Well first of all, and let me just say that I don’t mean to be inflammatory, but can I just say: I wish I was LUCKY enough to have poop to eat right now. I mean I’m not saying I love poop, but it’s been a few days and nothing has made it through the first 4 people or so. You know the survival rule of threes: three minutes without air, three days without water, three weeks without food. Well, what they don’t tell you is that even a few days without food is pretty miserable!
I’m trying to be positive. Gah. I am positive. In general, I’m an optimist. It’s just that sometimes our circumstances get the best of us and, how would you feel?
Huh? I don’t need to defend myself to you? You get it? Thank goodness.
I think about death. And how there’s no way I’m going to get fed. Even if the person in front of me died and I had a chance to eat their butt cheeks from the hole outwards, I don’t think I could do it. So it’s just a waiting game. And then sometimes, I think: hasn’t it always just been a waiting game? Haven’t I just been eating shit pooped at me by someone else who’s been eating shit from a line of shit eaters, my whole fucking life, just waiting to die? I’m only 25. I always wanted to do something big. And I never did. Too busy with other things. Netflix. Work. Eating shit. So I think that’s the gift I was given. To see the whole pattern, finally, physically. And to have the privilege to see the end of the pattern, here at the tail of the line. To know that I won’t have my own shit thrust into someone else’s mouth. To know that it ends with me. And to know that no matter how much I would totally kill for some shit to eat right now, it’s never going to come. That the cycle is broken, but that I am free because for once in my goddamn life, I don’t even have the choice to eat shit.
I think sometimes we can only be free when we end our bondage to ourselves.
For 3 years in college, I spent a lot of my time playing and teaching the carillon.
It’s weird that the definition of carillon involves the word carillon itself, but, also per the Guild, that’s because a carillon bell is a specific kind – a cast bronze cup-shaped bell, whose partial tones are in such harmonious relationship to each other as to permit many such bells to be sounded together in varied chords with harmonious and concordant effect. Neat.
Takeaway: If you line up 23 sleigh bells and hit them with sticks, that is a fun time, but it is not a carillon.
I’d say I learned a lot of things from the carillon.
For instance, while teaching my first class, I picked up the story of the Tsar Kolokol III, or the Tsar Bell. No carillon involved. The Tsar Bell stands 20 feet tall, and currently sits outside the Kremlin in Moscow, Russia. Some consider it to be the world’s heaviest existing bell.
Back in Imperial Russia, making bells bigger than other bells was a standard royal one-upmanship project. So, after failing to cast the first 20-ton Tsar Bell, and then again failing on a 110-ton version, the behemoth Tsar Kolokol III was successfully cast in 1735 and weighed in at 216 tons (that’s about 90 average-sized SUVs). After such a feat, the bell needed to spend significant time cooling above its casting pit.
Two years later (still cooling), and, before our Tsar could be hung and rung, a fire erupted in the Kremlin! The blaze spread to the young bell’s wooden support structure, and a choice arose: throw water on the bell and risk cracking it to oblivion, or let the fire burn and risk sending the bell down to its doom?
The fateful firefighters chose the former, and, alas – CRACK – down in the pit still fell the bell, cleaving from its mouth an 11.5-ton metal slab (4.5 SUVs). The Tsar Bell remained in its casting pit for another century before it could be rescued and begin serving its eternal watch outside the palace.
So, it didn’t ring. The bell never rang! World’s heaviest... bell-shaped sculpture?
Wikipedia fact: “In the spring of 2016, a team of UC Berkeley, Stanford, and University of Michigan researchers publicly performed an electronic reproduction of how the Tsar Bell would sound if it had not been damaged during casting. To simulate the sound of the bell, the team researched the bell's material characteristics and constructed a polygon mesh that modeled the shape of the bell. The team then used finite element analysis to compute the component frequencies of the bell when rung. For the first public performance, a stack of twelve speakers installed below the campanile on the UC Berkeley campus played the digital simulation of the Tsar Bell. The fundamental frequency of the sound was approximately 81 Hz.”
So, it did ring. The bell rang!
Personal fact: For an entire week before the simulation’s public debut, the team set off test knells as night fell. The Tsar’s 81 Hz and its melancholic minor tierce wafted past my walking path each evening that week. I found myself drawn in close, lingering a long while, savoring the deep resonance and its impossibility. My bones were uneasy, yet at home, and the air was just a little too cold for April.
Carillon history and repertoire no doubt left their mark on me, but this feels more indelible.
I’d say I learned a lot of things from the carillon.
For instance, if you eat cottage cheese and lie on the floor, you might quell some of your performance anxiety. The world’s largest carillon bell takes the weight of 2 young adults to properly sound, yet no one on the New York City streets below can hear it anyway. I learned to give in to the thunderous anonymity. To climb to the Widow’s Walk of the tower, you only need to pick the lock to the maintenance staircase with a lanyard and a spork. And, after the tower closes, you can still perch on the ledge, wrap your fingers around the open-air safety bars, and stretch your legs out, pushing against the sunset and floating above the lights that are just turning on for the evening. And somehow, like that, you’re no longer afraid of the height.
