George Gershwin: The Graceful Ghost

Gershwin is a time traveller - you can see him out of the corner of your eye. He did not die in the normal sense of the word, because he did not know where he was. He was in a very high fever and dying all alone in a hospital room after failed brain surgery. When he left his body, he experienced extreme disorientation and for quite a while did not realize he was dead. This meant that a light, loose Gershwin-shaped energy field still moved about the world, and lit up whenever his music was played (which was almost all the time). After a very long time, though it was a mere moment in eternity, he began to realize who and how he actually was, that he was no longer in a body and would have to exist in a very different form. Being a soul sojourner from the beginning, this was not a threat but an adventure to him. But even in spite of this necessary metamorphosis, to a remarkable degree, he retained a George Gershwin shape. No matter what sort of problems he was having in his life, and he had many that we don't know anything about, there was a ferocious static-charged supernatural pumped boost of energy that somehow kept on connecting people with each other when he was around. But ironically, in spite of his sacred mission to join people joyously,in his life he had many struggles with intimacy, which led to a loneliness even as he was the most popular man in the room. During this strange leaving-his-body-and-not-being-sure-where-he-was period, he began to have extraordinary insight into not just his own condition, but the human condition.

 GG's emotional affect and his emotions seemed curiously light, but there was a galaxy of melancholy within that he did not show to too many people. The stars in that galaxy exploded out of his fingers and his brain and were made manifest as notes of music on the page. Though he lived at a hurtling pace few people could equal, little did he know that he was absorbing all of humanity's travails, gaining an understanding of suffering that would not be fully realized until he found himself in a different form outside his body. It would have been unbearably painful, had his life (as he knew it) not been over, a blessed cessation of all earthly pain. When a soul or entity gains this sort of awareness, mysterious alchemy takes place because the need here on earth for that level of understanding is so dire. Those pained and anguished places in that broken thing we call the human condition began to draw and attract this generous, gentle, deeply broken spirit. There was Gershwin dust in the room sifting down like stardust, particularly when there was music playing. And there was music playing a lot. 

Someone, not keeping up their guard, felt something strange or warm and not quite familiar in the room, yet also hauntingly familiar. Someone else thought they saw him for a second, or someone that looked like him. There was in some subconscious way a powerful sense that a healing was beginning to happen. As the entity begins to heal, so it heals itself. George's brain gave way, the most disturbing way to die, so that he was basically humbled by losing the genius brain he was celebrated for. Stripped of that, even of that, all that was left was his essence. How can I say how this happens? How can I be sure that George Gershwin is a time traveller and an entity who is basically free to move about within time and space wherever and whenever he wishes?

BLOGGER'S NOTE. Since writing this, one of the first passages I ever wrote about Gershwin and my sense of close contact with him, I found a number of other writings that made my scalp prickle. It does make me wonder: does he have the capacity to move back and forth between worlds, or has he decided to stay in this one, wandering around as curiously and restlessly as he did in life?

My wonderful George experience was completely derailed when everything I wrote was shot down by a so-called friend, a spiritualist medium who has decided to set up his own little fiefdom and call himself God. To be honest, it came out he never actually read any of the things I sent him, but was still certain that it was all bogus. This was also true when he dismissed my first complete novel as "a zany soap opera" (having never read THAT either). Later, when he half-assedly apologized, he said I had "triggered his issues", meaning "you made me do it."

To my chagrin, the entire thing dropped out from under me and disappeared, and I felt considerable grief. I had to keep moving forward and practically stopped thinking about it. He had triggered embarrassment in me, which I guess was what he wanted. But I had trusted him, and now I didn't know why I took that risk.

Then the other day, someone or something entered my office - just came in, I mean. Didn't so much waft or float or materialize like the ghost of Jacob Marley. He just walked in, like Love in that song. He walked in on my left side and came around so I was facing him and I saw that sweet, familiar look and that indescribable vibe.

George was back.

Below are a couple of quotes from the many (many, many) books on George. It seems he does appear to people, including his own sad, bereaved brother/writing partner, Ira. It's too bad he could not have enjoyed the visit more, sad that he was so terrified at George's friendly, unspectral return.  I feel George as the most gorgeous, the most glorious presence, but at the same time soft, tender - really, quite indescribable, the most beautiful of vibes stealing into the room.

