Long Walk in the city 6/21/11

It was a beautiful Boston summer day, eight hours of which I had spent in cramped air-conditioned offices. Walking home from class, I determined that it was a crime not to get out in the city and enjoy this fine weather. I arrived home, put on a serious pair of walking shoes, leashed up my exuberant longhaired dachshund, and headed for Mass Ave. I started out walking on Massachusetts Avenue through the Back Bay towards Cambridge. The streets were full of traffic and swarms of various people and tourists looking to shop, drink, and dine on Newbury Street. The busy atmosphere on Newbury street is always exciting, but at rush hour it becomes almost too hectic. Continuing on through the back bay, I enjoy the relaxing quiet atmosphere that settles in as I walk further away from the busy streets. Tourists and shoppers are slowly replaced by runners, bikers, fellow dog walkers, and residents of the area traveling home . Rows and rows of beautiful, historic brownstones make up the majority of the buildings, with wide sidewalks and beautiful foliage lining the streets. After crossing Beacon street, I arrive at the Mass Ave bridge, and take the footbridge down to the Charles River. The Charles River esplanade has always been one of my favorite outdoor places to go and relax in Boston. The atmosphere reminds me of my childhood in rural New Hampshire. My younger self enjoyed tree climbing, frog-catching, and lounging in gardens, burying my toes in the dirt. However, as a young musician applying for colleges, I couldn’t resist the pull of a city like Boston or New York. Thus the serenity I find in the esplanade is the closest I come to compromising with my adult self and my inner, younger self. Runners, bike riders, people walking, dog owners throwing Frisbees and tennis balls, young people, old people, and so many more make up the population that frequents this beautiful park. Besides attracting people looking for exercise, the esplanade also draws in sunbathers, students, tight-rope walkers, cooks lighting charcoal barbecues, musicians, and artists. With this amount of diversity, there is always something interesting to see. My walk on the esplanade continued all the way to the footbridge exiting to Beacon Hill. After a brief stop to give my dog a drink of water, I continued the walk throughout the beautiful Beacon Hill neighborhood. As a proud resident of Boston concluding my third year in the city, I decided to randomly turn down new unexplored streets and blindly navigate to the Boston Common. The people I passed in Beacon Hill regarded me and my well groomed canine companion like fellow residents of “the hill”. I love living in Boston and the Beacon Hill neighborhood is one of the most historic and beautiful places to reside. It is also one of the most expensive, inhabited by notable individuals throughout history like Louisa May- Alcott, Charles Sumner, Edward Kennedy, John Hancock, and at present, the Heinz-Kerry’s. Many of the Beacon Hill homes were used as stops in the Underground Railroad. When I would stop to chat with a fellow walker I made no effort to confess that I actually lived in the much more affordable Symphony neighborhood. I indulged in a somewhat false identity on this leg of the walk that I was a property owner in this area, out for a walk after a hard days work trading stock, or in court; rather than practicing trumpet. I continued past beautiful building after building on the narrow streets. I took in tiny corner markets, playgrounds, and little farm stands set up on corners. Soon I emerged on Beacon Street and crossed to walk along the Boston Common. This evening, the Common was brimming with life. As I walked on one of the many paths that cross this park, two gigantic young English Sheepdogs off of their leashes bounded towards my tiny dachshund and I. Instantly my 10 lb dog began simultaneously cowering between my feet and ferociously barking to warn off the much bigger dogs. As if on cue the sheepdog owners emerged wearing matching Lacoste polo shirts, apologizing for their dog’s behaviors. Immediately after apologizing they started questioning me about my dog’s training. “What dog school did she attend?” “Is she properly socialized?” I assured the couple that my dog was trained and fully socialized, explaining that she was not accustomed to being approached by energetic large dogs ten times her size. I finished chatting with this couple and walked away, finding a nice spot on the grass to lie down on. As I laid on the grass, with my dog, I simply stayed in one place and watched the whole city move around me. After 15 minutes of this peaceful rest, I began my journey home; for my route home I walked down a bustling Boylston Street, and passed through Copley Square. Being a Tuesday, the farmer’s market was still going on, and I strolled amongst the tents watching as merchants finished their sales for the day and closed up shop. I continued home on Huntington Avenue, taking a detour through the Christian Science Plaza, to let my dog play in the fountain. Since it was hot that day, the fountain was crowded with young children, splashing, laughing, and playing while under the watchful eyes of their parents. I crossed Massachusetts Avenue, turned at Symphony Hall, and made my way home, feeling a little bit better acquainted with my city than when I started out.

Dance for World Community Festival

          On Saturday June 11, 2011 I attended the 3^rd annual José Mateo Dance for World Community Festival in Cambridge, MA. Despite being a rainy cool June day many dancers, community members, and tourists bared both the elements and the atrocious lack of parking to attend.   Created by the José Mateo Ballet Theatre, Dance for World Community aims to “harness the power of dance to improve the social and environmental health of our communities locally and beyond”. It aims to invite people to take part in collaborative action and celebration for the well-being of the entire community.

