play and ideas: March 2023

“You want to travel with him”: Conversations with Dad, Nine Years Later

“I’ve been dreaming about my dad lately,” said Kat Moore. “He died at the end of 2003. In my dreams, he is trying to help me find mom and Lanie. Sometimes we find them. Sometimes we don’t.”

I think about Dad these days, almost every day, although he died some nine years ago, wishing I could tell him about my adventures, reading his old copy of Dr Faustus, from those college days in Tallahassee and Cambridge, the army and the road. I wonder what he’d say, where our dreams would take us, both of us talking on the road, driving from Houston to Louisiana and back, stopping for gumbo at a roadhouse, drinking beer in the parking lot, watching soccer games in Spanish in Mexico. Yet, its been nine years since we really talked, since Will and I said goodbye with mom.

All I have are the books and memories, the dreambooks at my house in Brooklyn that I can't access this year. So my imagination and our stories will have to do.

John and Jenn went to Vesuvio and talked about Dad.

Maybe you glimpsed in between the racks in the poetry room?

Will and I talked about Dad along the road through the Balkans.

I would love to have Dad know Bear and Dodi, ever growing and evolving, reading as much as possible, reading you Bear’s stories about no one hearing them, not the teachers or the junkies, not the crusty punks or the school kids, just Ray and Japhy hiking, Walt along the piers, and Emily in her old house in Amherst, Ma.

I think about you listening to the old Leonard Cohen records, talking about the theology of poetry, the beatitudes of the old testament.

“It sounds like the communist manifesto,” you say, looking at the whole world, a kid from Thomasville who ran through Troy.

“You want to travel with him,” sings Nina, from that old Leonard Cohen song.

I don’t really see Dad in my dreams, not as much.

It's more in my active imagination, daydreaming, talking, imagining you laughing, helping me draft eternal book chapters, stories about our dialogue on the road to Mexico, to New Orleans, back to Thomasville, and back to Dallas, for one more conversation.

And here in NYC, in the East Village, I think of you and the Chelsea Hotel and the books we’d be talking about if I was to swing up Sixth Ave, take a left at 23rd and greet you at El Quixote.

I tell you about Berlin and Goethe and Faustus.

You say you liked Marlow’s version the most and refer to Mankind to Marlowe by Bevington.

And then pull out your beaten up old copy of Goethe’s Faustus Part One and Two that I read all year in Berlin.

And I’d mention Thomas Mann’s version written after the war. “Genius is a form of the life force that is deeply versed in illness, that both draws creatively from it and creates through it,” says Mann.

“The bastards knew better,” you say, referring to your eternal lament about Germany and the war. “They knew better.”

Your eternal humanity always there, along with the crazy, the temper, the intelligence and the illness, the anger I live with, that I’ve internalized, that my kids live with, quite often recoiling. But there’s also the authenticity that lingers with you and me, the realities of the world and Faustus, the story you read over and over, exchanging copies with your best friend Fred, long gone, that you read after your father died, that the two of you talked about all night long. I can see it in the inscriptions to each other, wondering what you both said and thought.

You pulling the quotes, sharing stories about the sublime and street from your copy of Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus.

“If we say that we have no sin,

We deceive ourselves, and there's no truth in us.”

You laugh, the folly of the search, ever looking for the truth of it all, the reality of desire and hope, darkness and light moving through us.

“Ay, we must die an everlasting death,” you’d conclude. Back to Marlowe and the eternal, the theater, the conversation, the stars, the stories about the Globe, the lights and stars:

“The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike”...

The poems that echo through our minds:

“Was this the face that launch'd a thousand ships,

And burnt the topless towers of Ilium--

Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.--”

And we’d talk about Circe, the daughter of Helios.

“I will be Paris, and for love of thee,” you’d read to me.

And then we’d go to Troy.

And recall Menelaus and Achilles and Helena,

“Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars;”

Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter

When he appear'd to hapless Semele;

More lovely than the monarch of the sky

In wanton Arethusa's azur'd arms;

And none but thou shalt be my paramour!”

The smoke from your cigar whirls through the room out into the evening air on 23rd Street.

