I'm Trying to Reach You

by Barbara Browning

  Jeremy had managed to get us all press passes. This was a good thing because I wouldn’t otherwise have had enough cash for a ticket, but it made me feel a little sheepish and as though I really ought to be taking notes. But as I said, I often feel like I’m doing research anyway.

  We’d brought a blanket, and we staked out our own little plot.

  The legally blind, virtuosic 15-year-old electric guitarist Conrad Oberg opened the event playing a pretty faithful cover of Jimi Hendrix’s “The Star-Spangled Banner.” His technique was impeccable and everyone was very impressed and also moved, considering his age and handicap. Still, you couldn’t help but feel that Oberg’s fidelity to the original performance might have deprived the moment of some of its transformative potential. But of course, you couldn’t really expect a 15-year-old to attempt to one-up Jimi Hendrix. Also, what the hell am I talking about, “transformative potential”? This sounds like one of those workshops at the Buddhist retreat center in Phoenicia.

  I didn’t want to be the snarky egghead that day, but really, what did any of us expect? To recapture something some of us had missed and others had surely romanticized in their recollections? In the domain of performance theory, it seems we’d suddenly hit the era of “reperformance” – a proliferation of cultural phenomena actively demonstrating our incapacity to come up with anything as politically or aesthetically appealing as the art we were collectively mourning. Was this interesting, or was it catastrophically boring?

  This was my inner monologue, listening to Conrad Oberg shredding derivatively on the stage at the Bethel Woods Center for the Arts. Ellen was standing next to me and I suspect she was thinking more or less the same thing, or at least the part up to “transformative potential,” but when the song was over we both just said, “Wow.” Randy and Jeremy were both tweeting on their iPhones.

  There were several “Heroes” performing that day, i.e., individuals who had actually performed at the original festival. Levon Helm was there, Tom Constanten from the Grateful Dead, and Country Joe McDonald. The band Mountain played, and the guitarist got married right there on the stage. He seemed pretty well preserved, all things considered, and he had on stylish white glasses. His bride looked significantly younger, and she had on a flouncy white wedding gown.

  An older lady with frizzy, gray hair in a sundress turned around and said to Ellen and me, “You know, at the original Woodstock two babies were born.” There didn’t appear to be any births taking place at the anniversary concert, though I did see a couple of very pregnant women.

  I already mentioned, I’m not a big fan of marriage, but I admit I sometimes get a little choked up when I find myself witnessing a ceremony. Ellen, however, was having none of this. When the guitarist from Mountain started taking his vows, she just said, “Gross. Let’s get some beer.”

  Randy and Jeremy had disappeared some time ago. I suspected they might be doing some kind of drug. I thought it was probably just as well that Ellen wasn’t in on that action, but a beer didn’t sound that dangerous. She bought a round and later I reciprocated – tall boys of PBR. I almost never drink beer. It was kind of refreshing.

  When we got back to our spot, Jocko Marcellino from Sha Na Na was singing a song with Canned Heat. I believe I already admitted to my relative cluelessness about the history of rock ‘n’ roll, so some of these names didn’t mean a lot to me, but I certainly knew about Jefferson Starship. Big Brother and the Holding Company also played. Ellen had to explain to me that this was Janis Joplin’s band, although they didn’t actually play with her at the original Woodstock. Obviously, they were not joined by her now, but there was a Japanese pop singer named Shiho Ochi (“of Superfly”) that performed two Joplin songs with them – “Down on Me” and “Piece of My Heart.” Apparently this was being filmed as part of a TV special about her obsession with Janis Joplin. Shiho Ochi was young and thin and pretty and she had on a black and white striped outfit with bellbottoms and fringe. She was also technically proficient and you could certainly see how much she liked Janis, but somehow it didn’t seem to have quite the right spirit. I’m sure I shouldn’t be grousing about this. After all, what did I really know about Janis Joplin?

  MILK AND COOKIES

  Really – what did I really know about Janis Joplin? I was still asking myself this question when I got back to New York.