“George even passed the most acid of tests for great leadership by remaining a presence to his followers even after he’d left the planet. Ann ‘Willow Weep for Me’ Ronell told me some half century after his death that she still ‘saw’ Gershwin regularly in the crowds of the Upper West Side, looking as if he’d just walked out the door. And on that same day, Burton ‘How About You’ Lane testified to an even more precise epiphany. Lane had recently been to a concert of Gershwin’s newly-refurbished piano rolls being played on a baby grand pianola in a pool of spotlight. And as the notes began to go mechanically down and up, ‘There was George for a moment,’ he exclaimed, ‘playing away. I almost passed out.’”

- The House that George Built, Wilfrid Shed

"As Ira grew older, he became not less but more obsessed with George. When he was in his eighties, Michael Feinstein, who had become something of a surrogate son to him, heard him talking to George in his sleep. These were, according to Feinstein, 'lengthy conversations' that were 'often filled with anger, centering around Ira's desire not to stay here on earth and George's insistence that he stay.' Just before Ira's death in 1983, he revealed to Feinstein in a hushed voice something he had never told anyone else. Shortly after George's passing, he had looked into his brother's workroom upstairs at 1019 North Roxbury and seen him 'sitting on the sofa, smiling and nodding to me. It terrified me. I wasn't drinking. I wasn't drunk. But I saw him.'"

- George Gershwin, An Intimate Portrait, Walter Rimler

Henrietta and Merna Can't Sing - Go Tell It On The Mountain

Christmas is dead, and we have killed it.

The Chipmunks - at NORMAL speed!

This is why I go on living  - well - this and a few other things. I have always wondered at the back of my demonic little brain what Alvin and the Chipmunks would sound like at NORMAL SPEED. Now I know, and it is even creepier than I imagined. Of course the David Seville voice is draggy and slow, but then come these three ordinary-sounding male voices - no, wait, ONE person doing three different voices with very exaggerated diction, I guess "so people will understand it". I think this was their first hit, though that awful one about "I wanna play my harmonica" must have been a close second. The bickering little argument at the end becomes a nightmare of threatened violence, with three men yelling at each other and a glandular giant bawling horribly at them all.

Merry Christmas!

Santa has had a bad year

Goat, tell it on the mountain!

It's a Wonderful Life: chicken on a spit

This thing comes on every year and I get caught up in it, even worse than Taxi Driver. And I forget every year that it's the longest, most suffocating piece of drama ever created. A festive favorite about a man who wants to commit suicide because his life has been an exercise in futility and failed dreams, capped off by a totally unfair charge of bank fraud.

Ah! It's a Wonderful Life. Ringling, tingling Christmas trees, Zoo-zoo's petals, bleeding lips, newel-post knobs nearly hurled across the room. Chickens on a spit, bar brawls on Christmas Eve, irrelevant songs about Buffalo Gals, and wild-eyed overacting all around.

Dis guy, see, he's like, um. Kind of disillusioned, like, cuz. His Uncle Billy, who's half nuts but was the father in Gone with the Wind so sort-of famous, has lost the eight thousand dollars that the Bailey Savings and Loan has earned in the past fifty years or so. He sort of dropped it somewhere and the Big Fat Man, the Bad Man, Lionel Barrymore in his most Grinchimous role, went and spent it on a hooker or something.

So da guy, this George, he decides he's worth more dead than alive (do I hear silver bells?), and stands there not jumping off a bridge. Then this old guy in a nightgown jumps off the bridge, and. . . the rest is history.

Oh, I shouldn't be so cynical, but this thing - this long thing, this three-hour marathon of hopelessness and small-town suffocation - it's about the farthest thing from festive you could imagine. Even Scrooge has glimmers of hope in it, but this - . George acts like some sortofa downtrodden saint for two hours and forty-nine minutes, then he kind of explodes and screams at his wife and family and tells them he basically hates them for holding him back and completely destroying his life.

His . . . wonderful life.

OK, I have a few problems with the logistics of this thing. When they get married and have to give all their money away to save the bank, Donna Reed gets chickens going on a spit in this old ruin of a house, the one they use-da throw stones at for luck. And they move in to it? make it habitable? On his salary of $2.70 a week or whatever-the-frick-it-is? Raise a family? George wears the same suit for 17 years, for God's sake.