Talk turns your father and Fred his, fathers and sons, abuses and repetition, neglect repeating.

And Marlowe reminds us of Faustus:

“I am Wrath. I had neither father nor mother: I leaped out of a lion's mouth when I was scarce half an hour old, and ever since I have run up and down the world, with this case of rapiers, wounding myself when I had nobody to fight withal. I was born in hell - and look to it, for some of you shall be my father.”

Rupert Everett, our favorite Marlowe, grins at us from the bar, laughing about Romeo and Juliet.

On we chat into the night, talking about the movies and wives, the plays and stories that keep us moving through this life, finding meaning in the wreckage, in between the shopping malls and parked cars. “The dude abides,” you say, your eyes twinkle. Late in the night, I say goodbye, walking back to the F train, strolling into the night. I think about Kat and Lanie and the theater on Bleecker Street, and her father, who died” in her dreams, “trying to help” her “find mom and Lanie. Sometimes we find them,” she told me. “Sometimes we don’t.” Sometimes I find Dad, sometimes I don’t. But for a second or two, in a dream or two, we meet again, upstairs at the Chelsea Hotel, off for a meal at El Quixote, recalling Marlowe and Faustus, and Leonard Cohen and Janis and all of our heroes, in the stars, outside the window on 23rd Street.

Grandaughter toasting Grandad at the Chelsea Hotel.

November 1969, yours truly in the cool blouse, Dad with eyes closed, grandad grinning, and dad's best buddy Bill, from high school, who offed himself five or six years later. Dad's been gone nine years now. The story continues... In my mind...

Dad and Kirk on the farm in Bridgeborough, Ga.

Burning Ambitions, the Damned, then and now.

Scenes from Hamburg and Praha on the road with the Damned.

I first heard them listening to Burning Ambitions, a history of punk, playing “new rose” and “love song” over and over again. Then “let’s wait for the blackout” from the Black Album, “Curtain Call” and “Alone Again.” Eight years later I saw them, taking a bus from Claremont into LA in 1988. Dave looked like a vampire. And sang “LA Woman,” howling “So alone…. So alone, wow,” giving Jim Morrison a run for his money, followed by their desperate take on “Help” sounding not so innocent, but not quite guilty either. That was kind of it, they understood. They seemed to elude the usual entanglements, finding a way into the next day, beyond genre, and now time. Rat Scabies was still in the lineup. When they walked on stage, the whole place exploded, bouncing into the sweaty mosh pit, everyone singing along: “Just for you here's a love song, Just for you here's a love song, And it makes me glad to say, It's been a lovely day and it's okay.”

They were there when it all began, along with the Ramones, Sex Pistols, and Clash. According to the Observer:

“”There are three records that are cited as the “first” punk rock releases: the first Ramones album (April 1976), the “New Rose” 45 by the Damned (October '76), and the Saints debut album, (I'm) Stranded (September '76).”

Almost fifty years later, they are still at it, playing my neighborhood, including Hamburg, Berlin, and Praha. Spring break, I joined them for each show. Dave and Captain Sensible were still there, as they have been since the 1970's when those burning ambitions first started burning, so was I.

A few notes from the road from Hamburg to Berlin to Praha, the collective histories they remind us of, the times churning around us, the roads and journeys we all share.

Hamburg

Oh yea,there she is, I wrote looking at Caroline, across from me, on the train with me to Hamburg, land of the Beatles and red lights, piers and ports, leather and black and white photos of John and Astrid, playing there. Morning train from Berlin with coffee, drizzle and high spirits.

Arriving, looking at art all afternoon, with old friends, Max Beckman and Caspar David Friedrich, stories of suicide and Femme fatales, lorelai and her sisters, lost sailers out at sea, Circe ever transforming, each of us hoping, finding ourselves there, lives dismemberred, stories deconstructed of course at the Hamburger-Kunsthalle:

“The femme fatale is a myth, a projection, a construction. She stands for a firmly encoded female stereotype: the sensual, erotic and desirable woman, whose supposedly demonic nature is revealed in the fact that she casts a spell over men to such an extent that they fall for her – often with a fatal outcome. With the exhibition FEMME FATALE, the Hamburger Kunsthalle is devoting itself to this dazzling and clichéd image…The show not only explores the artistic manifestations of the subject from the early 19th century to the present, but also wants to explore the myth of the femme fatalecritically illuminate its genesis and historical transformation.”

