Living in the Center of the Universe - Part Three

Every Picture Has Its Shadows 

Saying goodbye to each picture as I pick it up, I dust where it was then put it on a shelf in the garage.  That artist is pretty well known in Washington.  These I purchased at the Annual Art Festival, a new piece each year.  Who will look at this little statue I got in Arizona when it sits on their own shelf? This little fossil came from an estate sale of a man I never met.  I bought his small collection because I didn’t like the idea that his family could get rid of his things without a sense of his love for those belongings.  Maybe he had bought them when he and his wife traveled the world; perhaps he purchased them on a business trip to bring home to the kids.  No matter.  I have them now and every time I see them I think of the man whose home I walked through all those years ago.  I have no idea who he was but I think of him fondly. 

What about the empty turtle shell, what should I do with it?    I found it in a park in Land O’Lakes, Florida.  1988.  A secret weekend in Longboat Key, romantic with the wind blowing across the Gulf on a cool February evening.  He saw colors in my eyes that he said reflected the sunset.  I never had anyone look into my eyes like that, before or since.  I can still feel the pull.  We took our time driving backroads to the east coast through parts of Florida made famous by old fashioned postcards of Spanish moss covered oak trees. 

Somehow we found ourselves walking on a broad expanse of lawn incredibly green under the cloudless sky when at the same time our eyes fell on two small turtle shells side by side on the grass and completely empty as though their occupants decided to vacate them and move on to another life leaving all vestiges of their old lives behind. We looked at them as a romantic sign and each took a shell to remind ourselves of the weekend and each other. Sell it?  Take it?  I’ll leave it on the shelf and see if someone makes the decision for me.

I found a first edition of Marjorie Kinnan Rawling’s Cross Creek at another estate sale.  This time I did know the person.  She was a young woman, a poet, and I had often heard her name, Noelle, as one of those whispered wistful wishes of my older brothers when I was little.  It wasn’t until after she had died of cancer and I was looking through her bookshelves that I realized whose home I was in and that I had even met her on the beach a few summers before.  Not as the sweet Noelle of my brother’s longings but as Noelle, a really nice lady I met on the beach.  As I stood in the room and read her poetry it washed over me how I missed out on being a friend to this very lovely and special woman.  I longed to reel in the few years I knew her casually and create more of a bond but I was too late.  I didn’t even know she had died.  She got cancer and was gone.  I grieved for her loss and cried in her bedroom.  I think she would have been surprised to have found me there with tears in my eyes.  The estate people sure were.  I could not bear the idea of strangers walking through her home without an idea of who she was so I placed her personalized bookplates in anything I could so that her name at least lived on.

I added to Cross Creek another book, Rawlings’ own published cookbook.  I had heard rumors they existed  and so I looked one for one whenever I was in the bookstore of an old Florida town.   Finally, tucked away in the San Marco Bookstore I found my prize.  I was bound and determined to cook that whitefish stew in my heavy iron dutch oven.  A layer of onions, a layer of potatoes, a layer of fish, salt and peppered, layered tomatoes, onions, potatoes, fish again and tomatoes.  Water to cover, seal and bake.  Cornbread and swamp cabbage slaw.  Beer and friends.   

Why did I feel the need to wash things before I sold them?  Was it to make more money or just the idea that if strangers pawed through my things I wanted those things to be clean?  Both I suppose.  As I put a load of handmade aprons in to the laundry I tied the strings so that they wouldn’t tangle.  With every apron I pictured the life I had pictured, one filled with dinner parties, company around and good food on the table.  The perfect martini glasses were still up on their shelf in the kitchen, part of the same vision.  I had had the glasses since the trip to Coconut Grove with my sister and Mother for a cousin’s wedding. I was in my mid-twenties.  The glasses were Swedish and made of glass so thin that my lips barely felt them when I lifted them to drink.   