Jimmy Stewart overacts. I'm sorry, but he does, he overshoots. He smears his facial features around with his hand, his hair is wild, he looks like a candidate for the psych ward, and finally he mumbles to his hokey old guardian angel (the guy in the funny shirt that ties up in front because buttons hadn't been invented in the year 1300) that he wishes he'd never been born at all.

Kind of the ultimate in nihilism, wouldn't you say? Jimmy Stewart, the guy with the 6-foot imaginary pet rabbit, the guy in whatever-else-he-was-in, all those Westerns and Mr. Smiths and whatever, attempting to annihilate all traces of his existence on earth. A holiday special? OK, another big problem. He has this obnoxious friend named Sam Wainwright who keeps saying, inexplicably, "hee-haw". A dumb-ass par excellence, he lucks into a strange new business just before the war breaks out:  plastics. This assures he'll be obscenely wealthy doing no work at all.

He's George's best friend, for blippin' sake, and George is all stressed out and wanting to kill himself over 8 thousand dollars when 8 thousand dollars isn't even POCKET CHANGE for Sam Wainwright. In the dramatic ending when everyone turns their linty little pockets inside-out for George, he gets some kind-of-a cable from Wainwright saying, in so many words, "your measly little problem that you were willing to die over is peanuts to me. I'll give you three times that amount and change. There, feel better now?"

I doubt if he would. But think about it. Would Wainwright ever let George be dragged off to jail for such a shabby little amount? Money is power, right? Wainwright could make Old Man Potter dance like a jerky little marionette on a cold winter's night, and George is all stressed out about jail? (I liked his idea that Uncle Billy should go, instead. Made sense to me.)

But hey. He might get conjugal visits from that, who's that little floozie anyway? Jeez, what's she doing in this thing which is spozed to be a family show?

Oh, oh, and I just thought of this: it gets me every year. Why is it that after George yells at Uncle Billy that he's a mental defective, a moron and a lunatic, a squirrel jumps up on his arm? What the - ?? a squirrel? Up to now we've only seen ravens, tortoises, cows, etc. Could this be a foreshadowing of the squirrel from hell in National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation? (Actually, it screams of "cut the animal scenes, this thing is running too long." But for some reason they left in the squirrel.)

This time around (when as usual I kept saying, "OK, I'll turn it off in another 5 minutes" for 6 consecutive hours), I noticed a few other discrepancies, such as George's mother (Beulah Bondi) bawling and dabbing at her eyes during the final cash-spilling orgy in George's living room. Well, about ten minutes ago when George was on the phone with his brother Harry in Washington, where he just got the Congressional Medal of Honor for filing his nails or something, George repeats to the listening crowd, "Mother just had lunch with the President's wife."

Not only do the writers of this thing obviously not know who the President was then, but Mother must be able to teleport herself from Washington to Bedford Falls in a matter of seconds! Hey, lady, tell me how you can be in two places at the same time and I'll buy the patent.

But I gots-ta confess to one thing. No matter how I prepare myself for it, no matter how cynical I try to feel, no matter how cornball I know it will be (and it is), that final scene has me bawling every time. Just bawling. I don't know what it is. The generosity of the people. The look of astonishment on George's face. Zoo-zoo's petals. Beulah Bondi, beamed down from the planet Zargon.

I remember a superb SCTV satire of this scene, in which a succession of ever-more-notable people kept sweeping through the door, from George's brother to the President of the United States to, finally, His Holiness the Pope. It's a potent fantasy, all right - one we wish would come true for ourselves. That one day, in spite of futile sacrifice and grinding toil and zero recognition, something wonderful will happen to make us see that it has all been worthwhile.

This has something to do with the American work ethic, always handing the glory to someone else like that ratfink brother-who-got-the-Congressional-Medal-of-Honor-while-we-got-stuck-with-goddamn-rubber-drives-during-the-freaking-war. Let's face it, there are more Georges than Harries in the world. We all have our lunatic uncles, our goddamn rubber drives. Our eight thousand dollars.

