Randy Roark » A Year in Repose: May 15, 2008-March 15, 2009

Washington, D.C., January 1, 2009

randyr — Fri, 02 Jan 2009 03:27:34 +0000

It was after 5:00 when the planetarium at the Air and Space Museum let out and I wanted to get to the National Portrait Gallery before it closed at 5:30. I wanted to copy down a quote from Kurt Vonnegut that I’d read on my first day here. At the time it didn’t seem significant enough to write down, but it had continued to echo and deepen in my thoughts since then and I realized I needed it as a linch-pin for something I wanted to talk about. It was hung beside one of Vonnegut’s self portraits in the entry hall gallery of the museum, and if I wanted to see it again, it would have to be tonight, because this was going to be my last day on this side of town. So I had it all mapped out: I would see “Cosmic Collisions” at the planetarium, then take a quick walk to the Hirshhorn Sculpture Garden to shoot a couple of photos of the mirrored sculpture and reflecting pool, then cross town to the National Gallery, then stop at Barnes and Noble for the text of “Twelfth Night,” then catch dinner, and get back to the hotel about time to go to sleep. But taking the photos took longer than I planned, so I was walking briskly up 7^th Avenue when I realized I was hearing a song by Fleetwood Mac in my head. It wasn’t one of their biggest hits, and I had to sing it to the chorus to recognize it as “Tusk.”

Why won’t you tell me
what’s going on?
Why won’t you tell me
who is on the phone?

That was an interesting choice for my brain to make, I thought, as I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard the song. I was almost certain I didn’t have a copy of it. Would it be on a live CD of theirs that I had? I doubt it, so the last time I would have heard it would have been something on the radio, and I hadn’t listened to the radio in over twenty years. I’m sure it wouldn’t have been playing at any of my friends’ houses, so it must have playing on the radio when I was in a restaurant or out shopping, or maybe from a passing car or a storefront. But I found it strange that a song I could barely remember had burned itself so deeply into my brain that it had begun playing on its own. Or was there a library of songs in my head that my brain pulled out for its own reasons? Maybe I associate the song with something I’ve just seen, or maybe the rhythm I was walking was the same as the one in that song? The song had a marching band playing on it, and I was amazed that I could even recreate the horn charts. Can a songwriter create a song that will do that on purpose, I wondered, and if they could do it once, why couldn’t they do it over and over again, at will? The Beatles rarely released a single that wasn’t a hit throughout their entire career but they were never as successful as solo artists. And it’s hard to remember now but Ringo Starr was the first ex-Beatle to begin cranking out #1 singles, and then it was George Harrison. Paul had a good run with Wings, and John had an occasional success, but was mostly….

And I realized I’d walked almost an entire block past the National Gallery, but instead of turning around, I decided to walk to the end of the block and circle around to get back to the museum. And as I turned the corner I saw a huge video screen in front of the Verizon Center advertising Fleetwood Mac’s Greatest Hits Tour 2009, and I realized that a lot of what seems like synchronicities in my life are just experiences in the future that are so powerful they send reverberations back into the past.