  First there were some practical things to attend to. I hadn’t asked Fang to check in on the plants because I thought they could take it, but four days in the August heat had done a number on them. I felt pretty guilty, and probably over-watered in an attempt at compensation. When I watered the rubber tree, I had the distinct impression that the little plastic deer were looking at me with something like accusation in their eyes.

  This also seemed to be the obvious reading of the text I received from Sven that afternoon: “O_o”

  Sven had written me the night before asking where I was and what I was doing. I’d felt too tired to answer.

  And then there was my body. Four days with no cardio workout. Four days of too much red wine and PBR. I hadn’t even done my barre exercises up there.

  First things first. After watering the plants, I texted Sven that I was working on my NYU presentation. I didn’t really feel this was a misrepresentation. That was after all what I was intending to do when I sat down at my computer. And indeed, I spent a good twenty minutes staring at the introduction of my manuscript, wondering how much of it I could cut and paste into a coherent talk.

  Some of the most interesting material was on Jean-Georges Noverre. Noverre’s Lettres sur la danse, et sur les ballets (1760) remains the authoritative work on the ballet d’action, in which narrative dominates. Noverre had no patience with the fetishization of technical virtuosity. This is pretty funny because if it weren’t for his insistence on meaning, you’d practically say he sounded like a postmodernist – not, that is, a postmodernist when it came to narrative, but choreographically, in his defense of non-virtuosic movement as legitimate dance vocabulary.

  In some ways, I suppose my sensibility is a little closer to Noverre than it is, say, to Yvonne Rainer or David Gordon. I consider this a weakness on my part – my attachment to narrative. But I consider it a virtue, my lack of attachment to technique.

  Anyway, after a while I got bored and decided to take a quick peek again at that Les Paul documentary.

  Oh my fucking God – or as Sven might have said, “:O” The email jerk had been there. And the message he left made my blood run cold: “Hey Les!!! Hows it feel to be UNPLUGGED???”

  Obviously, this discovery threw me off my game. I really couldn’t concentrate on Noverre while some jaunty loon was running around knocking off the cultural geniuses of our era out of a freakish infatuation with an eccentric, aging would-be ballerina. And who was going to believe my story of a malevolent balletomane? I realized this was going to be a tough sell. I couldn’t take it public until I had more evidence.

  Fortunately, the email jerk seemed more than willing to supply it.

  On August 25, 2009, I was standing in line at Morton Williams. In my basket I had a can of tuna, a bag of baby arugula, a couple of grapefruits, a roll of toilet paper, some English muffins, yogurt, and some fat-free half-and-half. It being nearly the end of the month, this was a necessities-only trip. As I approached the register, I picked up a copy of The Daily News and started skimming it. There was a story about MJ. Of course there had been a lot of stories about MJ in recent weeks, but this one popped out at me: the Los Angeles County coroner’s office had just ruled MJ’s death a homicide, after detecting significant amounts of the sedative propofol in his system. Janet Jackson had made an announcement thanking the authorities for bringing to light the possible criminal involvement of others in the death of her brother. It struck me as sad and poignant that MJ referred to propofol as his “milk.” Here they produced a photo of a vial of the stuff, which indeed looked pretty milky. I reflected on the fact that dark secrets and extreme innocence sometimes seem to
go hand in hand.

  Six days later, I was sitting on a corner banquette in the Torch Club waiting for José Muñoz, the Chair of the Department of Performance Studies. I’d run into him walking his bulldog, Dulce Maria, in the NYU compound. After introducing me to his dog, he graciously said we should have a coffee sometime, maybe before the fall semester began and we all got “overwhelmed.”

  I said, “How about the Torch Club Monday afternoon?”

  I immediately regretted this. He looked like I’d just expelled some enormous glob of snot or goo. I hadn’t yet fully absorbed the fact that not all faculty members saw the appeal of my gentlemen’s club. But being a gracious person, he said, “Uhh, sure… Gee, the Torch Club… That’s an interesting idea… Uhh, what time?”

  I suggested teatime: four.

  The timing of this encounter – and specifically the date – was strategic. That was the day my monthly fellowship direct deposit was supposed to clear. It was possible that Muñoz would charge the bill to a departmental credit card, but I didn’t want to count on that since I’d made the invitation. Especially now that I’d seen his reaction. He was probably also anticipating having to listen to me yammer on about my research. Really, who could blame him? I’m sure “visiting scholars” were a pain in his ass.