And if George hadn't-a saved Harry when he slid down on that slippery old thingammy on the ice, why then -

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Riot gear and handcuffs: a festive celebration

Belsnickel

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia



Picture of the Pennsylvania Dutch version of the Belsnickel, taken in the 1950s at an event near Philadelphia.


Belsnickel (also Belschnickel, Belznickle, Belznickel, Pelznikel, Pelznickelfrom pelzen (or belzen, German for to wallop or to drub) and Nickel being a hypocorism of the given name Nikolaus) is a crotchety, fur-clad Christmas gift-bringer figure in the folklore of the Palatinate region of southwestern Germany along the Rhine, the Saarland, and the Odenwald area of Baden-Württemberg. The figure is also preserved in Pennsylvania Dutch communities.

Cultural perspective[edit]




Modern day Belsnickel in his travel attire on his way to scare children in the schools in Norwich, New York. December 2012.

Belsnickle is related to other companions of Saint Nicholas in the folklore of German-speaking Europe. He may have been based on another, older, German myth, Knecht Ruprecht, a servant of Saint Nicholas, and a character from northern Germany. Unlike those figures, Belsnickel does not accompany Saint Nicholas but instead visits alone and combines both the threatening and the benign aspects which in other traditions are divided between the Saint Nicholas and the companion figure.

Belsnickel is a man wearing furs and sometimes a mask with a long tongue. He is typically very ragged and disheveled. He wears torn, tattered, and dirty clothes, and he carries a switch in his hand with which to beat naughty children, but also pocketsful of cakes, candies, and nuts for good children. In Lower Austria he is sometimes followed by a creature, called Krampus, covered with bells and dragging chains. Krampus is a wild, horned figure akin to the devil. His name translates to "claw".

A first-hand 19th-century account of the "Beltznickle" tradition in Allegany County, Maryland, can be found in Brown's Miscellaneous Writings, a collection of essays by Jacob Brown (born 1824). Writing of a period around 1830, Brown says, "we did not hear of" Santa Claus. Instead, the tradition called for a visit by a different character altogether:

He was known as Kriskinkle, Beltznickle and sometimes as the Christmas woman. Children then not only saw the mysterious person, but felt him or rather his stripes upon their backs with his switch. The annual visitor would make his appearance some hours after dark, thoroughly disguised, especially the face, which would sometimes be covered with a hideously ugly phiz - generally wore a female garb - hence the name Christmas woman - sometimes it would be a veritable woman but with masculine force and action. He or she would be equipped with an ample sack about the shoulders filled with cakes, nuts, and fruits, and a long hazel switch which was supposed to have some kind of a charm in it as well as a sting. One would scatter the goodies upon the floor, and then the scramble would begin by the delighted children, and the other hand would ply the switch upon the backs of the excited youngsters - who would not show a wince, but had it been parental discipline there would have been screams to reach a long distance.

This all started when I had some sort of earworm from Christmases past: an old song we used to sing, maybe back when I was in McKeough School in Chatham where the teachers were older than the 150-year-old inkwell-equipped wrought-iron desks.

"We're trimming the tree
We're trimming the tree
With silver bells that jingle
We're trimming the tree
We're trimming the tree
We're helping old Kris Kringle

We're hanging strings of popcorn
And lights that bubble and glow
We hope that we help Rudolph
As he guides his way through the snoww-w-w - "

Inane song, and it couldn't have been really old because it mentioned Rudolph. But it would come into my head, irritatingly, every year, and I always meant to look it up. Was this a real song or what? Did anyone else remember it? Was it on YouTube, perhaps - did Roy Rogers sing it? Then when I finally did look it up, I found one reference only, on a very old message board, someone wanting to know if anyone else remembered the song. No one did. Then I got thinking about Kris Kringle. WTF?? Who IS Kris Kringle, anyway?

This led to a depressing array of information which could only be classed as Kringalia: a thick and almost incomprehensible tangle with an infinite number of variations of names based on Christ and Nicholas and Saint this-or-that, all with a confusing variety of costumes, customs, giving and taking away of gifts and punishments, etc. etc.  Perhaps the Coca-Cola Company did us all a favour by making Santa so blandly uniform.