Washington, D.C. January, 1, 2009

randyr — Fri, 02 Jan 2009 03:22:01 +0000

Today I rode to Dulles in an Airporter, along with two bureaucrats from Spain, who were already in the car when I got in, and who continued their conversation with the Cuban driver as we drove off. I was impressed by how much the Cuban knew about Spanish politics. He knew that Zapatero was the leader of the opposition when Spain agreed to send troops to Iraq. He knew that the bombing of a train in Madrid right before the election was in response to the Spanish government’s support of the invasion of Iraq. He knew that Zapatero refused to stand in the presence of President Bush at an important summit and instantly became an international hero. He knew that the European Union is experiencing a worse financial crisis than the United States because their bylaws prohibit them from printing money, and they can run a no greater than 3% deficit. He knew that under Franco, Spain basically remained an isolated colony—like Cuba today. He knew that today’s Spaniards never mention Franco by name and refer to him only as “The Tyrant.” He knew that after Franco died Spain was able to accomplish in 19 years what it took the other countries in Europe 54 years to accomplish—rising to the political and economic and technological and educational standards of the other members of the European Union after World War II. He knew that the Spanish ate a light breakfast, and then would spend the late afternoon in a long, leisurely lunch, and then they would siesta, and then around three or four in the afternoon would go back to work and work until after dark. He knew that the evening meal was usually eaten outdoors after 10 p.m. and that it was the longest meal of the day, extending through several courses. He knew that each evening was filled with unrushed good conversation, with different wines designed for every course, followed by desserts, coffees, cigars, and aperitifs. Paella—and he wondered if his pronunciation would be acceptable in Madrid, and the diplomat waved at him and nodded “of course!”—was the choice meal at the seashore. He knew that if a Spaniard sees someone eating alone in a restaurant, they are apt to invite themselves to join them—or if they are already seated, to call out across the restaurant to invite them to sit at their table, pulling a chair from another table and waving at them. How for a Spaniard there was nothing more satisfying than entertaining and being entertained by a stranger while sharing food. He knew everyone in Spain—whether in the city or in the country—was expected to be an expert storyteller or joke teller or singer. That if you were a woman and entertaining enough, someone would often pay for your dinner. He knew that the Spanish are among the longest lived of any nationality, and that their longevity is often credited to their low anxiety and their superior diet, high in vegetables and fish, cooked in broth rather than sauces. Many credited their low anxiety and good health—and even the low level of alcoholism—to the broad use of wine, because it was only acceptable to drink with meals. The Cuban driver didn’t know that Spain—or Espana, as the ambassador called it—was for a short period of time returning Spanish citizenship to anyone who could document that their grandparents were landed Spaniards who had fled under Franco. “Why don’t I know about this?” the driver shouts, looking over his shoulder, “My grandparents fled to Cuba in the Thirties!” But he was suspicious: “Why is this happening now?” “Ah,” the bureaucrat smiled, “That I cannot say.”

State Plaza Hotel Restaurant, Washington, D.C., December 31, 2008, breakfast

randyr — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 23:00:00 +0000

Across the room a family of four is having breakfast, each of them sitting at one of the four corners of the table. The father sits to the right of the eldest, who is maybe four years old, and across from the son the youngest, maybe two years old, while the mother sits across from the father. The father is talking about the current economic downturn—who the winners and losers are, who’s behind it, why it happened, and what will happen next. She’s nodding and feeding the youngest and eating her own breakfast. When he stops talking and stares at her, she knows he’s accusing her of not listening, so she asks him a quick question. “Who are you referring to when you say big business?” He counts them off on his fingers. “Big business” consists of seven companies: GM, Chrysler, Ford, General Foods, Philip Morris, Exxon, Goodyear. She nods to say she understands as he goes back to his explanation and she dips her napkin in her waterglass and wipes the youngest one’s cheeks and chin. When her husband takes a breath, she sighs too, and gathers their things to get them moving. She wonders aloud if he’s had time to think about what they were going to do this afternoon? He snaps at her that they decided last night to skip the zoo and get an early start, and she lowers her voice, asking him to lower his. She looks wounded and embarrassed and a little scared, like this could mean trouble all afternoon. And she’s ashamed that she’s triggered him again. She should know better by now. But mostly she’s surprised and disappointed that she’s been silenced in public. He turns away to help the eldest put his jacket on, and she lets the moment pass. Then she turns and bends over the youngest, her back to both of them, singing “Who’s a good boy? What a good boy! Who’s a good boy? What a good boy!” and the older boy shrieks and spins in his seat, his father catching him before he falls, shrieking. “Hey, buddy,”—and he swipes at his waving arms—“There’s something you’ve got to do for me, buddy. You’ve got to sit down and shut up or I’m going to get angry. Do you want me to make you shut up?” and the son freezes in mid-scream and goes rigid, his chin snapped into his chest, his arms tight at his side, as if he’s already been struck. Then the father swings back to face his wife and says “And, now, what were you were saying?”

