This is a strange tale at best. Back in the late 50s I discovered that there were two kinds of Americans blues singing guitar players, one from kind from the East with precise virtuoso technique who could play in all the keys, who often sang in a sardonic urbane style. Then there was what one
(With Ilana Abramovitch) MP- Talking about Judaism as a unifying principal in theatre and life, I’m wondering what you think about the connection between tradition and change. If we are talking about a religion, about ritual practices, how do you satisfy on the one hand the need for continuity, the sense of a connection with
M.P.- You came from a family of writers; your father, brother and older sister were authors. Could you tell me the kind of books that your father wrote? I.S.- Well, my father was a pious man, an orthodox rabbi and he wrote religious books: commentaries on the Talmud. My older brother was a writer of
IS: (While having a magnificent lunch with his wife Marian, his son Adam, and M.P.) I think things are absolutely random. Look at physics; you can’t predict the specific movement of the atoms. You can expect that certain things will probably happen, but you can’t be certain. The same for human affairs. We can be
French Baudelaire To The Reader In tired lovers chewing breasts and thighs In neural demons waltzing through the brain In dirty unseen streams of sighs Falling with a hiss beyond your breathy pain That pride of evil, the magic demon Who smokes endlessly like a chemist Whispering, pours atomic semen In the New Man: a
Dunhill Poems Beasts at a feast, ducks pressed, undressed A table of grouse and meat Gooseberry tarts near the nether parts From the eggs to the tripe and the seat Is my idea of an Advent roast With mewling inebriate mirth With two strong pints and a scowling toast Wearing pants of a comfortable girth.
Doppler Ray Mama Indigo lights In the Milky Way clouds Whirling in flights In barely seen crowds Where Doppler rays bend Weary, deep red At the ultimate end Of the dead and undead. Pour mist from that beaker Of nitrogen gas Pilgrim and seeker Of substance and mass If the rocket’s a wreck Our engines
I was sitting in the living room watching t-v Eating frozen scrapple and some old kim chee Albanian beer and some take out falafel Oozing maple syrup on a frozen waffle The neighbors were building a plastic latrine A cesspool from China, impeccably clean If the thing didn’t work you could take it all back.
When does news become a religious rite of passage in which only the names of the bereaved change? I don’t know, but it has happened with a gang who share one sort of skin pigmentation beating up or killing a lone victim who has been intrepid enough to take a stroll on their turf. Mircea
A week ago I attended a great performance of Beatrice and Benedict at the Manhattan School Of Music. I think it is the only opera I know of that was commissioned by a gambling casino, the German Mafia in Baden-Baden. Our Atlantic City and Las Vegas gave us only Wayne Newton. Though Berlioz wrote this