         This years festival involved 3 outdoor stages, 1 indoor stage and 2 days of free performances, classes, and seminars about the role dance has in today’s society. The festival also included an area called “Advocacy Way”, where non- profit and social service organizations have booths to speak about their work within the greater Boston community. There were 55 diverse groups performing and giving introductory lessons. Most of them were Boston area dance companies, or schools of dance. There were modern dance companies, belly dancing schools, flamenco performers, west African groups, ballerinas, hip hop dancers, children’s groups, polish dancers, Persian dancers, and many many more.

I felt as though the diversity of the types of performers and types of classes offered was reflected in the many types of people attending the festival. Children stood dancing in front of the stages, attempting to reflect the moves they saw in the shows. Dancers with bandaged toes, perfect buns, and beautifully turned out feet stopped to watch other dancers as they passed by. Parents and families of performers came and went, often assisting dancers with all of the costumes they were carrying. Many people were taking tours of Harvard and simply happened upon this vibrant festival. Some seemed to be drawn because of the vendors, pedaling jerk chicken, seafood, barbecue, kebabs, ice cream, and more. It seemed as though this many people could relate to this festival because it was a sort of celebration of the human body.

One performance which stood out to me was the late afternoon show by Luminarium Dance Company. Luminarium is a contemporary dance company founded in the summer of 2010 by choreographers/ filmographers/ lighting designers/ thinkers Kimberleigh A. Holman and Merli V. Guerra. The company describes themselves as “a new outlet for the performing arts”, and a “think tank, museum, and gallery” for not only contemporary dance but also contemporary ideas. Guerra and Holman incorporate fascinating video projection and ingenious lighting choices to illuminate the dancers of their diverse company and enhance the senses of viewers. A typical Luminarium show never underwhelms, and audience members should be prepared to cry, laugh, smile; and through these emotions be brought closer to their fellow human beings.  Despite being outside under a tent, on a stage with puddles in the corners, this performance did not fail to uphold the high esteem with which I regard the company’s work.

The piece performed was entitled, “You have hands, too?” and was co- choreographed by both Holman and Guerra. Even before I saw any bodies on the stage, I was moved by the implications of this title. The words were quirky and simple but my mind easily projected other meanings as soon as I heard them. I could not stop thinking about one person turning to another and saying “You have hands, too?”. It captures a moment where one becomes aware that there is more to their world than themselves. That the inhabitants of their world, who may talk, dress, look, or act differently, are the same as they are. The festival emcee then announced a written description of the piece that I found quite relevant.

“This piece is a celebration of the amazing capabilities of the mind and body that every one of us has been given.  Remember not to take for granted each step, each thought and each gesture.  We hope that this piece inspires our audiences to go forth to find their personal limit within the untapped physical potential that their facility possesses.”

The performance began with all dancers in the rear left corner of the stage. As the music began, the dancers began somewhat of a game to line up diagonally across the stage.  Each seemed to have a number that, upon it being spoken, would instigate them to move forward in the line.   They wore white men’s dress shirts covered in hand written phrases. One dancer emerged from the group dressed in black being propelled forward by another dancer, who hurriedly crawled ahead of the dancer in black rolling out a piece of fabric for her to step on, and fussing with her appearance. With the contrast between costuming of the group and singled out dancer I was left with imagery in my head akin to Seuss’s “Star-Bellied Sneetches”. Soon the dancer and her attendant reached the end of the diagonal (where a white shirt magically tumbled out of the unrolling fabric) for her to put on, to join the group.  Just after that, a dancer in a white dress shirt without writing on it stumbled onto the stage, the group of dancers running over to attack her with uncapped Sharpie markers, and to make her shirt match theirs with writing covering the body and sleeves.  Later in the piece dancers chase each other around the stage and read the text off of each other’s backs, before the piece burst into a very physical portrayal of what the human body can do. The musical score to the piece ranged from a voice speaking out numbers, to hands clapping, to waves crashing on a beach, to electronic distorted fuzz ; there was frantic and chaotic music woven into it all, blending seamlessly with the clapping and vocal insertions that Guerra and Holman had concocted.   

Overall, the work of Luminarium choreographers Guerra and Holman is full of emotion. Rather than making their dancers identical clones of one another, they give out roles and have each dancer play a character. On the faces of the dancers you can read a story.  One is unsure about being left out of a group but has a look of panic on her face when the group comes to assimilate her into their kind.  One is a curmudgeonly old man who taps his foot while waiting for his usual bus, only to be copied and made fun of by other characters on the stage who notice this strange man. Guerra and Holman know their dancers well and as a result they make choreography to bring out the individual talents that make their company spectacular as a whole.

