Sights and Sounds: A Day in New York
The peacock’s feathers glisten. They turn from dark green to blue to iridescent, blindingly shiny black as he slowly struts around the garden. A tiny baby peacock perched on his head gently sways as the magnificent bird carefully puts one foot down, then another, its huge tail following behind like a dress train on the red carpet. She can hear the complete silence surrounding the peacocks, mesmerized by the feathers. Time is floating by her. Time descends on the peacocks, pressing heavily on the perched baby. Time… “… time. C’mon!” Paul is tugging at her shoulder. “It’s the third time the alarm goes off. Time to go.” Ah, and so it’s morning.
In a moment she’s up. The peacock’s feathers glimmer as she takes a shower and brushes her teeth. “A baby peacock on its head?” she asks her face in the mirror, “how funny.” The face says nothing back.
As always, Paul has already made coffee. “I have so many things to do today, this is going to be a crazy day,” she tells him. The lustrous tail drags along the ground. “Yes, and don’t forget about the concert,” he says. “I’ll meet you in front of the church at a quarter to seven.”
And a crazy day it is. Ordinary in its craziness, but still crazy... She does a myriad of usual, required, necessary projects, all deadline-driven and super-important, all meaningless and mundane. And as she dives into the subway and comes out to see the light again, as she swims through the crowd of closed up, preoccupied faces, as she sits at her desk, makes her calls and schedules her meetings, the iridescent black shimmers and changes to green, only to become blue and then black again.
And tonight, tonight is a classical music concert. It’s an evening of piano music and a fundraiser for the conservatory. Probably a bore, but for a good cause, and it shouldn’t be a long night… The concert is at the St. Peter’s Church - a barely noticeable little pyramid scrunched under the massive bulk of the Citibank building, like a forgotten toy that rolled under a kid’s bed.
A kiss on the cheek, a smile, and she and Paul are inside.
The church is tiny, its ceiling going high up like a teenager that has suddenly shot up in height while the rest of him hasn’t yet followed. A very Scandinavian structure-simple lines, whitewashed walls, light wood-its pews go around in a circle, punctuated only by a huge organ, a sort of a modern amphitheater. Two black grand pianos are in the middle of this amphitheater; the only reminders of religion are the organ and two wrought iron candelabra.
The music sounds waft up, her eyes slowly drift around the room. A bald man across from her is recording the concert. One of the few dimly lit lamps is reflected on his skull in a distinct bullet hole, flowing out from under his chin in a red trickle of the tie. A high window goes all the way up to the ceiling. All she can see through it are the dark glass walls of another building, slit with the springtime bright green of an entirely inappropriate tree. But then, this is New York, this is where seemingly out-of-place things find harmony living side by side. Except for a couple of sparrows, she can see no other signs of life.
And then, as the fingers on the keyboard bring Chopin, a face appears in the window. It’s definitely a human face. It’s in no hurry. And it’s curious about what’s happening inside. The man adjusts the bag across his shoulders and keeps looking in very intently. He points his finger inside and speaks to someone. Does he think we’re a new sect? That this is a new church, with pianos and piano players instead of altars and priests?
The fingers continue to glide and flutter across the keys.
When she looks up again, the face is no longer there, only the familiar glimmer of the feathers. And for the first time, the tail lifts and slowly fans out... Finally, at last, the magnificent colors take over and reveal their full boundless glory.
# # #
In a moment she’s up. The peacock’s feathers glimmer as she takes a shower and brushes her teeth. “A baby peacock on its head?” she asks her face in the mirror, “how funny.” The face says nothing back.
As always, Paul has already made coffee. “I have so many things to do today, this is going to be a crazy day,” she tells him. The lustrous tail drags along the ground. “Yes, and don’t forget about the concert,” he says. “I’ll meet you in front of the church at a quarter to seven.”
And a crazy day it is. Ordinary in its craziness, but still crazy... She does a myriad of usual, required, necessary projects, all deadline-driven and super-important, all meaningless and mundane. And as she dives into the subway and comes out to see the light again, as she swims through the crowd of closed up, preoccupied faces, as she sits at her desk, makes her calls and schedules her meetings, the iridescent black shimmers and changes to green, only to become blue and then black again.
And tonight, tonight is a classical music concert. It’s an evening of piano music and a fundraiser for the conservatory. Probably a bore, but for a good cause, and it shouldn’t be a long night… The concert is at the St. Peter’s Church - a barely noticeable little pyramid scrunched under the massive bulk of the Citibank building, like a forgotten toy that rolled under a kid’s bed.
A kiss on the cheek, a smile, and she and Paul are inside.
The church is tiny, its ceiling going high up like a teenager that has suddenly shot up in height while the rest of him hasn’t yet followed. A very Scandinavian structure-simple lines, whitewashed walls, light wood-its pews go around in a circle, punctuated only by a huge organ, a sort of a modern amphitheater. Two black grand pianos are in the middle of this amphitheater; the only reminders of religion are the organ and two wrought iron candelabra.
The music sounds waft up, her eyes slowly drift around the room. A bald man across from her is recording the concert. One of the few dimly lit lamps is reflected on his skull in a distinct bullet hole, flowing out from under his chin in a red trickle of the tie. A high window goes all the way up to the ceiling. All she can see through it are the dark glass walls of another building, slit with the springtime bright green of an entirely inappropriate tree. But then, this is New York, this is where seemingly out-of-place things find harmony living side by side. Except for a couple of sparrows, she can see no other signs of life.
And then, as the fingers on the keyboard bring Chopin, a face appears in the window. It’s definitely a human face. It’s in no hurry. And it’s curious about what’s happening inside. The man adjusts the bag across his shoulders and keeps looking in very intently. He points his finger inside and speaks to someone. Does he think we’re a new sect? That this is a new church, with pianos and piano players instead of altars and priests?
The fingers continue to glide and flutter across the keys.
When she looks up again, the face is no longer there, only the familiar glimmer of the feathers. And for the first time, the tail lifts and slowly fans out... Finally, at last, the magnificent colors take over and reveal their full boundless glory.
# # #