But by then it was too late, I was stuck in Information Hell.  I fell into this, this Belsnickel - sounding more like an SCTV parody than anything real - and thought: surely, this is the dark side of Santa Claus! A ragged, probably smelly old man, or is it a woman (?), with cakes in his moldy pockets and a birch switch for whipping you if you were "naughty", or even if he just felt like it. And Krampus! Krampus sounds terrifying to me, like one of those nightmarish ram-horned beasts from those sci-fi fantasy shows I never watch.

It was mildly interesting to learn that Belsnickel and his grotty traditions still exist in parts of the U. S., mostly Pennsylvania. Some Dutch thing, probably, but what about that Black Peter? Wasn't he Dutch too? My garbled information about him as Santa's evil helper obviously needed refreshing.

What I found out is slightly hilarious. It seems that a lot of people have a problem with Black Peter being. . . well . . . black. (Wikipedia uses the term "blackamoor" which means nothing at all to me, nor to anyone else.) The crux of the matter is, on Christmas Eve some guy puts on a medieval costume and blackens his face and prances around. He's the comic relief as Saint Nicholas performs his grim duties. It's the blackface that seems to be causing the problem. But is the solution wiping the makeup off and making Black Peter WHITE? I don't see how that is supposed to counter the racism of the character, who is designed to be a little over the top anyway.

But read on. You can't make this stuff up!

Though a large majority of the overall populace in both the Netherlands and Belgium is in favor of retaining the traditional Zwarte Piet character, studies have shown that the perception of Zwarte Piet can differ greatly among different ethnic backgrounds, age groups and regions.

Upwards of 90% of the Dutch public don't perceive Zwarte Piet to be a racist character or associate him with slavery and are opposed to altering the character's appearance, with many of the ethnic Dutch considering Zwarte Piet to be an integral part of their culture, childhood and holiday traditions. This correlates to a 2015 study among Dutch children aged 3-7 which showed that they perceive Zwarte Piet to be a fantastical clownish figure rather than a black person. However, the number of Dutch people who are willing to change certain details of the character (for example its lips and hair) is reported to be growing.

Opposition to the figure is mostly found in the most urbanized provinces of North- and South Holland, where between 9% and 7% of the populace wants to change the appearance of Zwarte Piet. In Amsterdam, the nations capital, most opposition towards the character is found among the Ghanaian, Antillean and Dutch-Surinamese communities, with 50% of the Surinamese considering the figure to be discriminatory to others, whereas 27% consider the figure to be discriminatory towards themselves.The predominance of the Dutch black community among those who oppose the Zwarte Piet character is also visible among the main anti-Zwarte Piet movements, Zwarte Piet Niet and Zwarte Piet is Racisme which have established themselves since the 2010s. Generally, adherents of these groups consider Zwarte Piet to be part of the Dutch colonial heritage, in which black people were subservient to whites and/or are opposed to what they consider stereotypical black ("Black Sambo") features of the figure, such as bright red lips, curly hair and large golden earrings.

The public debate surrounding the figure can be described as polarized, with some protesters considering the figure to be an insult to their ancestry and supporters considering the character to be an inseparable part of their cultural heritage. Recent years have seen a number of incidents in which anti-Zwarte Piet demonstrators have been arrested by the police for disturbing the peace, as well as threats being made towards prominent figures in the anti-Zwarte Piet movement by supporters of the character.

WAY TO RUIN CHRISTMAS, GUYS!

P. S. You knew there'd be a P. S., right? In this case, it's my abdicating responsibility for the variable spelling of Belsnickel in the Wikipedia entry. These things are written by some 35-year-old guy who lives in his mother's basement and watches old Star Trek reruns all day. Belsnickel is, I believe, the correct spelling, unless it's Belsnickle.

The best thing I have ever seen about gun violence

Zonk Deck:  Might have to change this meme, eh?

Like    Reply    5 hours

Matt Bille:  I agree with tighter nationwide regulations, but so many guns are in circulation that I don't know about the impact. I don't fear the guns so much as the people who use them.

Like    Reply    5 hours

Dick Ostrander:  Actually fear cars, cars killed more Americans than guns. Let's ban cars...

Like   Reply - 1    4 hours

Dawn Kresan: Cars are needed, guns are not.

