THIRD ENTRY

City of Dreams
Blog #3
David Gonzalez

Just catching my breath from the most recent action-packed residency visit to CSPAC. I appreciate days filled with many different experiences – the sort of days when lying in bed at night I can't remember how the morning started and just end up feeling that I've lived two days in one. On these days I feel lucky.

On my previous visit to the center I was introduced to many members of the CSPAC staff. Everyone seemed interested in the City of Dreams residency so, with the help of Carlos Castrillon and Adina Williams, I hosted a lunch were we could get to know one another. Copious quantities of pizza and soda were consumed as we all enjoyed a good conversation about the New York production of City of Dreams, the writing process, my experience as a music therapist, jazz, and the Clarice Smith Center's philosophy. I travel a good deal and often have rather superficial contact with the folks behind the scenes who make my performances a reality – this lunch meeting with the staff was truly refreshing.

After lunch I gave a presentation to the MENC club (Music Educators National Conference) about music therapy. They were fascinated with my tales of working with autistic kids, mute teenagers, and the story of little Lucille in the ICU (see poem below). We improvised on piano, drum and xylophone and discussed the process of "meeting the client where they are." I left with the feeling that at least one or two of these young musicians will look into music therapy as a possible career.

The next night I gave a poetry reading and hosted an open mic at College Perk, the local hang for UM bohemians. The poets who came out were spirited, creative and generous. A couple of them were truly spectacular. Students from Northwestern High School involved in the "Belonging/s" project with Chris Patton shared their work to the hoots and hollers of the college audience. It was a good night of spoken word and inspiration.

I am falling in love with the young storytellers at the Mary Harris "Mother" Jones School – their playfulness and palpable wonder is food for my soul. And man are they pumped about the storytelling festival at their school. I had them read, remember and draw an Aesop's fable, then come ready to tell it to their classmates. I think they were a little bit discouraged by how hard it was. They see/hear me dropping tales and it seems so easy and fun. It is natural to assume that anyone can do it – maybe this simplicity is the charm of storytelling. To discover the effort of the craft can be daunting – a bit like enjoying a ride in a plane, and then trying to build one for oneself. I talked with them about taking the listener on a "journey of the mind", we played several games to make this point, then visited the elements of storytelling (words, voice, gesture). By the end of the second day they were once again enthusiastic about their task to find a story from their family, or a book, and tell it well.

Here is Lucille's poem/story I shared with the MENC gathering, and later read at College Perk.


ICU Lucille

Peek-a-boo I see you Lucille
through the thick clear plastic tenting that covers your bed,
it is quieter under there,
the monitors bleep is muffled,
the ventilation hum faded toward disappearing,
it's the two of us alone
together again Lucille.
I awaken you with small Tibetan cymbals tied with a stout string,
like us, one making the other sing,
your frailty shakes loose in me a new tenderness,
like a newborns first eye-opening,
you moan a groggy hello,
we're together again Lucille.
Neither me nor the bells, nor my guitar, are sterilized,
the nurses don't mind,
there is little they can do for you now,
I quietly sound the soft chords that three weeks before – in the bright Child Life Center
had accompanied your spontaneous aria of sadness,
the song that told the truth about your parents abandoning you,
about your leukemia,
and in whose final lyric you named all of us present
as your new family,
forever and ever.
Now this progression of harmonies draws you out,
and the first you see are my eyes wet and fearful,
the first you hear is my voice singing your name,
Lucille.
Too weak to utter sounds you sang with your eyes,
you smiled, turned away and slept,
forever and ever.
I woke up this morning – twenty years later
to your song,
to that simple melody of longing
that we sang together,
together, Lucille.