,

died Tuesday, December 26, 1967 at her home.

Mrs._______ served in the WAAC's during World War II.  

She was a member of the American Legion; the S.P.C.A.

and the Philadelphia Zoo. In addition to her husband she

is survived by a son, ________. at home. Services will be

7 p.m. until 9 p.m. Thursday at the _______ Funeral Home.

Burial will be in Gettysburg National Cemetery, Gettysburg.

 

Isabelle would have loved this story.  While in the WAAC, she 

wanted to fly bombers to Britain but couldn't because she was a woman.

While the C-5 was turning over its engines, a female crewman gave the G.I.s on board the usual information regarding seat belts, emergency exits, etc.

Finally, she said, 'Now sit back and enjoy your trip while your captain, Judith Campbell, and crew take you safely to Afghanistan '

An old Master Sergeant sitting in the eighth row thought to himself, 'Did I hear her right? Is the captain a woman? '

When the attendant came by he said 'Did I understand you right? Is the captain a woman?' 'Yes,'! said the attendant, 'In fact, this entire crew is female.'

Women are Angels.
And when someone

breaks our wings,
we simply continue to fly...