Like    Reply    4 hours

Thomas Behnke: That's why you have to pass two tests to get a license to drive one, you have to register the vehicle, and have liability insurance, you can only drive a certain speed in certain places, and car manufacturers are REQUIRED to include features that are designed to ensure public safety, like seat belts, and mirrors, and there are certain features that are not legal on public roads, unlike guns that have none of these restrictions, even though a car is a tool whose primary purpose is to transport people and things faster and more efficiently than horses, where a gun is a tool whose primary purpose is to kill things faster and more efficiently than a cross bow. Because America and logic have never been the best of friends.

Blogger's Response. This, whether it's strictly allowed or not, is a transcript of a bit of dialogue on my Facebook page about gun violence. While I have a very hard time believing that Isis killed only four Americans in a year, and while I assume the rest of the statistics are pulled out of someone's ass for sake of a dramatic internet meme, it's nevertheless making a good point. But that last comment is something we need to think about. The flip remark "Actually fear cars, cars killed more Americans than guns. Let's ban cars. . . " is dismissive and even mocking, and either supports gun culture or is downright contemptuous of any attempt to condemn it. The next couple of comments put it all into perspective. 

Strangest sex movie I ever saw

This has got to be the strangest erotic film I've ever seen. Mainly because the imagery in it is never quite explained. And yet, and yet. It's oddly compelling, in the way all of Muybridge's stuff is. When I did that experiment of physically cutting apart his multiple time-lapse images and giffing them so that they showed in rapid succession, I found I had made a little "movie". The disjointedness of this is both jarring and mysterious, like a peep show. We're only allowed a frame or two a second, and the rest has to be imagined. Because this brought it to mind, I was going to include the famous Monty Python sex montage with Richard Nixon, and I might yet do it IFFFF my Makeagif program decides to start working again. And oh, please, don't get me started on the demise of Gifsforum, which has not been explained anywhere on the internet: it just disappeared one day and can't be tracked down, not even a complaint on a message board or on Facebook or anywhere. The golden age of making gifs, the Age of Miracles written about in that song, has passed. No longer can I turn colour into black and white in a strange reversal of the Wizard of Oz; no longer can I make them go backwards or reverse halfway; no longer can I use multiple filters for artistic effects, three speeds, make them talk, whistle, dance. It is over. I am left only with a site that doesn't work very reliably. Gifs are considered trivial anyway, but to me they are bloody magic and I will never stop making them until my hands fall off.

Yes. This is what that Giphy system looks like. Not too impressive. but you get the idea.

How the cat saved Christmas

Reflections on decorating the house for the nine millionth time. I am far from Martha Stewart, but every year we just seem to have more "stuff" to put up, so it takes way longer than we think. A wreath appeared over the fireplace and I wondered how it got there, then I realized my husband must have put it there - without being asked! It seemed like a Christmas miracle, until I realized we'd been at it 2 1/2 hours and were nowhere near done.

I wouldn't mind, but -. It's the memories. They should be good ones, they ARE good, some of them anyway, except when I realize a handmade ornament from a grandkid has become antique. The days of salt dough and poster paint are coming to an end. Meantime, every item, every ornament has these memories, these damn memories stuck to it, and not all of them are all that pleasant. 

We sometimes replicate our childhood, and for a while I did and found a lot of ways to ruin Christmas, or almost. It's usually good now, but hauling all this stuff out - . EVERY year I say, this year I'll enjoy it, or at least: this year I won't mind it, or at least: this year I won't hate it. And I hate it. 

Once it's finally done, now that I am old, my back aches and I can't drink eggnog any more like I used to, or anything else for that matter. And I haven't baked anything because - phhhssssshht - baking?? But we have a new edition in the house, and it's his first Christmas here. A stealthy cinnamon tabby who wound his way up the trunk of the blinking tree and stared out at us with dilated owly eyes. Whenever you tried to hang an ornament, a white paw would shoot out and biff you in the nose. I guess there are consolations. (Addition? Edition seems better to me.)

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Bling bling - hello??