On we made our way, from the suburban city, into St Pauli boutiques and cafes, red lights where the Beatles once played. It snowed before the show, but everyone still showed up. Finally, we squeezed into the crowded Grünspan, where the Damned played. It all feels familiar, those I’ve seen at shows for decades now, when I was one of the young ones. There David Vanian and Captain Sensible were still at it, decades after forming in 1976, and recording the first punk single in 1976. Brian was on guitar, Captain on bass. Ups downs, Music for Pleasure, Machine Gun Etiquette, the Black Album, and Strawberries followed, “Let's Wait for the Blackout,” “neat neat neat,” “smash it up,” “don't you wish that you were dead.” Listening, I hear a history of music, of Punk ever transforming, from burning ambitions to inspirations from beaten up sci fi paperbacks, black and white horror movies, goth, into the imaginary. It was also about live shows, terrific, abundant live shows. Dave sang “Eloise,” crooning away during the second encore. The sound was off, the bass, out of tune, off kilter. Amidst the chaos, Dave walked off. Paul, the bass player, worked with the roadies to get a new bass. Ever the performer, Captain, the drummer, Will, and keyboard player, Monty, started an improv of their old jam. ' say captain!' 'i say wot!' call and response. The crowd chimed in, screaming along. The bass fixed and the show went on, full mosh pit of old geezers, including me smashing it up, jumping up and down, rushing the stage during "New Rose." The Sex Pistols and Clash are long gone; the Damned still at it, playing Berlin the next night.

After the show, we walked past the drag shows and red lights, back to our hotel at Chez Ronny, in “St. Pauli district of Hamburg, on the Reeperbahn (off) the Port of Hamburg.” Also known as “die sündigste Meile and Kiez,” the neighborhood didn't disappoint, with a red light, porn shops and strippers, across the street. An accordion player played Bella Ciao outside our hotel room, George Harrison saw a thing or two here, six decades prior, playing 12 hour sets in front of the same red lights, John, George, and Paul learning about friendship and sex, Astrid taking care of Stuart, before he shuffled off, music changing along with their lives, our lives.

John Lennon said, "I was born in Liverpool, but I grew up in Hamburg."

The according played all night.

The next morning, we walked into the gray morning, out for breakfast and along the waterfront, looking at the London's Bridge, people and ships arriving and departing. Much of the city was bombed by the British and the US during the war, leaving people trying to flee, the city consumed by flames. In 1939, the St Louis, carrying Jews trying to flee, left from here, crossed the ocean, turned away by the US and Cuba, only to return. Eight years later, it carried the few thousand remaining Jews to Israel. Today, the streets are full of kids and graffiti, drag shows and porn shops. "You start as a patriot. You end up a fascist ," says one sticker. "Sex work is work, another. "Save abortion," still another.

Two hour train home to Berlin, the tram halted, protests in the distance, streets filled with bodies. No other choice, we got off and joined the manifestation, theInternational Women’s Day March.

"My boobs are my business" and other messages and signs of solidarity with the women of the US and our ridiculous supreme court, with Afghanistan and the Taliban, and Iran with their ongoing struggles. Women carry red umbrellas, in solidarity with one another, union and sex workers' rights, rejection of abuse and intolerance.

News about clashes between protestors and cops in Georgia are all over the news on the way home. My friend Nichlas, from there, says they passed a Russia friendly law eroding civil society and freedom of the press. He sent me an invite to a demo. "For English and Bundeskanzleramt Heinrich-von-Gagern-StraßeOn March 7, the Georgian government approved the Russian law "On Agents of Foreign Influence". The leading party used tear gas, pepper spray, and water cannons to raid the participants of the peaceful protest. We, Georgian emigrants in Germany, join the protest held in Tbilisi and refuse Russian law.