The life I had actually lived in was always so casual the glasses and aprons were on the shelf for most of their time with me.  As I stood over the washer I could feel a welling loss rise up inside me when I realized I need not regret their going but thank them for giving me the latest incarnation of a new and exciting life before me.  I had used them for a time and now it was time to let them go on to another world.  In essence, selling these things enabled me to move into a new life with new dreams and visions before me.

 

Living in The Center of The Universe - Part Two

The Road Before Us Is Not Long Enough

Wending our way to New Smyrna was a two day trek.  We stopped in Washington to visit Lincoln and have a meal at one of our favorite dining spots, Lauriol Plaza, and did I mention we spent the night at The Mayflower Hotel?  Thanks Priceline!  It had been a sloppy weather day getting started so it was a great first stop. 

Greeted by a bright blue sky the next morning we were off to Florida, but not before another night on the road, this time in Savannah. There is nothing like leaving the bright canyons of the city to find ourselves in a tunnel of live oak trees and Spanish moss in the dark of night. 

Long showers, clean towels and a good night’s sleep put us in the right frame of mind for the last leg of the trip.  But not before exploring some of the gardens near the riverside with some coffee, oh and perhaps I’ll try on that pair of boots in the window. 

Well, we’d better hit the road. There are no more reasons to delay the inevitable.

We finally pull into New Smyrna around dinner time but first at quick look at the house.  Yes, it’s all there.  There is nothing quite as disheartening as a cold, unused and unloved house to welcome us back.  I knew there was a reason it took so long to drive down.  The house was only that, a building that held our stuff.  It was not a home that held special memories and warmth.  In fact, it was a reminder of the promise of what could have been for not only was I returning to purge the stuff that had been acquired over the course of a lifetime, but I was coming to end a marriage. 

I had been in New York for a full year and had a husband in Florida.  Granted, it was a short lived marriage, but the union was made with the intent of commitment and the promise of love.  Walking into the house felt no different than when I lived there, alone, cold and temporary.  All of my belongings were inside yet I did not belong there.  With no love there is no sense of home, with no love there is no sense of belonging.  Love is the actual stuff of life.

I thought I remembered everything when I tried to recall just what things were in the house.  I had actually forgotten just how much stuff I had! Glass bibelots I had purchased in Venice,  a collection of boxes, my depression glass platters, pottery, so many lamps, carpets, paintings, books, photos, frames, my iron dutch oven, presents I had been given, boxes of letters I had saved, rocks I had picked up in the Grand Canyon, in Hawaii, in France.  And then there were all the things of Em’s life.  Her school career, her art work, Beanie Babies, books, gifts, thrift store finds and mounds of clothes! Essentially, we had an entire store of belongings we needed to organize, decide which to keep and which to give, sell or throw away, clean, and say goodbye.

 

Living in the Center of the Universe - Part One

The Road Before Us

It has been a year since Em Steel and I arrived in the Center of the Universe and to our surprise, it is a space of only 300 square feet.  We live in our own cozy nucleus within the energetic system of New York City. 

Belong.  Belonging.  Belongings.  Is it our belongings that make us who we are?  Or do they hold us back from our longings?  Em and I belong where we are right now, in this small apartment in the center of everything.  Everything!  The whole of New York City lies right outside our door. 

 

Here there is no room for extraneous stuff.  The cabinets store only enough for what is needed over the next couple of weeks. The closets limit clothing and shoes to the particular season outside the window.  I cannot hold on to that too small pair of pants while vowing to get down a size by summer. Pretty things in shop windows have no space on our shelves.  

What then to do with an entire house filled with our belongings 1100 miles away?  I have every card sent to my parents on the day I was born until my birthday last year.  Every report card, every "A" I ever earned.  Awards, little dresses my mother sewed for me, broken jewelry I thought I would get fixed one day, photos, paintings, pretty things that sit on my dressers, shelves of books, Christmas ornaments, a lifetime of collecting things that I really love.  I have every card that was sent to me when Emily was born, her homemade costumes and files full of her art and her "Walking Encyclopedia" award from kindergarten.

Em has her own collections that she has had no need to thin.  We have always had a central place that we could call home, for no matter how the road turned there was always a place we knew we belonged to and that held our belongings.