Hirschhorn Sculpture Garden, Washington, D.C., December 30, 2008

randyr — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 04:17:22 +0000

Last night I went back to the Hirschhorn Sculpture Garden, across the street from the museum itself, to get a closer look at Dan Graham’s outdoor sculpture “For Gordon Bunshaft,” a pyramidal enclosure about eight feet tall made of glass and aluminum and mirrors. A short stone walkway leads from the path to its open sliding door. Yesterday afternoon I’d watched people enter and see themselves in the mirrors inside, and forget that everyone outside could see them as they preened and patted their hair and adjusted their clothing in a very private way. I decided to come back at sunset, after the museums were closed, and get a closer look.

After examining it closely, inside and out, I sat down on a bench across the reflecting pool and admired it as a structure, as a shape, as an arrangement of material, as a silhouette against the purple sky sparkling with the first stars, and heard the voices of a couple and their young daughter walking down the path behind me. When the girl saw the sculpture, she let go of her mother’s hand and ran toward it. “No, Lindy,” the mother yelled after her. “You look at it from the sidewalk, you don’t go near it. “No,” the father said, “Look, it says right here that if the door is open, you can go inside.” “Oh, well, then, great! Let’s go!” And the three of them grabbed each other’s hands and walked through the door. The parents were instantly hypnotized by their reflections, but Lindy let go of her mother’s hand and spun around, trying to slide the door shut from the inside. But the door was too heavy and she could barely move it. When her mother saw what Lindy was doing in the mirror, she lunged for the door and I began to laugh and immediately heard a woman’s laugh behind me and I stood up and turned around and saw an elderly Japanese woman on the trail behind me and we looked at each other and laughed at our wonderful surprise.

Sushi Tora, Washington, D.C. December 29, 2008

randyr — Tue, 30 Dec 2008 03:20:07 +0000

Last night before attending “Twelfth Night” at the Shakespeare Theater, I decided to stay downtown and take myself out to a dimly lit Japanese restaurant on F Street that I’d been admiring. I was intrigued by its darkened windows, which reduced the patrons inside to ghostly silhouettes.

A family of four was seated on my left so close I could easily hear their conversation. The boy was maybe twelve, the girl ten or not much older—too young, I thought, to be ordering off a Japanese menu. But the parents deferred to them when the waitress asked if they were ready to order. The daughter began with an order of edamame, and then she asked the waitress if she could substitute a vegetarian alternative, like tofu, in any of the entrees. Told she could, she ordered a tempura dish. The father ordered last and asked for a cup of won ton soup. When the waitress asked if he would be having an entrée, he said that he couldn’t possibly know what he wanted for an entrée until after he’d tasted the soup. “Do I have to order now?” he snapped, “If so can you tell me if today’s soup is acidic or slightly sweet?” The embarrassed waitress told him she would find out. When she left, the father asked the children if they had ordered off the menu when they were in Tokyo or if they needed their hosts’ assistance. A little of both, they agreed.

Well, the father continued, I want to finish what I was talking about in the car because I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about those German scientists in the film. What they edited out of all that Nurenberg footage was any mention of the positive results of their experiments on altitude sickness and hypothermia. The doctors weren’t being irresponsible—they were following currently accepted scientific and ethical behavior. It’s hard for you to understand, but times change, and things that were acceptable in the past sometimes become unacceptable. Like slavery or child labor or debtors’ prisons. Then there’s “community standards,” which is how the same law is applied differently in different parts of the country at different times, depending on what’s considered acceptable in a specific community. It’s an example of democracy in action—the community gets to decide how they want to enforce a specific law. That’s what’s called States Rights—it’s right there in the Constitution. So if a majority of Germans believed they were doing the right thing, it would be difficult to argue that they were behaving unethically—which is different from behaving immorally. Here’s the difference: They weren’t behaving unethically because they were doing what they believed in their hearts to be right and true. To convict and sentence them to the standards of other countries as part of losing a war is a bully’s justic. It isn’t really fair. And that’s unethical.