I feel that in today’s fast paced world, where we are always looking for the next best thing before it even exists, it is nice to be reminded of how alike we all are. And through the varied performances, classes, and spectators at the Dance for world Community Festival I was reminded again and again that despite appearing different at first glimpse, we all dance to the same beat.

About Town

        It was a humid, steamy Thursday night around 10:00. I was walking back from Cambridge with some fellow band members talking and laughing. We were making our way down Mass Ave, which seemed to be much emptier than usual. Maybe it was the extreme heat and humidity, the first of its kind this year, that drove everyone inside. After too long a walk, we parted ways across from Symphony Hall and I mentally calculated the amount of walking I had left to do before I reached my apartment.   

          Amidst mentally browbeating myself for half a block for not packing a pair of flat shoes, and trying to get my mind off of the pinched and numb feeling in my toes, my thoughts were interrupted by a strange voice.

                 “Hey girl, you look like heaven…”

               I looked to my left to see a strange man sitting on the stoop of an apartment building. At first I was scared and intimidated, looking over at him, but then I quickly looked straight ahead again, completely ignoring the remark. I am from an average sized town in Southern New Hampshire, population 25,000, where strangers walking on the same street wave or stop and say, “Beautiful day it is today, perfect day to do some planting!”. Where fathers teach their daughters to wave and chat with the canoe full of people passing you by on the lake. So, it might have been the lack of politeness in the voices of these complete strangers when they called out on the street that offended me so. Not 2 minutes later, I heard a similar,

                 “You lookin’ so beautiful tonight…” and began to feel extremely aggravated.

            What is the goal of shouting supposed compliments after women you see on the street? Is it to be considered a compliment? Is it to let women know you are interested? Maybe it’s some macho accomplishment thing when doing this in front of other men? Whatever the reason, I grew angrier and angrier thinking over these questions in my mind. I was hot and sweaty and bedraggled, the street was dark. I was pretty sure no stranger who had never seen me before could judge what I looked like besides a dress and heels.  To me, these shouted words, or even the ones that were softly spoken, were more demeaning than complimentary.

In Spanish culture, there is a form of pick up lines called “piropos”. These are told to beautiful women when seen in public in Spanish cities. However, these lines are more comical than serious. Some of the lines are like “tantas curvas y yo sin freño”. Which literally translates to “so many curves and me without brakes”. Maybe these types of lines used in Barcelona, Madrid, Burgos, are similar to the types of lines used in American cities. Maybe these same lines are used all over the world by all types of men. Either way, these types of lines are something that makes me miss my hometown. Where neighbors are polite and men are chivalrous. Where houses are left unlocked all day long because crime rarely happens. Where little rows of vegetable gardens line the backyards of houses…

But the city brings so much more. Even with strangers who may be less than polite. Even with surprising transportation problems, strange smells, high rent. I left home because of a big fish/ small pond kind of phenomenon. And I love that in the city I rarely feel this way.

So while finishing my walk down Westland Avenue I smirked a little bit to myself. I figured that if these men were so inspired by the sight of me- frizzy haired, dripping with sweat, in visible pain from sore feet, loaded up like a pack mule with various musical equipment, then I would allow them to get away with their silly lines. I guess meeting strange people on the street is something that comes with all of the remarkable things it has to offer. And when I think about it, I would rather have strange people who have well known quirks and do bizarre things than people who are extremely polite yet also very predictable. 

A few new words

Here are a few new words of mine. One is just a bit of prose, almost a caricature of someone i am close to. I like to take people close to me and zoom in on characteristics, exaggerate them, and then find something to write about. The next, a few dark words that i wrote in the middle of winter. And then a short poem that i think is partially influenced by one of my favorite poets of all time- Gustavo Adolfo Becquer. I love most of the postromantic poetry of spain, but his "Rimas y Leyendas" (Rymes and Legends) is one of my favorite written works of all time. 

"He was the type of person who would likely someday be walking along 

and not watch where he was going and suddenly find that he had tripped 

and fallen completely off the earth.

Of course this result may be quite to his liking.

Later on, he would insist that it was his idealist desire-

(to move to a place untainted by all the things he despises- 

that made him simply leap off this world on to one he 

could truly call his own." -jallen 2/10
__________________________________

"Dreams"- jallen 12/09

i dreamed of you again last night.

but this time, instead of 

spitting in my face,

you pulled me close and whispered,

"everything will be alright."

and in that moment (if only in a dream)

everything was okay. 

___________________________

"My Eyes"- j allen 11/09

My eyes choose not to 

meet with your eyes.

They find it much too easy 

to make good conversation,

and feel much too at home

returning your glance.

They tell me to 

let them instead meet

with the back of your head,

where there is much 

less risk in having to 

quickly look away. 

Conversations with myself.

