Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Living in New York City: Under a Half Moon

Foto by tgw, "Repeat Moonshot," New York City, 2010
A Wolf Man Under a Half Moon
Makes for half a lunatic. The photo above is wrong. That's an old photo showing a full moon sailing over lower Manhattan Island. The moon these past few nights that has come sailing brightly orange into my wide-open-eyed bay window's view at around 10 in the eve is a half moon, not a wolfman-inviting full moon as depicted above. My old Toshiba camera was helpless. It needed new batteries to be functional. And though there's an all-night drugstore just a block and a half away from me that sells authentic Duracell copperheads, I was too lazy and too concerned with my current financial straits to go down there, battery up, come back and photograph the moon. My irritated photo-ego blasphemed me in my meditations ("mutterings to myself" definition) for wasting a chance at photo-ing so remarkable a dyed-hair orange bright and flaming half moon, the example of which I haven't seen sailing across that window in the blankity-blank-too-many years I lived in this decadent apartment.

Waste. And, yes, I hate waste. Yet, I waste a lot of time. I justify it by saying I'm not wasting it because I'm thinking during that time and some of those thoughts lead to ideas, ideas containing possible future plots, characters, situations, dialog techniques--why thinking just last night of illustrating my own adult children's book--how about, A Child's First Interest in War? Or how about, The Illustrated Handbook of War for Children? You see, I'm off on a wasteful jag right here at the moment. A habit of mine...of drifting off the topic, or drifting out of the picture like that half moon does every night now--sailing in like a brightly lit Aladdin's lamp and suddenly being shooting-star gone--leaving behind a darkness sparkling with empty apartment windows lit up to pretend that they are occupied. I read where the real estate industry in New York City calls empty apartments in buildings "see-through apartments," meaning you can see through them clearly from uncurtained or unblinded window clear through to the other uncurtained and unblinded window (and there are tons of these see-through apartments I can see clear through behind me out that same bay window in the jungle-like rise of hi-rise luxury condo buildings going up all up and down Sixth Avenue). What a racket this real estate racket is--and what a racket it makes in terms of existent rentals left in this city--buildings standing empty because no one can afford to buy the apartments in them. But I'm writing blah-blah-blah shit now.

A half-moon is half romantic. I like to imagine while I'm seeing that half moon sailing by my window someone beauty of a moon goddess I love is seeing it sailing by her, too, at the same time--now that's the kind of romantic thoughts I get looking at a half moon.

And, yes, in an atypical lycanthropic way a full moon isn't romantic to me--though the contradiction lies in the fact to the wolf in me the full moon is an incitement to romantic passion and lonely longing--longing enough to eventually have to let go and howl at that moon--in a lust for life--lycanthrope (from the Greek λυκάνθρωπος: λύκος, lukos, "wolf", and άνθρωπος, anthrōpos, man)--though rest assured, I am not a werewolf; I am not Lon Chaney. I do not turn into a hairy beast during my enrapture with a full moon. I am not Larry Talbott.

At least you can stare at the moon and jive romantic off its silver-screen face when it's full and in high-density mode. There's not much romantic poetry based on staring at the Sun, is there? Sun poets. "Glare!/Glistening the angles of the objects I seer/Through/No rosey lenses for me, my blinding love." You see how bad sun poets are?

Ralph Haselmann, Jr. A Man Who Was Dedicated to Moon Poetry
Ralph Haselmann, Jr., created: www.lucidmoonpoetry.com/
Ralph created the Lucid Moon Poetry Magazine
Lucid Moon Poetry
I'm sad to now show you what follows the above Ralph original painting (Ralph's wolf does actually animatedly howl at the moon on the Website):

"Dear friends and poetry buddies of Ralph Jr.
It is with sadness that Kathy and I inform you that Ralph Jr. passed away on
February 2, 2006 at age 40. preliminary indications are cardiac arrest.
As you may know, as a quadriplegic he was always subjected to respiratory and circulatory problems, as well as a compromised immune system, pneumonia and other issues.
He held on for four years and remained productive, editing his newsletter, and preparing a cartoon book for publication. He enjoyed music, reading and keeping in touch with his poetry friends. We were very proud of him for persevering in the face of great odds. At last he is at peace.
Our family thanks all of you for your friendship to Ralph and to us over the years.

