The Room

8/21/17

The Room has polished wood floors. They look new but they are not. They blend perfectly with the walnut piano, not quite a baby grand, an heirloom. There are two violins, a cello, a French Horn, a guitar, a small exotic fur covered drum, a triangle, a recorder, an alto saxophone and a bassoon. The walnut bookcases which line the far wall contain decades of collecting. Scores of piano pieces, chamber music, operas, concerti, vocal music, some bassoon pieces, several of my own symphonies and other works, shelves of CDs and LPs. On the opposite wall, about 25 feet away, are large windows with a view of the lower Manhattan skyline and the Hudson River. Sunlight streams into the space. It is an ideal place to practice, read and write. It is perhaps my favorite place in the world.

My brown backpack rests near the dark cherry wood tv stand. I carry it, heavily packed - partially for exercise-on my daily long walks often with Beth. The pack has a  pattern which makes me think of things Native American. I was initially worried that Dennis might find it offensive. He did not comment on it. He chooses his battles.

There are nine lamps, polished brass; three have green glass shades. An original oil painting of a sax player hangs near the piano bench. A golden framed abstract limited edition print, brilliant blues surrounding a magic mountain of music manuscripts and inviting shapes and colors. Some greens, a drop of red, white cloud-like gradients harmonize.

Rocks from the Nantucket shore sit in a glass open top box gleaming in the late afternoon summer sun atop a folded dark mahogany table. The dining table was made from Brazilian telephone poles, many colored, dark, textured. A small blond wood segment contrasts with a brilliant red peeking out from one side. The coffee table shares the same concept but is smooth and polished. Both have black metal support bands. The flat panel tv is black. The wraparound leather couch is deep brown with a glowing striped, textured orange silk pillow and others in shades of reds, purples and greens. The club chair's purple is so deep it is almost dark brown, adorned with a golden print shawl from India and three purple pillows of each with its own feel and patterns.

Perched above the book cases, wine bottles and more books extend almost to the ceiling. One book, a gift from Mike, calls out to me. It is a political history the of mid 20th century. A number of the most important books I have read in the last few years I had read or started decades earlier without getting much out of the the first time: "The Artists' Way," "Getting to Yes," "How to Win Friends and Influence People..." even Jhumpa Lahiri's "In Other Words" was lying around only a few pages in until now. It was her almost casual remark that she gave herself the same assignment she gives her students: before writing something from their imagination, "Write a description of something in reality-" I read that line a number of times before on different days, before it dawned on me to write this description of my living room.  It is indeed a room where I do a lot of my living.  Can I be as natural out in the world as I am with my instruments, books and notebooks? Jhumpa - dare I call her by her first name?- seems so lonely, isolated- yes she has friends, a family, tremendous social acceptance and admiration. I maybe projecting myself onto her. Her book feels almost too lonely, too isolated. I want to send her this exercise, to reach out and make contact with a kindred soul. I don't want to be intrusive. I am too needy. There is even a hint of lust here. I want to be respectful of her- and of myself so I will keep my fantasy of getting approval from his famous author to myself.

I digress:

Mirrored cabinets have an Indian rug festooned over one panel. The aforementioned cello stands apart from the other instruments, near a small window, a zen sitting bench and more paintings waiting to be hung. Another original oil of a sailboat in the Nantucket Bay on a beautiful summer's day in another golden frame hangs above the tv, slightly off center. It's small size balances the large painting above the piano and medium size sax portrait farther to the left.

On the couch, Beth reads the newspaper.

Danny has recently moved to Brooklyn. My academic year is about to start. Four more years most likely until I retire from the system and try to become a performing, composing musician- more than I do now.

I am tired.