So what are they accused of, really? They were tried because they chose the most appropriate subjects for medical experiments. These experiments weren’t designed to torture, although sometimes I’m sure the photographs make it look like torture. But what they don’t tell you is that the patients were given everything available for pain. Did they look uncomfortable in those photos? Would they have sit still for anything if it was really all that painful?

But these doctors weren’t tried for the medical experiments, they were tried for being the ones who decided which people went to the work camps and which ones weren’t strong enough to survive in the work camps and sent them to a hospital, which is where they belonged. There they were pampered as the subjects for medical experiments. Of course they wanted to keep them alive as long as they could—if they died, the experiment would be a failure. And the experiments weren’t designed to cause pain or to torture but rather to provide information that they could use to save thousands of soldiers’ lives—both Axis and Allies soldiers’ lives—by creating practical treatments for hyperthermia and altitude sickness—which were causing most of the casualties in the mountains. And they took their subjects not from those who had a chance at survival, but only those patients who would be dying shortly anyway. And some of these subjects were insane or suffering with dementia or psychosis so they didn’t even know where they were.

The lead prosecutor in the film even admitted they were all respected doctors and the brightest and best medical scientists of their time. They were honorable men, distinguished men, intelligent men. He tried to use that to convict them, like they should have known better, that more was expected of them. But what it doesn’t say is that if Germany had won that war, those doctors would be known today as heroes. And if they refused they could be charged with breaking the Hippocratic Oath they’d taken on becoming doctors to cause no harm—thousands were dying from illnesses that could be cured by the death of a few who were doomed anyway. It was unethical to insist on staying alive if there is no hope for you and thousands would survive by dedicating what’s left of your life to help others. Plus it was a military order. To disobey would be treason, and treason is a capital crime in a war. They probably would have been arrested and sentenced to death by the Nazi government if they refused.

The Japanese waitress was at their table, and he paused, looking over his shoulder, impatient, interrupted, and ill-tempered.

Washington, D.C., December 28, 2008

randyr — Mon, 29 Dec 2008 03:24:45 +0000

When the “walk” sign flashes, a family of four on the other side of Independence Avenue start to cross the street. The youngest of the bunch—maybe a little younger than three, at any rate much too young to cross a four-lane highway by herself—stumbles off the curb and lands on all fours. Frozen, she stares down at her hands and knees without making a sound—her face a mixture of surprise, fear, and pain. The father sees her fall out of the corner of his eye and turns around and looks down at her and snaps, “Get up! Watch where you’re going! For Christ’s sake, we’re in a crosswalk!” And he reaches down and pulls her to her feet and whips her forward, and I can see that she isn’t crying any longer because she loves being pushed by her dad enough to scar her knees.

Washington, D.C. December 27, 2008

randyr — Sun, 28 Dec 2008 03:09:02 +0000

Honey, you’re lost. What are you doing in this part of town? The Museum of Women’s what? Art? I’ve never heard of it, but I can tell you it’s not around here—this is my neighborhood. I’ll tell you what, though—I can’t get you there, but I can get you back into town. Just act like it’s as normal as it can be, right, a black chick walking a bicycle beside a white guy swinging a Radio Shack bag through the wrong side of town.

Hey, no problemo. Maybe you’ll find me sometime in the wrong part of town, you know what I’m saying, and you can walk me back to my side of town. Would ya? Huh? Am I bothering you? Well, I had to ask.

I like people. I like being alive. I like walking all day. I like being free to do whatever I want to do. Like crossing the street to talk to you. Years ago I would have stayed on my side of the street, thinking, hey, that guy’s really lost. But today I decided to cross the street and walk beside you. We’re both going in the same direction. That’s half a story right there. Okay, so whatever happens next will be the other half of the story, right? And we’ve still got a l-o-n-g way to go.

But that’s what I like most about being homeless, because time becomes this really flexible thing. And I’m healthier from all this walking and biking. Huh? Don’t I look good? Tell the truth! I’m in better shape than I’ve been in my entire life. Except for my teeth, of course.