Protest time: 8 of March 17:00

Protest location: Bundeskanzleramt

Heinrich-von-Gagern-Straße

Protestzeit: 17:00

Protestort: Bundeskanzleramt

Heinrich-von-Gagern-Straße.”

Once home, I bike to the demo, down past the Reichstag to meet my friend.

Standing with a group of Georgian and Ukrainian activists, activists are speaking out about the law. “It negates free speech,” says one man with a megaphone. “It happened in Russian. Now they don’t have free speech. “Don’t eat yellow snow,” says Nicholas. Everyone said it, referring to the old Frank Zappa song about a man who has a dream he’s become an Eskimo. He tells his mother. "Watch out where the huskies go,” she says to him, with a word of caution. “Don't you eat that yellow snow." In other words, stay clear of Russia.

“Yesterday was a dark day for Georgia,” said another speaker. “Members of the European Community said don’t do it. It's Women’s Day. These laws don’t help women. They put us in danger. If you care about Georgia women, then stand with us.”

“Yesterday, a hundred thousand people marched. A woman stood in front of a water cannon, holding on as long as they could. This is the story. We will not let go. Happy Women’s Day.

Nicholas saw his brother being tear gassed on TV.

“Russian law is not the will of the Georgian people,” said another speaker. “Its great to see you out here protesting. Today, we will bring down the cancer of the world, the Russian dictatorship.”

Back home, for dinner, we get ready for the Berlin show.

“Last night in hamburg was unbelievable. Could tonight in berlin be any better?

The venue posted a note:

"According to legend, The Damned were England's first punk band. But anyone who seriously claims to be able to remember something like that was definitely not there at the time. When raw rock 'n' roll emerged, influenced by proto-punk like the Stooges and the MC5. When the sheer force of this fast and loud music shook the world from the British Isles. When suddenly everyone could be an artist and a rebel if you were angry enough. It is fairly certain that they recorded the first punk single "New Rose" in 1976 and also the first corresponding album "Damned Damned Damned".

The room was twice as tight as the night before, same set, still a great show with the teenager.

Best song, wait for the blackout from 1980. Dave sang:

"...Don't you ask me to come out

When the sun does shine

Let us stay here with curtains drawn

In darkness you'll be mine

Let's wait for the blackout

The light is too bright

Let's wait for the blackout

Wait for the night

Well welcome to my basement flat

No windows to see through

With darkness closing in my friend

We'll both know what to do

Let's wait for the blackout

The light is too bright…”

Next stop Praha

Next morning, I make my way into the light, walking tp one of my favorite spaces in Berlin, North ofAlexanderplatz, to an aging cemetery, thinking about what will become of us, of the city, of the bones beneath, the snow covering us.

Meanwhile back in Brooklyn, amnesia was hitting. The city was trying to cover up the mess, developing on toxic waste dumps and brownfields, despite opposition from environmental groups. Margaret Maugenest, a Voice of Gowanus member and long-time resident of the neighborhood, was worrying that the Department of Environmental Conservation’s cleanup plan was not fulfilling the goals of the agency. “While you may be able to limit direct contact, you can’t control any kind of gasses from this,” she said. “The only remedy is you either have to clean it all up or don’t build on it.”

Act today! Implored @voiceofgowanus. Call Governor Hochul: 518 474 8390, identify yourself as a Gowanus Canal resident. Complain that you were never alerted to the problems at 514 Union if that is so. We need Hochul to comprehensively clean up 514 Union Street and all the other massively polluted toxic sites in the Gowanus Canal. Current DEC cleanup efforts are pathetically bad and unacceptable. We cannot allow housing development on toxic sites. 514 Union Street should be remediated to "pre-disposal" conditions. Hochul must enforce the law to protect public health.

All week, new about the problem, across the mediaspheres:

Recent News

3/18/23 NY Post: DEC took 2 years to warn...

"This shouldn’t only be a warning flag for this business, but the plenty of others built along toxic sites along the canal"

3/17/23 NY1: Gowanus CSO Tanks...