Ralph Sr."
Here's an entry by Ralph Hasellmann, Jr., from Lucid Moon Poetry Magazine, 2006:

The stupidity of the American people continues to amaze me. This past holiday season Christmas shoppers were ravenous and greedy. On Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving and the busiest Christmas shopping day of the year, people started lining up in the wee hours of the morning outside Walmart. In Orlando, Fla. a brawl broke out at the Walmarts there over a guy cutting in line. People were dialing 911 to report that other people were cutting into line. The doors opened at 4 a.m., and there was a mad dash for ipods, mp3 players, cell phones, laptops, and flat topped hdtv sets.. As I watched the footage of this brawl, I was incredulous. I’m so glad that I don’t have to put up with this Christmas shopping shit. This Christmas season an expected $435 billion will be spent on merchandise, food, postage and fuel. It’s mind boggling. Maybe Americans should spend their time and money feeding and housing the poor and homeless.
Albert Collins
wrote a tune called "The Moon Is Full"--opens: "You know the moon is full/Makes my love come on down...." And, yes, a full moon does make your love come on down.
I am off to join thedailygrowlerhousepianist in an hour or so for pints of ale at our uptown Irish pub...then we're rushing over to my world's favorite Mexican restaurant for a meal...then we're hustling over to Avery Fisher Hall for an evening of the music of Edgard Varese. Either it will excite me or seduce me into a deep sleep. I one year bought a season ticket to one of the Cleveland Orchestra's yearly visits to Carnegie under their then music director the great George Szell. I went first class in those days and my seat was in the first ring of boxes--one of the end boxes nearest the stage. The first concert that year featured "Til Eulenspiegel" followed by an Anton Bruckner symphony, #6, I think it was. "Til Eulenspiegel" gave me no problem--it's a loud and boistrois romp through Strauss's fairy-tale imagination with plenty of off-stage horns blaring and the orchestra rising and falling as this merry prankster goes about doing his mischief. But then came the Bruckner symphony. I already knew Bruckner wrote very tight, precise, filmy symphonies--coldly German in their strictness in their orchestrative construction--they're intellectual as hell--and though I was very familiar with all of Bruckner's symphonies and had been attracted to this concert by this Bruckner presentation, still before George and the Cleveland ork were halfway into the opening movement, I lost consciousness. I don't know how long I was out, but in the middle of my reverie, I was rudely awakened by a kick on my red-velvet-upholstered confortable deep-cushioned seat located right by the balcony rail just above the right side of the stage. Dammit, who the fuck is kicking my seat, I fumed in turning around and facing a grey-haired dowager and her tuxedo-ed husband (don't worry, at the time I was well-dressed by my rich wife who had a charge account (remember those?) at Bloomingdale's where she took me every now and then and bought me sport coats and slacks and suits and sweaters and alligator belts and Greek handmade shoes, so I wasn't intimidated by an old fart in an out-of-style tuxedo). "Please, young man," she said, "you're snoring is drowning out the orchestra...." Then I felt the drool at the side of my mouth and turned around and fought falling back asleep for what seemed like several more hours--Bruckner's symphonies are that slow and that long, too. Seems in that opening movement, I'd gradually sunk down in that plush seat and had gradually let my head slide over to rest on that wide balcony rail and BAM, I'd hit the skids for the Land of Morpheus. I wonder if anybody was taping that concert? Wouldn't that be cool, my snoring coming in over a quiet serious passage being played with such sensitivity by this at that time world-class orchestra.
"Look at that moon it's shiny so pretty/It's shinin' up there for me and for you/For as long as we're together...."
And Then There's:

for The Daily Growler

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