  Anyway, I’d made the suggestion, so there I was, promptly at four. I told Galina I’d wait to order until Prof. Muñoz arrived. I was reading through the latest issue of The Chronicle of Higher Education. I started out just skimming the job listings, but given the bleakness of the market, that didn’t take too long. Slim pickin’s, as they say. Then I got sort of absorbed in an article about for-profit colleges. Apparently these were the only ones doing fairly well in the current economic collapse. The other trend was that universities, both public and private, were increasingly establishing satellite campuses in parts of the world where there was still a little cash to be squeezed. NYU was really at the forefront of this brave new world: everybody was talking about the new campus in Abu Dhabi.

  I was pretty deep into something between a dream and nightmare scenario of myself teaching a dance theory seminar in a gleaming new faux-ivory tower in the desert when I heard Galina’s girlish giggle, and I looked up: it was him! Jimmy Stewart! He was carrying a large, rectangular, flat package wrapped in brown paper. He set it down and leaned it against a chair near the fireplace. He made some apparently witty remark, setting Galina off in another round of giggles, and then he took a seat and, to my embarrassed surprise, looked directly at me, smiling slightly and nodding. He then quietly told Galina something, and she glanced at me as well and nodded.

  I tried to look back at the article I’d been reading, but naturally my mind was frozen. Seconds later, Galina was standing over me with a plate of little cookies and a glass of milk, “Courtesy,” she said, “of gentleman. He says hopes to you will be pleasant.” She smiled, and walked away.

  Jesus Christ. Milk. He sent me milk.

  I looked at him in horror, but he was just sitting there sipping an iced tea through a straw.

  José Muñoz came bustling in, apologetic for his tardiness and breathing heavily. I was assuring him that he hadn’t inconvenienced me at all, and in the hubbub of our mutual apologies, I didn’t even see her arrive. She must only have been there for a few seconds. When Muñoz and I finally settled into our places and I looked up, a diminutive, dark-haired figure was whisking her way out the door of the Torch Club, that rectangular package under her arm. Even from the back, I recognized her immediately: NethermostFun! This was it! The exchange of the “delivery”! “Stork Club” = “Torch Club” – it was a Jimmy Stewart witticism!

  The email jerk took a last sip from his straw, stood, tossed a handful of dollar bills onto the table, bowed courteously to Galina, and slipped out the door of my gentlemen’s club.

  Muñoz was saying, “Gray? Are you okay?” He was chomping on one of the cookies.

  I shouted, “I think the cookies are okay but don’t drink the milk!”

  He said gently, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to drink your milk…”

  The following week classes began. My anxiety (or perhaps we should just go ahead and call it my delirium) retreated somewhat with the sense of excitement that accompanied the beginning of the academic year. Even at my relatively advanced age, I was still susceptible to that feeling of fresh possibility. And New York is so beautiful in September. One afternoon I was walking home from Morton Williams with my usual small bag of staples and I noticed that Bugs Bunny’s sister had parked her walker near the little statue of Fiorello LaGuardia on LaGuardia Place. She was sitting there, sunning herself. She had on a white terry tennis hat and an aqua blue tracksuit.

  As I approached her, I waved my arm to get her attention and I shouted, “IT’S BEAUTIFUL OUT!”

  She stared at me for a few seconds, then smiled and slyly gestured for me to lean in so I could hear her. She screamed, “WHEN YA SAID IT’S BYOOFUL OUT, YA WEMINDED ME OF A JOKE:

  “TWO GAYS AH WALKIN’ DOWN FIFF AVENUE. ONE OF ’EM SAYS, ‘IT’S NICE OUT.’

  “DA UDDA ONE SAYS, ‘YEAH, I TINK I’LL TAKE MINE OUT TOO.’ ”

  She smiled again and winked.

  I thought that was a pretty good one. I made a mental note to send Sven this joke. I was getting increasingly fond of Bugs Bunny’s sister. She also seemed pretty into me.