The logistics of the task before us kept me awake for months ahead of the action itself.  Having already sold my car do we fly back to Florida?  Baggage restrictions curtailed that option, not to mention renting a car, the cost of two round trip tickets for both of us and holding ourselves to a strict arrival and departure date was too limiting.  We had no idea what lay ahead.

I thought I could book a flight and drive a car back filled with what we could fit, but the cost of a one-way car rental was prohibitive. 

When we first moved to New York City, we travelled by train carrying 12 suitcases filled with what we thought we needed at the time.  Travelling with 12 suitcases is not a simple thing and the cost of train travel is not viable. 

So night after night I would either put off thinking  about what lay ahead or I would go over each option looking for the most cost effective, efficient and sensible plan. 

I finally settled on renting a car, driving to Florida and back to the city two weeks later.  We would need a ride while there and we would have a way to bring back what we decided to keep.  I reserved something full sized which meant a four door sedan.  Upon arriving at the rental garage the service rep suggested, without knowing the purpose of the trip, that I get a minivan with unlimited miles. It was perfect.  They even folded the seats away for us. 

 

For the first time in a year I was behind the wheel of a car and was looking for I-95 via the Jersey Turnpike in weather that varied between rain and fog with traffic that was light but very quick. White lines seemed to disappear on the wintered asphalt leaving me only the cars in front of me for navigation. 

This is a road I haven't been on before.
 

 

 

 

BLIND JUSTICE

An Original Tune (click!)

I found myself one morning

 In a court of law and land

Upon that ‘ol worn bible

Did I place there my right hand

I cannot lie I’ll tell the truth

Cause I’ve got no alibi

I’m guilty as the night is long

And now I’ll tell you why 

I woke up without my baby

Oh my heart was filled with dread

He left earlier that morning

Snuck right up out of my bed

He took his moving trunk  away with him

Left nothing but a note

So I set back down and braced myself

And this is what he wrote 

You know I love you baby

But I just got to go

I got to catch the train that’s leaving

I am not your one man show

I been all around this great big world

And I learned a thing or two

And the one thing that I know is this

To mine own self be true

Don’t think too badly of me

I sure meant you no harm

But I threw that letter to the floor

I’d fallen victim to his charm

His promises His poetry

His late night ne’er do well

But I ain’t never had such reverie

He was magic with a spell 

Now I knew for sure I’m not the first

He used so worldly wise

In every state and corner town

You can hear their broken cries  

So I took the matter in my own hand

And raced him to the tracks

And I know for sure there is no doubt

He won’t be coming back 

The judge looked down upon me

The verdict had come in

You’re honor she is innocent

This was no crime or sin

I knew this man and so did I

Each juror said in turn

 

Those cries you hear belong to us

His punishment he earned

So let this be a cautious tale

For those doing someone wrong

For it may not be the law you break

But you’ll pay before too long

There are rules that still apply

For those who steal by night

The fate you seal may be your own

Blind Justice sees it right

Blind Justice sees it right

Blind Justice sees it right

 

 

 



Time Flies!

It is December. How TWISTED is that!?!
(Live link to new music in the blue above!)

 

There are complete gaps in my memory of the days that have gone by simply because of the speed with which the year is flying past.  Yet, I can remember eating a bowl of buttery Olive Oil gelato while reading a New York Times article on Summer Fashion.  That was July 4^th.  

 

Or pushing 12 bags of luggage from 21^st Street to 22^nd Street, dropping my glove and praying no one would hand me a dollar thinking I was homeless, because I sure looked like it wrapped in several coats to keep from the labor of actually carrying them. That was last January. Finding the apartment in February and wandering aimlessly around the Village whose streets I now know as my own neighborhood.

 

Or sometime in July playing a host of decorated pianos in a midtown warehouse which the good people of the project Sing for Hope allowed me to play.  The little memory chip recording of the afternoon is still sitting on a shelf waiting for a compatible program to be downloaded. 