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America my friend

Fiddle And The Drum

by Joni Mitchell

And so once again

My dear Johnny my dear friend

And so once again you are fightin' us all

And when I ask you why

You raise your sticks and cry, and I fall

Oh, my friend

How did you come

To trade the fiddle for the drum

You say I have turned

Like the enemies you've earned

But I can remember

All the good things you are

And so I ask you please

Can I help you find the peace and the star

Oh, my friend

What time is this

To trade the handshake for the fist

And so once again

Oh, America my friend

And so once again

You are fighting us all

And when we ask you why

You raise your sticks and cry and we fall

Oh, my friend

How did you come

To trade the fiddle for the drum

You say we have turned

Like the enemies you've earned

But we can remember

All the good things you are
And so we ask you please

Can we help you find the peace and the star

Oh my friend

We have all come

To fear the beating of your drum

BRILLIANT! Best thing I've seen on the subject

Time traveller

George was one of the few who busted the code.

Who realized we shouldn't be limited by something as foolish as Time.

And thus, he became a Time Traveller.

Music is temporal, not spatial.

It takes up time, not space.

Though it never runs backwards, it runs in many directions

and has many dimensions

that we cannot hear.

Bust it through a prism

and you'll have overtones

that I guarantee will spook you out

no longer recognizable

as the tones from which they came.

Singing and spinning

even bending as time should never bend

and in its scary iridescence

we meet ourselves again and again

George!

George, George, George!

It has been happening just around the edges of my mind. A snatch of tune here and there: ". . . a foggy day in London town," or just a bit of the Rhapsody.

He's back.

I didn't want to say this until now, still quake a bit when I say it. Some months ago, I went on a Gershwin journey and went as deep into his life as I could.

It was fascinating, the things I found out. I even found recordings of his voice, the level, cultured/Brooklyn sonority of it, perhaps consciously cultivated, but now made his own. And I heard him rehearsing Porgy and Bess with a mixture of feverish excitement and anxiety.

George.

George was/IS one whose ties to the earth haven't been broken. The veil between his reality and ours is an exceptionally thin one, more like a fog. He has slipped back and forth a lot. Not only did his brother Ira see him after his death, so did a lot of other people. I kept finding - eerily - stories of "sightings", even decades later, George walking down the street in that rapidly purposeful way, smiling and waving, even sitting at a player piano with eternally youthful playfulness.

I came to be close to George, or maybe WITH George, which is another thing entirely. The material I wrote down was so intriguing that I sent portions of it to a friend who calls himself a medium. I've known him for 25 years and have had my innings with him, such as when he dismissed my first novel as a "zany soap opera" without reading a word of it. When he abjectly apologized years later, saying I had triggered all his "issues", I forgave him, not realizing it was a clear case of "look what you made me do".

What happened was, oh my, Margaret. This is definitely an authentic connection. This is fascinating! And on and on and on. So I kept on sending it to him, but now I doubt if he even read it. (If he could ignore a whole novel and still dismiss it. . . ). Then at a certain point, and abruptly, "I don't know, I can't make any sense of this but it's definitely nothing to do with Gershwin. Either someone else is pretending here, or you are."

Then he wondered why I was angry.

This time I really let him have it. For the first time in my life I allowed myself to be totally honest with a bully. A "psychic" bully - the worst kind. He quickly emailed me a rejoinder (fortunately he doesn't live here, but hunkers down on the Island with the Satanists), which I deleted unread.

But it killed George.

It killed him for me, though he was already dead, but not dead, not really. Passing back and forth, but turned away now by someone else's cruelty. My interest in him didn't wane - it died, even though I never wanted it to.

Gershwin had women friends whom he respected immensely. He respected them intellectually, but there was very little romantic love. His sexuality has been much discussed, as if it's any of our business. I don't think he was happy, but he was joyful. Exuberant. By turns, when he didn't have very deep blues, indeed. Deeper than the deepest indigo.

I felt I was in touch with him. Suddenly - . I thought he was gone forever, and what happened? I don't know, exactly. The silly, playful gifs and Blingees and carefully collected photos now seem relevant again. I want him to stay, and I don't want any phony spiritualists wrecking this, wrecking my deep connection, my mysterious contact with him, out of jealousy or pettiness or even worse things.

Nothing will. Suddenly, something sweeps in: and I am reminded of that incredible Ira Gershwin line: "but the age of miracles/Hadn't passed." Simple as e=mc2, and as profound.

It will never happen again. George will never happen again. Was once enough? Of course not. But he keeps coming back, in my dreams.

And here.

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