"It does not address the profound contamination that we have in the sites"

3/10/23 WNYC :Toxic fumes detected at popular Brooklyn shuffleboard club for past 2 years

"What's really concerning is that the State knew that there were toxins in the ground...what about people that worked there every day"

3/09/23 Gothamist : Toxic fumes detected at popular Brooklyn shuffleboard club for past 2 years

"the DEC’s cleanup plan does not fulfill the goals of the agency. She said the proposed cleanup for this site fails to enforce Section 171 of the New York Navigation Law, which ensures the “prompt cleanup” and “removal” of leaking petroleum that has damaged the environment and poses a risk to public health."

The question about the lived environment and the city, the ecology we all share, extended to Berlin, where they shut down the street across from our kid’s school after they found an undetonated bomb from World War II.

In Berlin, Federico and I talked about the world and Intersectional Feminism, art and hopes at Kotti Cafe.

The next election is all about bikes and cars in Berlin, says Scott.

Which kind of a city will this become? And the protests continued over polluted, privatized water, even in Berlin.

That was the conversation over drinks with Sean and Scott at Watt.

New York and Berlin, ever whirling through history, shadowing each other.

Sean told me about a demo later the next day.

And the next morning, I made my way to the demo at the Chancellery:

“Hello Ines, "Drinking water is a human right" - chants penetrate the negotiating room in the Chancellery: while the government is negotiating, we are protesting against corporate privileges in water distribution. The traffic light government wants to decide on the national water strategy as early as Wednesday. And suddenly it clearly bears the signature of profit-thirsty corporations. In the future, Aldi & Co. could even have a say when our water is distributed. Shortly before the decision, the federal government significantly weakened the water strategy. That is why we are taking our protest to the Chancellery with a media campaign. With a huge and a measly bottle we show: The corporations consume a gigantic amount of water compared to us citizens. This Wednesday we want to convince Environment Minister Steffi Lemke (Greens) and her cabinet colleagues that no more sources should go to corporations. We need your support for this, Ines. The more people take part in the action in Berlin, the clearer it becomes for the traffic lights and the press: Drinking water is in danger! Please join us and come by.”

In the meantime, the Damned were on their way to the Czech Republic.

Prague Travel, 16 March.

Thursday, I left for an an early train, to Praha.

Caroline and I walked out together, planning our days and shows coming up, to catch at 09:16 train at Berlin Hbf to Prague-Holesovice.

I love the train ride from Berlin to Praha, through the countryside, past Dresden, along the river to my left, mountains, Little Bohemian towns in the distance, through history, my imagination running, ever wondering.

In town, I ran to meetings with Peter and the philosophers in the old town and Veronique at Club Ujzed at 645 or so before the concert at 845. A gorgeous day in Praha, we chatted about the conflict points, what came of the Velvet Revolution, socialism with a human face or neoliberal city, Havel said he missed the conversations after the revolution. I always think of Thomas And Theresa from Unbearable Lightness here. They are still fighting the same unbearable lightness ... Cleavage points around immigration and vaccines and Europe. The challenge is how to talk with each other. How to stay friends? The conversations are many here.

“Do you realize how beautiful it is?" my old prof Mr Liang asked us in the Fall of 1990, referring to Prague. I had never been. None of us had. "It's like Paris," he continued. Sure the last thirty years have seen a lot of changes, a bit too much plastic, but it's still magic, especially in the neighborhood, across the river, at my favorite bar here at klubujezd. Listening to the Damned, smash it up, getting ready for the big show later that night, after a day of interviews. Veronique met me, chatting away about Kundera, before my night of music. It all feels familiar, like an old friend. She walked me out to the train out to the MeetFactory at Ke Sklárně.

The venue posted word about the show:

“The legendary The Damned returns to the Czech Republic! One of the founders and early pioneers of punk-rock and gothic culture in Great Britain, led by frontman Dave Vanian, they were also the first British band to officially release a single, a full-length album and tour the United States. Despite all the firsts, the main thing prevails - The Damned have been roaming the world's stages for almost 50 years and they still have the drive to bring the most honest and pure punk-rock to every club where they dare!”