 

Or spending a luxurious weekend with my sisters when we stood at Eataly’s counter eating wonderful cheeses and Italian cured meats, dinner at ABCCocina  where we ate short rib tacos and kale, mushroom tacos.  Then on Saturday standing in line for the latest rage of Umami Burgers, then a quick stop at the Corner Bistro

 before later that Saturday evening to have an absolutely perfect restaurant experience from beginning to end at Union Square Café.  Besides fish and steak for the entree's we ate indescribable polenta with truffle oil walnuts and mascarpone, stuffed squash blossoms and totally enjoyed a stunning bottle of Burgundy. The next day we had  a lovely garden brunch at Palma while drinking a delicate La vie en rose cocktail, took a kitschy but memorable boat trip around Manhattan, enjoyed summer fruit at Morandi, and finally had a perfect farewell Mexican lunch on Monday at the now vanished Mesa Grill. Blues at Terra, Jazz at 55 Bar. The weekend is clear in my mind I just don’t know what weekend it was.   I could look it up, of course, but it was sometime in August or September.  The weather was perfectly warm and clear and the company was clearly perfect.  The girls, including my nieces, have since been back and in fact just left after a wonderful Thanksgiving weekend.  Thanksgiving is already in the past!

 

I've even worked here!  For a short stint I worked at Met Opera in the call center asking opera fans to support the Met.  I met great people there and experienced my first opera, a risqué Rigoletto in a honey comb of a theatre at Lincoln Center.  A quick aside:  I should've realized my days were numbered at Met Opera when on the first day of training the big boss walks into the room to say hello to the new hires and give us an overview of the grandeur which is Met Opera.  It is justifiably world famous.  Well, anyway, he sits down and the first words out of his mouth are "Hello, I am ... Please tell me who you are even though I am warning you, I will never remember  any of your names.  Even if I walk past you in the hall everyday I won't remember your name.  But go ahead, let's go around the table introduce yourself anyway."  So Lily said, "Hello, I'm Lily..."  Jack said, "Hello, I'm Jack..." And I said, "Hello, I'm Lucy McGillicuddy..."  No one got it.  Even the big boss.  I suppose I should've been more respectful but I thought they would get it and laugh and therefore remember my name.  But I think it just put me in his sights to get rid of me on the 89th day before the 90th when full benefits hit. 

 

I write professionally!  There are a couple blogs that I ghost write for, thank you Carol Robinson, and I have also been fortunate to write for WiseTribe, which is the brain child of a fellow New Smyrnan/New Yorker, Jacqueline Botting. 

After many trips to the incredible museums I have stood for the first time in front of Picasso’s 3Musicians, Van Gogh’s Irises, and Monet’s Water Lilies which fill an entire room at MoMA.  Em and I experienced The Warhol exhibit at The Met and I was amazed by the rattan sculpture  of the Cambodian artist Sopheap Chip, an amazing feat. I now know more about the architecture and art of Le Corbusier than I knew possible because his entire body of work and belongings took up the top floor at MoMA.  Em, Mary Katherine and I stood under a blazing sun while waiting to get into the Rain Room, a much heralded and mind boggling art piece, again at MoMA. 

I experienced the Civil War art exhibit at the Met with Mark out of which came one of my best songs.  I will share that one day. 

I made a trip to Florida to say goodbye to our Mother. 

Emily came back to New York after a summer away.

I experienced 9/11 in this city and could only peel away a corner of the painful experience that we all shared, but not like here. 

I’ve met up with friends who have come up to experience the city and gave me a call to join them. Thank you Linda! and Mary Alice and Doug and Danny! 

 

I've eaten the best wonton soup I've ever had and I am a complete nut for Borscht!

There was a very muddy week when several cousins and friends of Emily stayed here for a Tropical Storm whipped Governor’s Ball music festival.  Last May already! I fallen in love with Governor's Island, an island respite only a ferry ride's throw from Manhattan! Em and I went back in time there  at a Nineteenth century French Carnival in September. 

