I've only been in Rensselaer for 3 short weeks, and already it feels like an eternity. I'm trying to stay sane by affording myself little escapes and activities to keep me busy (hence, the blog). One of the activities I've taken a great liking to is briskly walking over the Hudson River via the Dunn Memorial Bridge to Albany's Corning Preserve Park. I nestle under a tree and read for about an hour and attempt to briskly make the return trip. It's all in hopes of using wisely the time I'm stuck in a place I'd rather not be: to better myself in every way I can.
Alright, enough of that crap. I just wanted to explain why I was in Albany by myself in the middle of the day. Clearly I can't keep anything to myself.
As I walked to my usual roosting tree, something caught my eye as I passed by a display box perched on top of a thick wooden pole that I had never noticed before. I must have previously taken it for just another hisorical marking about Albany's involvement with the Erie Canal, as the city is wont to beat it over everybody's heads as much as possible. Gotta take advantage of some positive news when you can get it, I guess. Even if it is old news.
This sign, however, said:
Alright, enough of that crap. I just wanted to explain why I was in Albany by myself in the middle of the day. Clearly I can't keep anything to myself.
As I walked to my usual roosting tree, something caught my eye as I passed by a display box perched on top of a thick wooden pole that I had never noticed before. I must have previously taken it for just another hisorical marking about Albany's involvement with the Erie Canal, as the city is wont to beat it over everybody's heads as much as possible. Gotta take advantage of some positive news when you can get it, I guess. Even if it is old news.
This sign, however, said:
THE CITY OF ALBANY
SRI CHINMOY PEACE CAPITAL
World Peace, Earth-Peace Capital,
Heaven's Promise arrival.
Albany, Albany, Albany!
Fulfilment's epiphany.
Pioneer New York State
Opens God's Victory-Gate.
- Sri Chinmoy
The obvious joke here is, "Albany? A Peace Capital? Cut. It. Out." But oh, there was so much more.
This may not seem like that big of a deal, but it is. Earlier this Spring I was walking east on West 4th street in front of NYU'S infamous Bobst Library. Some shabbily dressed and probably homeless man stuck out his hand in front of me and spouted: "Free concert. It's free." For some reason, I took the thin carboard rectangle when I would usually shrug a faintly polite "No, thank you." I looked at the flyer and thought "A free concert? I know where this is going." Then I actually read the flyer. "Songs of the Soul, A Tribute to Sri Chinmoy. Featuring: Philip Glass. Roberta Flack. Some other Indian instrument musicians." The first two names were enough for me to count myself in right away. I had seen Philip Glass at Carnegie Hall in the winter - the tickets thought of originally as a Christmas present for someone else but I ended up really enjoying it. And of course I knew I liked Roberta. I got out my phone and made a reservation for two. The woman on the phone said that my last name sounded cool. Good karma all around.
I ended up going with my friend Anil, with whom I had shared quite a joyous time pulling all-nighters for our freshman history class, "World Cultures: Empires and Political Imagination." Around 4am in a study room at the library I believe tears were shed over our favorite Ottoman joke: "... more like Suleiman the Fagnificent." He was the perfect person to take to something that I had no idea really what it was about. If we can make learning several centuries of every empire in the world fun, we sure can make it through a concert.
The show was at NYU's Skirball Theater and seating was general admission. I got there very early as usual because those who have ventured to shows with me know that I have a slight obsession about public seating and being adequately close to the stage. Waiting in line, I was the only person there under the age of 30 and the only one who only spoke one language. But I was welcomed with open arms. Free things break down all barriers. I even made friends with an awesome Indian lady by getting her a student discount on an upcoming Sufi music festival.
Anil was late, but this was a Songs of the Soul concert. I didn't care. We went in with the woman and her family, a son and daughter past college age. I sat next to the son and Anil sat next to me. Little did we know that we all would be fused together by this grand experience. The stage went black and we watched a short film about the life of Sri Chinmoy. A peace-loving, spiritual musican, artist, poet, athlete. All that jazz. He seemed like a cool guy. Many famous friends and whatnot. All except the fact that a major "accomplishment" of his was drawing over 15 million birds. 15 million. Do you even realize how many birds he would have to draw every day? FIFTEEN FUCKING MILLION BIRDS. Maybe he figured that in the time he was scribbling all those birds is time he doens't have to worry about being unpeaceful?