I first fell in love with them in 82 or 83. Kept listening and then lost track. Gradually punk turned to goth, and they kept going. Curtain calls. Smashing it up. More melody. Tragedy. I just can't be happy today. Don't you wish that you were dead. Life Goes On played over and over during the pandemic, as our teenager got ready for college, ever reminding me:“Life goes on and on and on If you think it's al gone wrong Go on and on and on … If you think you can't go on Go on and on and on But always remember This is the happiest day of your life..." There was something resilient about this sound, acknowledging the problems of life, and keeping moving, ever forward.
At the venture, an old Czech punk in a leather jacket bought me a beer and shot telling me about the shows under communism... Just cause we were chatting in beer line. The band seemed particularly animated. So did the crowd. Stage diving. Smash it up. Captain said it was a much better show than Berlin. Wow.
They opened with another goth anthem,
“Street of Dreams,” Dave singing:
“If you can't sleep tonight
And if a fever grips you tight
There's a place we must explore
Open wide the door
We may be the haunted men
But we will hold our heads up when
We're walking down the street of dreams
The dead beats and the dispossessed
The seekers of a nightly nest
The beauty walks arm in arm
With the beast tonight
We may be the haunted men
But we will hold our heads up when
We're walking down the street of dreams”

I guess a lot of us are, walking those streets. On they played several songs from the Black Album. And then turned to their new album, Darkadelic. Each time they play it, the lyrics and tempo pull me in even more, referential songs, songs about science fiction, about themselves. Before a final deep dive into Smash It Up, Neat, Neat, Neat, Love Song, and New Rose, the crowd still adoring them, women crowd surfing with glee, all these years later. Two encores and we made our way into the street, to the tram, back across the tracks and river, I walked through the city, talked with old punks, back to the hostel, where I looked at old black and white photos in my hostel room, at the Clock Inn, on Spalena 3, full of old, well worn paperbacks, and manifestos, kids drinking beer late into the night, before sleep, dreams about surrealist, insurrectionary prague. Early in the moring, I made it out for a stroll Wenceslas Square, to take in looked at memorials for fallen activists, the stories of the city at the National Museum, walking through the history of public space in Prague, through a hundred years of shifts from World War to independence to annexation, to Communism, to Prague Spring, tanks, crushed dreams, suicide, three decades of repression, Velvet Revolution, peaceful separation with Slovakia, to membership in the EU, McDonalds, World Trade Organization protests, Brad Will throwing cobblestones, Butterfly Protests, travelers the world over coming, anti tourist protests, and a modern capitalist city, full of heroes and villains.
Time was up, I had to move to get a ride to the train station across town. Chatted about it all with my cab driver, who arrived three years before the revolution, for school. "It's much better now," he told me. "Much better now."
And made it to the train on time for the 1225 train to Berlin Hopbonhof Fri 17 Mar, arriving at 5:05 PM. Dinner and topas and Caroline and Kai, another night in town, before an early train.
Brussels
I was going to go to Brussels in January, but plans changed. James had a funeral. So I rescheduled for this weekend. Usually run into Jamesy somewhere for Spring break, here or there, between London or Bucharest, or Brussels. Early Saturday flight and a train, hour to the airport, 90 mins in the air, back into city of Brussels, another train into the station, out to walk into the crowds of people, from Romania, from Morocco, kids playing, dad's discussing, people shopping, strolling, old junkies, young players, people smoking, strolling about, at the Dream Cafe, taking in a gorgeous Saturday. Another tram, finally up to Ave Louise to see James and Irene and kids. It's drizzly. We stay in. Brussels is about chatting with James and conversations about Constanta, Romania, and Sunday strolls, chance encounters, lunch at L'Ultimate Atome, and anti racist protests, and memorials for the departed, and cloudy skies, and art galleries and afternoon beers, and old friends.
On my way back to the Berlin, Captain Sensible was on his way back to the UK from Budapest after the last show of “a fab but all too brief European” tour all of us on tour, through our lives.
Back in Berlin for springtime, past Alexanderplatz, into the cemetery, blue blossoms making their way out of the ground.