It was dark, except for the lights on the bridge, last night once we passed through the artisan boutiques in the Ferry building and exited the port-facing doors. The three of us wandered out across the parking lot, stepping around barely illuminated puddles from the rain earlier that day, and hoping to get an unobstructed view of the bridge’s reflection in the bay, though the waves were rough enough that we got only shattered pieces of light, brushed horizontally over the surface like a Monet. Still, we made our way to the unlit end of the pier and took in the view, and that’s about where we were standing when I heard a rustling.
I spun around, squinting at the source of the noise: a blanket-covered figure taking shelter on a nearby bench stirred, and all at once I was filled with the feeling that I was being noticed but benevolently ignored. Probably, it was a homeless person who had found a secluded space to sleep where they figured nobody would bother them. Without letting on, I looked to see if anyone else had noticed that someone was there on the bench. My cousin snapped a few pictures of the bridge. I impulsively stepped into the space between her and the bench, so that if the figure was to suddenly jump out and start yelling, or something like that, I could be the first line of defense, I guess. Nobody else noticed them. After a minute we turned around and went back inside.
It would be imprecise to say that I’m scared of homeless people. I’m uncomfortable, maybe, but there’s a lot of reasons that their existence might, and should, make me uncomfortable. But scared? I’m scared of spiders and needles. Nothing you can do to a needle could make me less scared. But homeless people are just people who don’t have a home, and once you find them a home, then they’re just strangers. Imprecise. And unflattering, like crossing the street to avoid passing by a group of black people when you’re walking home at night. Why do they have to be black? Because that makes it unflattering. Can’t I see this stranger as just a person who is going through a particular circumstance? Can’t I be enlightened like my friend Abhi, who on her birthday asked a homeless man at the beach to share his fire pit with us, offered him food and drinks, included him in her party, and as we left explained to someone that she didn’t think he was leaving the beach not because “I think he’s homeless,” which is a statement of identity, but because “I think he’s sleeping here,” which is simpler and truer?
In that moment when I heard the rustling I was reminded of a night when I was 16 and had snuck out to take a walk to the neighborhood playground around 11 pm. This was something I’d started doing in high school because it excited me and made me feel adventurous. Some nights I would walk to the neighborhood down the road and explore the streets there, which were like a weird mirror dimension version of the suburb I lived in, with the same basic features – maple trees, front yard gardens and driveways with basketball hoops – but in new unexpected configurations. One night I ran as hard as I could down a street in this neighborhood to see if I could outrun the feeling of structure and control, the rut that I felt my high school suburban life was constrained to – which sort of worked for a bit.
On this particular night though, I was walking back from the playground in the dark, rounding the corner of the small building next to the yard, which was actually a set of changing rooms for the neighborhood pool, and right then a group of girls were walking down the sidewalk – a normal thing to do – right in front of the building which I was now emerging out of, from the shadows, like a creature from a horror movie. I froze, not wanting to startle them. This was unfortunate, because they did notice me, and the end result was that from their point of view as they were passing by, a creepy silhouetted boy came around a corner, stopped and stood there, and then just stared at them. I could have said something, like maybe “Hey, don’t be scared,” but I’m not sure that would have been much better than staying quiet, which is what I did, until they turned around and started quickly walking away, clearly shaken.
I think of that night because it proved to me that you can be scared of someone without thinking that they’re doing anything wrong, without assigning fault, and without thinking that they are inherently scary. The situation makes them scary. Like imagine if I had been smoking a cigarette or something. It would have explained my presence and made me seem less like an impersonal force, like there’s this kid who clearly snuck out to smoke so his parents wouldn’t find out. But instead, I was just smoking the cigarette of wanting to explore the neighborhood at night as a way of coping with my inefficacy, which it turns out is a lot like just not having a reason to be outside.
So in that sense, yes I am scared of homeless people, sorry.
After dinner the three of us were walking up Market towards Union Square to see the big Christmas tree when a disheveled man without a shirt on yelled out in a strained voice, peering angrily at an older couple walking a few meters ahead of us. He looked like he hadn’t bathed in several weeks, which made me think he might be homeless. He acted like he was mentally ill, and he might be dangerous. These were all thoughts I had but didn’t voice, because I thought saying them out loud would make me seem judgmental, uncaring, and classist. And because telling someone that they’re scaring you is a lot like asking them to stop being scary, which is not a fair thing to ask from someone in that position, the scary things about them being mostly related to not having a home. So I stayed silent and tried my best to walk around him without triggering him to focus his attention on any of us.