  Fang and I met for a hot dog in Washington Square Park a few days later and she told me that Steve Kurtz was coming in the spring to teach a course on “bio art” and “tactical media.” Steve Kurtz was a founding member of the politically trenchant and theoretically incisive Critical Art Ensemble. Kurtz himself had been through a hellish episode of trumped-up charges of bio-terrorism, so I imagine Fang felt a certain sense of solidarity with him, after the “monkey tail girl” indignities she’d suffered. Fang had written him about her filiform wart project. Reasonably, he’d written back wondering if she really wanted to do that to her eyelid. Still, he expressed admiration for her determination and told her he’d work with her on an independent study.

  She asked me about what I was going to do for my fall semester lecture. I felt a little embarrassed to say that I’d been getting tired of hearing myself talk about Forsythe so I was thinking of talking about Noverre and narrativity in 18th-century classical dance. Needless to say, my analysis was going to be… Derridean. Fang was pretty polite. She didn’t point out the obvious: this was going to be a big snooze for most of the performance studies types, whose taste in dance ran more toward the utterly pornographic Ann Liv Young than Jean-Georges Noverre or even Forsythe, and whose theoretical frame of reference had advanced significantly since 1983, which was about where my own had gotten stuck.

  Never mind. That day the sun was shining, the undergrads were draping themselves around the fountain, some kooks were playing guitars and bongos, singing old Beatles songs, and Fang and I were eating hot dogs.

  As if on cue, a large group of people appeared with their pet dachshunds. They were adorable. We were so enchanted we didn’t even remember to take pictures. Fang squatted down and had what seemed like a very intimate encounter with a long-haired little guy. He was wearing a tiny top hat secured by an elastic band. We weren’t worrying in that moment about the dismal academic job market, possible charges of “bio-terrorism,” the obsolescence of my theoretical paradigm, the impending disfigurement of Fang’s eyelid, the racist, sexist, and homophobic slurs so rampant on the Internet, the burgeoning national backlash against Obama, or the serial deaths of some of the greatest cultural icons of the last century. I wasn’t even thinking about Jimmy Stewart in that moment. Or how I was going to make it to the end of the month on my paltry fellowship. Or Sven’s reaction to his meds. We were just enjoying the beautiful weather that day in the park, charmed by the little wiener dog in his tiny top hat.

  Sven was supposed to come visit in October, but as the date approached he was getting a little nervous because of the stomach troubles he’d been having
. His doctor was pretty blasé about it. I didn’t want to seem like I wasn’t taking his situation seriously, and in fact the thought of nursing him through a rough patch without his regular medical support network nearby was a little intimidating to me as well, but I tried to be encouraging. I said I thought he’d be fine. I told him Forsythe was going to have a piece up at BAM and I could probably get us tickets through André Lepecki who was participating in some sort of talk-back after one of the performances. I told him how nice the weather had been in New York. I also said I missed him, because I knew that would make him feel a little better, and indeed, when I wrote that in a text he answered: “:)” – but in truth, my mind was elsewhere.

  I’m not sure exactly where.

  I was trying to work on my manuscript, of course, though at this point you don’t need me to describe my revision process. It was near the end of September, on one of the first evenings you might describe as “seasonably cool,” that I had paused in the middle of a particularly stagnant session of comma migration to get a breath of fresh air on the balcony.

  There was a light rain falling, and it was just starting to get a little dark out. I looked across the way at the buildings on the other side of the compound and noticed that there was a guy riding a stationary bicycle on a balcony almost directly across from mine. I’m not sure why, but I felt compelled to take a picture of him on my phone:

  I was thinking about the stationary bicycle as a metaphor. Perhaps it will be self-evident that I mean as a metaphor for certain aspects of my existence – most specifically, my writing process. My revisions were obviously not “going anyplace” in particular. I wondered if I could do anything with the figure in that novel I was thinking of writing. Documenting the guy across the courtyard was a way of gathering information for the book I might write. A kind of research. But after I’d taken the picture, I felt a little creepy. I made myself nervous wondering if anybody on the other side had noticed me taking this picture, and if they might have taken a picture of me taking a picture of the guy on the stationary bike.