New friends made, music sung, apartment made into a home, and the feeling of becoming a new local, part of the scene of the city.  I absolutely love living here.  It is home. I have experienced all 4 Seasons here now.  Central Park in the Fall is my favorite. 

 

No, I think it's Spring. 

 

I started this chronicle Blonde in Big Town last March and it is just shy of 75 views before it has been seen 4000 times!  The statistics show that it has audiences in Russia, Germany, the Ukraine, Iceland, Venezuela, Serbia, France, Canada, Greece and The Netherlands!  I don’t know how you find it but thank you for coming!

 

If you have an Instagram account check out my photos @klclancy   I twitter too!  Go figure!  @IamKarenClancy (I do realize this is shameless self-promotion!)

 

To entice the push to 4000 views I have recorded one of my all-time favorites, Twisted, written and performed by Annie Ross of Lambert, Hendricks and Ross and also sung by Joni Mitchell.  Now it’s my turn! It’s me on the piano in my 3^rd Street Kitchen.   

Thanks for coming and pull up a chair!

Karen

 

 

 

 

Winter Approaches

as  Autumn Leaves

Amid requests for a post by my niece Liz Clancy, here is the latest from

New York City…it’s cold!! 

It doesn’t’ seem that long ago when my neck felt dirty and gritty in the thick heat of summer.  Now for the first time in my life I pulled all my warm weather clothes off the shelf and stashed them in plastic bags in the cabinet over the closet while replacing them with the few sweaters I will rotate until Spring.  

We had a beautiful, if quick, Autumn.  Em and I spent quite a few hours these past weeks rambling through The Ramble in Central Park.  It astounds me how the city disappears within the confines of the hills, vales and underbrush of the park.  It is a heavenly haven and one of the few places in the city I can look up and let my spirit fly skyward without hindrance.  

Tonight, with temps heading down into the 20's  the radiator clicks away and warms our tiny apartment while I sit in the bedroom writing and Em works in the kitchen with yards of fabric to make that perfect black dress she can’t find on any affordable rack in the city.  

I wanted to get to the Corner Bistro today to see people and have a beer and burger but before I knew it, it was already dark and only 4:30 in the afternoon.  Tomorrow is another day. 

Employment is eluding me.  I keep looking, applying and it appears that well, I better keep looking and applying.  “It will come” is my motto. 

The good thing about having time on my hands is that my piano playing is getting more proficient.  Perhaps that employment will be in the form of what I am actually trained to do, play, sing, mug and use my S’wonderful personality to entertain the glamorous people of New York City.  S’marvelous  if you would care for me!!  I record a lot of music with my iPhone on an app called SoundCloud.  Nothing fancy but it’s real.  My piano is set up on a wall in our tiny kitchen, thus the 3^rd Street Kitchen Session title in place holder.  

Before it got too cold we had fun being a part of the Village Halloween Parade.  Em Steel was a hit as Cherry Garcia and she used her artistic skills to apply my makeup reviving some of my more theatrical days of the 1980’s.  The last time I was part of a Halloween parade was when Em and her little cousins walked Canal Street in our hometown.  The New York Parade was straight up 6th Avenue in The Village which was lined with thousands upon thousands of people.  I have never felt so anonymous in my life but there were crazy moments of connection with bystanders, cops, and marchers.   I brought a bag of Snickers with me and was rewarded with quick eye contact, hand to hand connections and smiles.  I just can’t stand being invisible! 

      In honor of the season I've recorded Autumn Leaves for this Session at my 3rd Street Kitchen.  The video link in the sub-title up above was taken last week during our ramble.

Thanks for stopping by!

Karen

 

Week's End

Wild Is The Wind

 

(D.Bowie)

I've reached the end of a rough week, the weather was ugly sticky hot, it was my first 9/11 in the City in which my stay was uncertain, and two friends in Florida were involved in auto accidents, one beautiful woman is in very serious condition and heartbreakingly, we've lost a woman who was truly remarkable.   I've been alone to live through it. There was no inspiration for music. 

I finally opened up my music notebook and played the piano.

This is what came out.