What drives someone to that? Drug use, sometimes. Mental illness, sometimes. Circumstance. The one thing that I always want to convey to homeless people, whether they’re trying to sleep or yelling on the street, is that I wish they had better circumstances. I wish they had support systems like me. If I got into an argument with one I would defer to them so fast it would make your head spin. I would avoid at all cost anything that I feel would lead to conflict. I’d tell them whatever they want to hear in service of ending the conversation. That’s what my primate brain thinks will solve the crisis: let them win the interaction, don’t piss them off. Implicit in this is that they are the ones with the power in the conversation. If one came after me I would run like a scared dog. If one insulted me I’d be happy to absorb it. One time a drunk homeless man came up behind me while I was sitting in a park and pushed down on the top of my head to steady himself. My response was to ignore him and continue my sentence without missing a beat, to the horror of my onlooking friends. Absorb negativity, output positivity. That’s what I think I owe them, but the truth is that’s not treating them like humans either. Humans engage each other.
I sometimes wonder what I would do if the system failed me the way it failed these people. If I couldn’t rely on my family and friends the way I do. If a corporation hadn’t agreed to sponsor my existence by giving me a job. Being slowly stripped of my efficacy and agency, and then denied the reality of this experience. Feeling powerless to change my circumstances. Getting swallowed up by that structure of control I tried to outrun in high school, but this time it’s permanent and also I’m cold and hungry. I wonder how many months I would be content with people just averting their eyes and refusing to engage. How many times I’d be willing to stop in my tracks and let the nice people doing the permitted thing pass by on the sidewalk while I stood there and hoped to not be noticed. How many times I would stay covered on my bench while three strangers snapped pictures of a bridge until, even just to see what happens, I actually do decide to pop up and yell at them. And what that would feel like. Having that power in the moment. The feeling that people won’t ever mess with me again because they’re scared. The Edward-Norton-in-Fight-Club beating myself to a pulp energy which proves that in the physical space we truly occupy, in the real world, in the actual moment, imaginary money and property be damned, my show of force gives me control over my space. And the fact that given how little control I have over my anything, my actions are actually totally justifiable. And how you would cross the street to avoid passing me, even though it’s uncharismatic, because you’d be scared of me too.
Any container you put a maraca in becomes a maraca. If you need to stow them for a flight, you can shake around your overnight duffel bag and use it exactly as you would maracas. The same is not true of ukuleles, pianos, flutes, or harmonicas. Even drumsticks, whose simple function is that they are used to whack something, would not function as drumsticks anymore if the container they were put in was too soft. Maracas are special.
I brought my own maracas back from my last trip to Glacier National Park with my brother and my parents. They had brought them from their car in Michigan, where I had left them when they came to see the workshop for my musical in Chicago. We, in fact, didn’t even use them for the workshop, because the theatre we rented out was acoustically very live, and they ended up being too loud to play.
Putting on a musical, by the way, is different from writing a musical. That’s probably obvious from the outside, but if you’re someone who is writing a musical and eventually want to put it on it’s less obvious. Putting on a musical mostly involves producing it – that is, lots of communications and making sure not to forget things. Writing a big list of everything that needs to be handled, and then crossing off the items one by one, very slowly, over the course of hundreds of email threads over several months.
In contrast, writing a musical is like living in a space ship. You commit a large chunk of time to leave the earth and hook yourself up to machines which capture the things you expel – moisture, CO2, poop – gather them up, and turn them into something that can sustain life, or at least not become poisonous and kill you. If you’re a songwriter, all of your song ideas become potential musical numbers. If you’re a comedian, all of your jokes become potential zingers in your show. Producing a show is a beast, for sure, and writing one is another beast altogether.
And perhaps the most surprising thing about putting on a musical that you’ve written is how easy it is. Before you start you think of it as a blackhole. A sort of infinitely far away idea – something for people who already know how to do it. A world you can’t break into, you can only be shepherded into at a young age you already passed. You think it would take some extra-human capacity for not being afraid to take risks, put yourself out there, market yourself, network yourself. That part of you that wanted to move to New York and try to make it big as an artist, to quit your job and just focus on your passion, no matter how scary it is, you think that you have to finally let that part of you take the wheel.
I was once told “If you want something you’ve never had, you’ll have to do something you’ve never done.” This turned out to be true to an extent, but not in the way I thought it would be. I had thought that in order to do something so big, I would have to overcome the fear of doing it. In fact, all I had to do was organize my life in a way where I could make progress without needing to overcome my fears. So if I tend to lose motivation on my projects after a few months, what if instead I worked with a co-writer who would keep me motivated, and just scheduled regular times to work on something with them? And if I was worried about taking risks and networking, what if that co-writer happened to excel at this, and also brought out the social butterfly side of me? And what if I did all this without quitting my job, so I wouldn’t have to worry about whether I’m good enough at it to pay the bills? Well those are all technically things I’ve never done before, and they all technically got me something I’ve never had, and yet there is something still so unextraordinary about those extraordinary things.
A maraca is a hard shell full of something loose inside. Lots of things can be maracas. Marbles in a coffee cup, a bag of uncooked rice, crushed Pringles at the bottom of the can, ice melting in your mouth, the crackling of a campfire, or rain hitting the window. Really even the sound of your voice, at the molecular level, is just tiny loose particles bouncing around their container (your vocal cords) and reverberating in a way which produces a sound.