But I’m better off than most of the streetwalkers because I don’t smoke, I don’t drink, I don’t do drugs. I keep myself clean. In fact, one time a guy accused me of lying about being homeless—can you imagine?—because I didn’t smell bad.

I don’t like to ask people for money. I prefer to find some way to help people, and then if they want to help me out in return, well, that’s their prerogative. But I do know this: that in general people feel better when they say yes than when they say no. If you say yes, you may regret it, but if you say no at the wrong time you’ll think about it for the rest of your life, but you can never go back and change that no into a yes. And you’ll go looking for it, but you can’t find it, you know what I mean? That’s life, man—it’s here, and then—snap!—it’s gone. It’s less about what’s right and wrong and more about what you’re comfortable with, right mister? That’s the question I ask myself every moment, am I comfortable or not? When I’m not longer comfortable, I leave. That’s how I ended up homeless

You learn really fast on the streets that you can choose who you’re going to be, but you’ve got to be real careful. The role you choose will determine what your life will be like on the street. The end is in the beginning, but you usually don’t realize that until it’s too late. But if you’re smart or lucky you get to choose a path you can succeed in. There’s three basic choices: you’re either the kind of person who succeeds by using your acumen, or you’re a tactician, or you function best in the abstract. If you want to survive, it’s important to choose a role where you can excel because if you make a wrong choice, you’re done for—on the streets or in the pen. Or, hell, for all I know, everywhere. You tell me. Do you think that’s a common experience? Do you know what I’m talking about? You ever been in high school?

Which type do you think I am? Guess! Good. You’re paying attention. Well, one out of three ain’t bad. Usually you can eliminate one immediately, and then you’re down to the best of two, and if you can’t make a living choosing from the best of two, you shouldn’t be betting. Not to take anything away from you. You were right, you knew the answer.

Anyway, if I relied on begging, I’d be dead now, or I’d be off the streets, one way or another, probably on a slab. I’d rather kill or be killed than beg. Some people enjoy the human contact as much as the hand-outs, to interact with a stranger, maybe make somebody laugh, maybe get a laugh yourself. Me, I decided to rely on my motormouth, my background in the theater, and my love of collecting and telling stories. Plus, we writers recognize each other. I saw you writing in the park. I’ve been following you for a while. I figured you were a writer or a painter, right? You’re a writer, right? Right. Well, best of two, right? So I knew that my time wouldn’t be wasted on you. I knew that by the time I got you out of the jungle you’d have a story to write down later, am I right?

Rocky Mountain National Park, Colorado, Nobember 19, 2008

randyr — Thu, 20 Nov 2008 02:56:49 +0000

In winter the elk’s trail crosses the lake. We surprised each other shortly before dawn and I could almost understand what was going on behind his eyes. It was the same thing I’ve seen in olive leaves in Greece just before a storm, flashing back and forth, back and forth, silver and black. Continue Reading »

John’s Restaurant, NYC, October 20, 2008

randyr — Tue, 21 Oct 2008 03:05:15 +0000

I walk to far end of the restaurant and take a seat facing the front door, across from an elderly couple sitting in the booth next to my table. He leans across the aisle and says to me, confidentially, “Get the pasta special—it’s a good value. It’s probably the best deal in the city. We come here about every two weeks, my wife and I. I don’t know if you like pasta?” “Well, we’ll see,” I smile at him and turn to the menu.

Looking it over, it is a good value, and it was what I probably would have ordered anyway, so I order the pasta special. It comes with—at no extra charge—coffee, salad, and a dessert. When the waiter leaves, I lean over and say to the couple. “Thanks for the tip. I ordered the special.” “Ah, wonderful. What did you get, if you don’t mind my asking?” “I got the shrimp fettucini.” “Oh, I’ve never heard of that. That sounds good. I get the spaghetti. My wife gets the salad and we share dessert. She gets a Coke, I drink the coffee, and we both eat for under twenty bucks. It’s the deal of the century.”

The coffee arrives already cold. The wife is unhappy that I’m not eating. “You can take that salad home—it’s a whole meal in itself!” When the main course arrives, the elderly man leans across the aisle and asks, “So what kind of pasta did you get, if you don’t mind my asking?”