The whole concert was absolutely ridiculous. A man and a woman, equally stiff, would read a Sri Chinmoy poem in between acts. The woman was so awkward at reciting that the audience either forgot or chose not to clap when she finished. She just stood there gazing out with her bright eyes like a confused toddler and backed slowly off of the stage. The man reminded me of an over-zealous poetry open-mic guy. Every so often, a musical ensemble eerily similar to the Stepford-Wives would take their turn on stage. They would "sing" with huge, frightening grins on their faces, rocking from side to side. They did not all move in the same direction, and I'm not sure if that would have been creepier. Some of them had their eyes closed and some had their eyes way too open. They were all dressed in thin, bright robe-like things. I undertand that they were the spiritual "Sri Chinmoy Bhajans Singers" but their rendtions of Sri Chinmoy's songs were more like chants one might find at a very uncreative cult meeting. Still, we were still suspending disbelief enough to take it all seriously. That is, until, one particular "song":
"Sri Chinmoy was also an athlete. As an older man he began to lift weights and on one joyous day Sri Chinmoy was able to lift 240 pounds over his head with his arms. This is his song about that day."
The colorful Stepford Wives - all caucasion, mind you - started their loud chantlike song:
ICANLIFTTWOHUNDREDANDFOURTYPOUNDS.
ICANLIFTTWOHUNDREDANDFOURTYPOUNDS.
ICANLIFTTWOHUNDREDANDFOURTYPOUNDS
ICANLIFTTWOHUNDREDANDFOURTYPOUNDS.
ICANLIFTTWOHUNDREDANDFOURTYPOUNDS.
That was the entire song. For 6 minutes. Over and over. Throughout the night, the woman's son, Anil, and I had been making snarky comments back and forth to eachother, mostly about the birds. We had trouble being discreet and apparently disturbed a homeless man dressed in burlap and his lady friend who were sitting in front of us. This time I had to tighten my whole body to keep the laughter in.
"How much did he lift again? What was it? 180?"
We convulsed in pure uncomfortable joy. The heat of the laughter was almost too much to bear, I was in physical pain. The kind of blissful pain one only gets in church or at a funeral. I cried through the rest of the show. This experience is actually very hard to recount, I feel like a Vietnam War veteran. "You have no idea, man. You weren't THERE!" This was the kind of event that one will always remember, attempt to share with others, and fail miserably. But I had to try. I needed to get it out so that my mind can be free to dwell elsewhere.
The whole audience was so completely into this ridiculousness that I started to contemplate whether I was still alive. Poor Philip Glass. He walked out onto the stage, played his 11 minute piece, bowed, and walked off. He said nothing and his mind was probably filled with confusion at how he'd gotten himself into this mess. I'm sure he really was friends with Sri and his performance was filled with the utmost love and affection towards him, but it just wasn't his scene.
Roberta Flack, on the other hand, was batshit crazy. She stumbled out onto the stage in a tight-fitting sparkly sequined dress that really accents her bon-bon fettish and went into long narrations about her own life, and only one of these had anything to do with peace or Mr. Chinmoy. When she sang she leaned on the piano, not facing the audience. She slunk to one side, and what came from her mouth was more of a Neil Diamondy-Vegas-lounge singer-talksong more than anything else. All of a sudden, from the shadows in the wings of the stage, the Bhajan Sri Chinmoy Singers in off-white robes were joined by their male counterparts weraing off-white leiure pants. These men looked like every stereotype of a pedophile that exists, minus the glasses. Together the lounge singer and the cult joined in a sleepy rendition of "Bridge Over Troubled Water."
At the end, Anil and I could not get out fast enough. We said goodbye to our war buddies and we all agreed that we'd never forget this once-in-a-lifetime happening. So as soon as I saw the sign in the park, I called Anil post haste.
I'm still reeling. There's such a fine line between genius and meaningless, visionary and daffy, fatuous and fantastic. And that fine line, friends, is a dangerously wonderful place.
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