The Accordion and Other Matters

I came home from work very late the other night, well after dark. Just down the street at 15th Street Station there’s a man who plays the accordion. He’s homeless, and on cold nights I’ve seen him on the subway station steps, though I rarely walk by there so late. Most of the other homeless sitting nearby will hit up any anyone who walks by for a buck or a cigarette, but this one never says a word, or at least not that I’ve ever witnessed. He just sits there quietly, and from time to time his arms begin to move back and forth and his old, broken accordion starts to sing.

He could probably sell it somewhere-- to a pawn shop, maybe-- and buy himself some food or clothing or even a room on a cold night. But there are some things that we can never give up. He’s homeless, but as long as he still has that accordion, he has his soul.

I have a lot of favorite words. Weltzschmerz. Palimpsest. Athanor. Evensong. One of my favorites is potlatch, a word that comes from the indigenous cultures of the Pacific Northwest. The potlatch ceremony meant something different to every tribe that practiced it, but at its core, it means to give away more than one actually has to give. In a potlatch, a man will gift a gift so great that the loss of it could ruin him. But he gives it anyway, because it is a good thing to give, and because there are more important things in life than possessions.

In a very strange way-- or perhaps not in a strange way at all-- potlatch is just another word for love. It can break us to love someone, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t. Not everything good is practical.

When I was a child, I used to stand in my room at night and stare at the window. In the dark, with the shade drawn and my glasses off, all I could see was a halo of light from the streetlamp outside, surrounded by black, the kind of rich, deep black that seems like it could swallow you whole. I used to imagine that the window was a door, that the light seeping in was the light from a brighter world.

For years I had a sign up in my room that said “Remember Sisyphus”. I told people, if they ever asked, that it was because of the parallels I felt between his punishment and my own life-- all our lives-- constantly pushing the same rock uphill, never quite making it. That’s only part of it, though. It never hurts to remember why Sisyphus was stuck pushing that rock in the first place. He committed no crime, hurt no one. His only sin was being cleverer than the gods. Beyond just the metaphor, the story of Sisyphus is valuable for the lesson:

People will always hate those who are smarter than them.

I was rummaging through some files and sketchbooks a few days back, and I found a scrap of paper in one of them, with a quote that I copied down from a painting (yes, paintings can have text, and often do. Art is boundless):

We have the sense that we’re living at a very special time, at a decisive moment in human history. We like to see ourselves as misunderstood visionaries who have tried to change the world... as the last bastion of radical vision, pushing the boundaries, living close to the edge. But let’s not fool ourselves! In the end, all human beings, in all ages, must have had the same feeling, don’t you think?

I find that kind of perspective sobering and deeply valuable.

Part of my struggle has always been that I am both a misanthrope and a people person. I am often very vocal in my contempt for humankind (sometimes foolishly so), yet at the same time utterly reliant on others to function. Case in point: I’ve been struggling for months to paint or draw anything. In particular, I was hoping to complete a painting for a dear friend before going to her wedding. But nothing was happening. The inspiration wasn’t there.

I spent just one weekend away with friends, many of whom I haven’t seen in months or more, and the ideas are beginning to flow again. I’m not so cynical that I could ever believe this is a coincidence. My inspiration is entirely external. I am dependent on my loved ones to allow me to do what I most love.

As I do most days, I walked home from work, and as soon as I’d changed clothes and had a bite to eat, I was back out again, back walking again. It was a beautiful, warm, sunny evening, and no one with any sense wanted to be inside. I stopped in a small park just a couple of miles away, just before I turned back, and I sat for a few minutes and looked around. I still have many problems that need to be addressed, many obstacles to overcome. I would not say that I am the happiest I have ever been, by any stretch. But I’m happy with where I am, for the first time since I was a child. I belong here, in a city. Nothing else makes sense to me.

I wish I could sing the way Willem deKooning painted, or paint the way Rufus Wainwright sings. I miss being really good at something. I’m out of practice, out of shape. Maybe I can start setting things right tomorrow.

It is spring, after all.