Birthday. Good wishes. Balloons. Happy
birthday to you singing. Retrospective. Assessing.
I wanted to have a memorable birthday.
The only one I remember is one in Budapest. 1997. After a performance an American
couple waited backstage to talk about my play and I ended up walking with them up
in the Old City. The lady was overweight and Hungarian people were calling her names,
astounded.
They invited me to their place and
we ate together. When it came out it was my birthday, they stuck two burning incense
sticks in the red flesh of a watermelon and I was happy.
2017. My son gave me an entire Sunday.
So I set about experiencing the beauty
and richness of New York City together.
We headed to the Metropolitan Museum.
When we got off the bus I noticed
a sign on a table Free Poetry. A mother with her child got up so I sat at the table
in front of the unsmiling poet. He wanted me to talk about myself and after I did that he typed this poem:
my son may
oppress
the haters
of the city
he can wear
what expouses
his tats
my son may
enter
and leave
everyone jealous
so long as
he knows
the ancestors
that brought
us
for our dreams
to realize
btwn limestones...
i arrived
for the reason
to explore
to fall on
beds
to wake up
and try this
game again
i have played
with the park
lost spirits
thru the baritone
of my phone
hailed taxis
to get from
here
to a brave
new curb
and every
year i celebrate
this courage
to continue
at stride
from harlem
to the harbor
and fortunately
i have
the loves
of my life
to steer my
hopes
to a later
time
where i may
blow
and wish for
many more yrs of smiles
On the steps of the museum life was
beehiving. The security worker asked me to either drink my bottle of home-made limeade
or throw it to the garbage because only bottles of clear water were allowed in the
museum. So I drank it in one long swig. As if I was in a contest, Nathan's Hotdog,
stretching my body's ability to ingurgitate.
We saw two exhibitions.
Irving Penn retrospective. He had
cycles of photos. Famous people. Working class. Headless nudes like landscapes.
Cigarette buts. Exotic people. Kitchen still life.
Here goes a picture of the picture
of a lady with a hat covered in stuffed roosters. My sister loves her chicken
and especially the red rooster, who unfortunately my late father's dog Pufi pulled
out his beautiful tail feathers. My sister rescued the rooster from the dog's mouth.
The second exhibition was about de/reconstructive couture. One ensemble seemed to be built in the shape of the Guggenheim Museum.
Others reminded me of a dress I made
out of a pair of jeans, the waistband turning into the head opening. I was a teenager.
Mom passed by me on the street without recognizing me.
We headed to Astoria Ditmars Blvd.On
the N train a boa constrictor and a python residing in a blue bag asked for donations
in return for letting us touch them or drape them around our necks.
They had a large family at home. The
grandparents were 18 feet long. Ate a chicken a month. The mother was full of infants.
A lady entangled in them said laughing
alarmed to get the snakes off her. She had no donation to give, unless they wanted
her $20,000 graduate student loan debt.
When we got off my son said as if
we arrived in Europe. That was the plan. Eat Romanian food. We couldn't locate a
Romanian restaurant, so we settled for a Greek tavern. Delicious meal. I asked the
waitress if patrons still smashed plates at parties. She laughed and said only when
they had bazookas. Live music I assumed.
Then we crossed the street and entered
the QED edifice. I wanted to hear myself tell a story that nagged me to strangers.
The emcee took pieces of paper with
names scribbled on that were dropped in her bucket half an hour before the event.
My son did that for me while I waited at the tavern for our order.
All the nations of the world got on
stage. Egyptian, West Indian, Chinese, Irish, Israeli. They were interesting. Some
bemoaned their sex lives, or the harshness of going thru a divorce, others made fart
jokes. It was all good as long as my son was laughing non-stop.
My turn came and I got off my chest
an eulogy for my late father's dog Pufi, which I hope to write about tomorrow.
We went then shopping at the Parrot.
They carry my mother's foods. Zacusca,
feta cheese, baklava, Hungarian salami, sausages, Turkish delight, that is rahat, sunflower seeds oil, halva,
Borsec, Romanian mineral water, stuffed cabbage rolls, etc.
Back on the subway. A girl was playing
a violin concerto. On the train again the nations of the world sat down patiently
together.
In our neighborhood we escaped a hollering
beggar we passed by at the corner liquor store. When we didn't give him money he
hissed after us that that's why nobody liked us. What does he mean?! His face was
tumefied/swollen with alcohol. As we walked away to the end of the block his voice
worked itself into a state, screaming that baseball bats would descend on us. Thank
you so very much. I advised my son who was marveling how could the beggar hope for
alms when he was standing in front of the liquor store, I suggested we should let
mean words enter through one ear and get out of the other, without nesting in your
brain. In and out. Empty air.
Don't engage in misery.
I forgot to take a picture of a sidewalk
green space enclosure in Astoria. Instead of flowers they planted cacti with long
thorns.
Rosamunda sniffed eagerly at the shopping
bags when we reached home safely.
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