Get Going
Thursday, January 3, 2019 at 9:25AM
jane in Amor Fati, Jeremy Workman, New York Film and Video Council, New York Stories, Philosophy , aging, consciousness, documentary, humor, inspiration, intellect, intuition, laughter, luck, luck, nNew York City tour guide, self-awareness, synchronicity, touristguide movie trailers, video

Everything that happens to me, I interpret as a learning lesson. To get me going. And when a stye appears on the lower lid of my right eye, I begin pondering about my vision. How do I see myself in the year 2019?  I come up with this.  I’m wanting my decision-making to be dependent less on intellect and more on intuition. To feel what it means to live in the center of my being. Stop this tip-toeing around. Use Mozart as my muse.  When he composes his symphonies. Be able to suspend time, space , place even hunger. This is what I want.  

In December 2018, I practice how to get there. I keep my senses on alert, including my gut and allow visual imagery to pop-in. Which is why, as my  videographer-friend Matt informs me he cannot make his New York Film and Video Council meeting saying, “You go in my place. They’re all a bunch of storytellers any way. Like you. Except they use instruments. You use yourself.” I imagine a door opening.  I say" Yes. I'm going."

Leaving me meandering on West 67th Street, December 3, 2018, at 6:30 pm.  I’m looking for Macauley Honors College. That’s where it’s going to be. Finding it in a 1905 brick, limestone, terra cotta, limestone building. Its identifiable signage is small. This is a landmarked district. And when I go in, I'm accompanied by a stranger. He sighs, “I’m glad I found this place. I’m the speaker.” Then he goes looking for the guy in charge. I go to the reception. Finding it when I see on a table two boxes, one of Saltines, the other Triscuits. Three types of yellow cheeses.  A bottle of red and a bottle of white wine.  

I pour chardonnay into a plastic cup. Begin sipping. Eyeballing everyone. Deducing, I’m the tallest one standing, wondering is this a good or bad omen. When a man possessing slouching shoulders, pursuing small steps, revealing a face contemporaneous with mine, starts talking. “I’m Ronald. With my own video camera, I shoot me and my eight pals, each of us telling what it’s like growing up on Holland Avenue in the Bronx. I’ve got a documentary. I’m sure of it. It is a non-fiction aspect of reality. But no one sees it. I’m low on cash. I need a distributor. I’m here to make contacts. How about you. What have you done?”  

There it is. The question I ask myself daily. Ever since my brother dies in 1989. Then and there I decide as a palliative measure  I shall turn grief into action. Start living for two. An idea that comes to me  after my father says, “Go over there and comfort mother.”  I say, “Go fuck yourself dad. Who’s going to comfort me?”  Shocking both of us, he says, “What kind of language is that. This is a funeral.” I say, “My brother’s dead. I'm going down. I need a fricative to release tension.”   

But today, I'm not in a confessional mood. I say ro Ronald, "For sure. I’m photogenic.” And he challenges me on that. Can you believe. He says, “I’ll be the judge. If I had a smart phone. But I own nothing cellular.” Which I see as a cue. I hand him mine with a warning, “Stay with the times. Or be left behind. Unless that’s the direction you're wanting."    

By 7,  we’re seated in the screening room. Listening to Jeremey Workman, the guy who climbs the stairs with me, dissect his specialty, movie trailers. Called that because once they were shown only after the feature film. They themselves are really mini-movies. Bearing equivalent production values, save omitting all plot spoilers. Then he ends with, “For those interested, I’m the videographer and director of a documentary, The World Under My Feet.  It’s presently being shown at the Quad Cinema.”  

Later, I send him a thank you e-mail. I get back an e-mail thanking me. The next day, Tuesday, December 4,  I’m inside the lobby of the Quad. An usher is taking a photo of me. I'm pointing a finger at an orange billboard extolling the accolades his project has received. I send it to Jeremy. I get, “Let me know what you think.” And so I watch his chronicle about Matt Green, who gives up his civil engineering job and his apartment to walk from Rockaway, Queens to Rockaway, Oregon.  Staying at other people’s houses. Then doing something similar on the streets of the five counties that comprise New York. Including ambling on unpaved roads, dead ends and bits of shoreline.

Here's the assesement I send. "Your piece addresses how to live an unencumbered life. Walk. Use yourself as the vehicle to take you every where." He writes, “Let’s definitely connect soon. We’ll have coffee maybe next week? Though I may be off in towns hustling people to the movie.”   

I never meet him. 

Now fast forward to Tuesday, December 11. I’m getting out at the Q train’s 33rd Street exit.  As my feet hit the sidewalk, someone behind me says,  “I admire your outfit. It’s so colorful.” I look down. I’m wearing blue, aqua, turquoise, purple, red, orange and yellow. On my feet, silver combat boots.  I turn, expecting to thank a stranger, instead I’m babbling at the mouth. “I know you. How do I know you? Your face. Your voice. Do I look familiar to you? We couldn’t have gone to the same school? You’re eleven and I’m 105.  Maybe it’s something we did together. What did you do last week?”  

He says, ”Did you see The World Under My Feet? I'm Matt Green. ” I say, “Yes.Yes. Yes. “ We hug. Take selfies. He asks where I live. Then says, “There’s a small part of the east side I haven’t covered. I’ll be doing it in January. Maybe we can walk together?” I get his e-mail. I send our photo to Jeremy. I get from him, “Amazing. Only in New York.  Someday I'll be meeting you on the street.“

So far. Not yet.  

Now it’s Tuesday,  December 17, 2018,  2 pm. I’m in my dentist’s office for a check-up, wondering why Sara, a hygienist, is at the receptionist’s desk. I ask, “Where’s Francine? She’s always here. “ Sara whispers,  “She’s out sick. We’re all pitching in.”  I say, “If she stays away, the office will still run smoothly. All I see over there is dark energy.” She whispers. “Actually, she's on life support inside Beth Israel. She's not going to make it. Friday night she had a stroke. The ambulance arrives twenty minutes late. I don’t know why.”  

All conversation ceases.  “I don’t know why” reverberates through the air. I see everyone in that waiting room holding candles. Each with a differing size wick. I remind myself, I’ve got to get going.

I join the New York Film and Video Council.

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