They’ve just come from a film that they didn’t realize they’d already seen until after it started. She doesn’t remember seeing it at all but he says he remembered some of the scenes, just not the details, he often knew what would happen next. His wife is trying to catch the waitress’s attention. She’s ready for the check. She wants her Coke wrapped to go. When the waitress returns with the check and a Coke in a paper bag, her husband hands her some money. Then he and his wife stand up and begin organizing their packages. “I could carry that,” he says, but then has trouble zipping up his jacket. “Maybe I can’t carry that. Can you carry part of it?” Then she remembers they haven’t gotten their change, so they take off their jackets and sit down again.

The waitress leaves before he can count out the change. His wife yells after her not to forget about her Coke to go. “That’s what I just handed you!” “Oh,” she says, looking at the bag in her lap. He asks his wife, “What did I give her, a five?”

They stand up. “I could carry that,” he says, but has trouble zipping up his jacket. “Maybe I can’t carry that. Can you carry part of it?” He sees me watching him. “What did you order, young man, if you don’t mind my asking? The special? Yeah, that’s what I had too. What kind of pasta? Shrimp fettucini? That sounds interesting. We always get spaghetti. She gets the salad, and fills up on bread. We come here about every two weeks. We eat like kings for less than twenty bucks. It’s the best deal in the city. So what did you order, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Joe’s Crab Shack, NYC, October 16, 2008, brunch

randyr — Fri, 17 Oct 2008 02:51:46 +0000

This morning I went to brunch at a crab bar on 5^th Avenue. It was late Sunday morning, and the two-piece jazz combo featured a bassist who played with his eyes closed, feeling the notes reverberate through his fingertips. Sitting beside him was a thin acoustic guitarist in a black leather blazer who was nodding out, sometimes even in the middle of his own solos. But it was perfect, it was sublimely beautiful, the bassist with his eyes closed, feeling the vibrations through his fingertips, and the guitarist leaning away from the tune, almost falling over, but with a near-perfect sense of timing catching up with the tune a little further down the road, dropping back in. And as I watched his head fall back, I could feel the pleasure rippling through his body and wondered why pills and drugs couldn’t be designed to make someone feel that way all the time. Why couldn’t someone—say someone with a terminal disease—stay in that state for the rest of their lives? The drugs we experimented with in the Sixties, and even the ones in the Seventies, did deliver (and more) on their promises. Today, as never before, substances that were used to turn adolescents into shamans are as common as alcohol; and anyone, regardless of gender or age, can experiment time and time again without supervision.

I wondered if the guitarist in a crab bar on 5^th Avenue in New York City late Sunday morning was better or worse for nodding off in the middle of his solo. For me, I’ve tried to become as conscious as possible, but what good has it done me, really? Certainly I appreciate what’s passing as it’s passing, no regrets? Check. Occassionally I remember to see the whole movie—from beginning to end—and each individual moment as a point between the two? Check. I can sometimes remember that what happens next is a result of what I do now, and that where I’m most certain I’m probably most wrong. And that sometimes when I seem most wrong—even to myself—is when I’m most right. Okay. That the people I despise represent what I refuse to recognize in myself? Check. And sometimes I’m even able to see beyond my thoughts and emotions and plans and arguments and explanations into the emptiness they’re hiding from me. Okay, but the guitarist is, at least, getting paid.

Then a man, talking on a cellphone, enters the restaurant and walks up to the guitarist and sticks the cellphone in his face, asking him to play something for Eileen. When he realizes the guitarist isn’t responding—that something’s wrong and he’s probably feeling a little embarrassed because everyone in the restaurant is now staring at him as he’s clearly alarmed the bassist, who has taken a step backwards, he shouts “Hey, play something for Eileen,” and taps the guitarist on the nose with the cellphone. And the guitarist’s dreaming head snaps back, and even half a restaurant away I can feel the shock that shoots through him when he opens his eyes and sees a man waving something shiny in his face, and I realize there is something lost in being lost.