No matter what, there is no love like self love. There is no relationship that should be more important than the one we have with ourself. I hate lying to myself, telling myself I will get out of bed on time, won't eat the rest of the ice cream, will work hard if given a little bit of time to procrastinate. I have been working on being completely honest about stuff like this lately, and also on not taking myself too seriously. Here are a few poems/ quotes that I have run into lately all around this theme. 


The first a witty Miles quote:
"Some day I'm gonna call me up on the phone, so when I answer, I can tell myself to shut up." — Miles Davis
Next a melancholy bit of prose I wrote a few weeks ago when I was in a funk. 

"nights like this (telling the rain)"

on nights like this,  All

i really need is me. 

And some rain coming

cool through the warm air. 

Instead of shying away,

i turn my face up to it 

letting mist fall on my bare skin.

i feel like saying to it, 

"cut this pain that never goes

in half for me,

and we will see exactly

what it is to feel love.

i want to live without

longing for what could be."

the rain makes it

easy for souls to 

breathe, And

bit by bit i

can bear this

world

again. 

And finally, a poem by Derek Walcott, a poet I happened across for the first time not too long ago. Read it aloud and see if it does not bring a smile to your face by the third stanza. 


Love after Love- Derek Walcott

The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here.  Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine.  Give bread.  Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit.  Feast on your life.

Ode to a . . . Pomegranate

It seems that my two most recent poems have been inspired by a pomegranate. Last night I devoured one single handedly not sharing at all with my company. A few hours later, I was cursed (or blessed) with the incredible urge to write poem after poem and could barely process all the ideas coming out of every pore of my body. Of course, this urge to write could have been a result of the emotional state of mind I was in yesterday, but I prefer to believe that the fruit had some sort of power in helping me.

I love the feeling of historical richness that biting into a pomegranate brings to me. The first thing I associate with pomegranates is the Greek story of Hades and Persephone. When I was a young girl I became enthralled with Greek mythology, and the uniquely intertwining stories that always had some elements of tragedy within them. As a child I would read and reread the stories where a flawed character made a tragic error and urge them to change their actions. I thought that by doing this a character could at least once escape their seemingly inevitable fate. Alas, this never worked- Daedalus could warn Icarus all he wanted but his son would still fly too high. I could yell at the page at the top of my lungs but Pyramus would still assume Thisbe was dead. And no matter what instructions he was given, Orpheus would still give in to the temptation to look back at his beloved Eurydice.

In "Persephone and Hades", Persephone, daughter of Zeus and Demeter, was abducted by Hades and brought to live in the underworld. Persephone's mother, goddess of the earth, was so distraught by this that the earth became barren and the people living off it began to go hungry. Zeus was determined to fix this trouble and forced Hades to return Persephone to her mother. However, the Fates had a rule that whoever consumed food or drink in the underworld would be doomed to stay there for eternity. And before being released to Hermes, Persephone had eaten a few pomegranate seeds, and as a result would have to return to the underworld for a season each year; this explains why there are months that the earth is barren and why we have seasons.

In addition to being present in this popular myth, the pomegranate is a common symbol in other literature, art, and in religion. It is one of the oldest fruits known to man, and in Judaism it states that Eve consumed a pomegranate in the Garden of Eden. There are references to this fruit in Shakespeare, Homer, and Pliny, among others. It has been described as a symbol of friendship, fertility, and prosperity and also associated with the images of Christ and the Virgin Mary in Christianity. Also there are a few references to the pomegranate in the Quran as a fruit in paradise.

Here are the two poems I wrote last night. They may seem less artistic if you read them thinking that I only referenced the pomegranate because at this point I had a huge crimson stain on my pants. So, despite the intro forget that I even ate pomegranate last night!

"Pomegranate"

She was a very intelligent girl,

but when faced with you

could often forget that you, too,

are human and can feel and bleed

and are not all of the good things

in this life inside a single soul.

so naturally, when she cut into

the pomegranate, she forgot

that it was not just a sack filled with

minute beautiful treasures,

but a fruit which could leave her

with a crimson stain

(resistant to water just as you

seem to resist imperfection)

" I Would Say"

If you would give me a chance-

I would say all these things

that Float just beneath the surface

of my skin when I speak to you.

But:

Just as a single seed of the pomegranate

can burst-

leaving nothing but a hull of what was,

my soul seems to fly out of me when I face you-

leaving my mind and body thoroughly

without a master.

A few thoughts just before I sleep

I'm getting much better at writing down thoughts (musical, or otherwise) as they come to me. As a result I am losing less of my thoughts which is a great thing. Here is a little something that came to me a few weeks ago that I feel like putting up before I head to sleep.

"The very essence of mankind is creating rules with no intentions of actually following them ourselves.  But we keep on assuming that everyone besides ourself maintains some sort of strength over desire. And the fact that we continue to make these rules is where I begin to lose my faith in man"