Monday, December 31, 2012

Mary McEvilly from Paris 1920

Speak, Mary, to a brave new world:


"The desire of an individual who wishes to express 
an idea or message to earth is felt by all who from 
their common interest are desirous of assisting, and 
the aid given acts as reinforcement of the resonance of 
a musical instrument, permitting greater concentration 
of tone and arousing in you on earth a corresponding 
response. 

Think of us as being the perfection of harmonious 
symphony, you as the individual component 
vibrations, but remember that besides being a 
resonant, harmonious tone, you are also, in common 
with us, an intelligent expression of Infinite 
Intelligence, partaking of the omnipotence of the 
Divine Creator. You respond to the vibration of the 
master key and you receive through the harmony 
established the feeling direct from the source of all 
feeling which awakens in you the same idea as the 
thought which gave it birth. 

You are not always capable of translating 
 into language the exact expression of the idea so 
received, but if you will cultivate calm by meditation 
they will come to you."  

Mary McEvilly, Paris, 1920

Mary McEvilly, live from Paris, 1920 - "On Woman"

Mary was a precocious girl with a gloriously gifted intellect. We need not follow her in her fairy tale adornments of the message she is delivering, but I will say this much in recognition of the strength of her will and thus of her voice: it has called me out to go into internet space to lend her voice a sort of megaphone, to revert to some device with which she had no doubt some small acquaintance. I fancy her on the shore of some cold sea, listening to voices from beyond the sky.
Here is her voice, from Paris, 1920, as she addresses the theme of the future of woman on the planet:


"Love is full of compassion and desire to help. It 
knows by an intimate certainty that happiness is found 
only in service. All this is already known to humanity, 
but it remains to find the way to show woman how to 
receive daily and hourly directly from the source of all 
feeling the certainty of dependable intuitions. She 
must be made to understand as well as feel that she is 
the voice enunciating the truth revealed to her directly 
from the eternal source. 

Less attention may be given to the pursuit of 
education in its practical aspects and more to the 
development of her true, inner feeling nature, and 
ability to seize the reality of the spiritual qualities."

Mary McEvilly

Sunday, December 30, 2012

"To Woman" from Mary McEvilly, Paris November 1919



It appeared to me recently that Mary McEvilly was making, in her own highly individuated way, an attempt, as it were, to make it known that she would like her voice to be heard. I therefore decided to go into her available work and extract a few portions as "test objects" in an informal survey I am taking (right here, right now) to see what a few women whose viewpoints I esteem think of Mary's ideas after a century has passed since she put them down in Paris:

"Woman's organization is such, on account of her 
being the mother, that she is dominated by feeling. So 
far she does not understand whence come these 
unexplainable feelings which move her, but if you can 
imagine that through every pore she receives directly 
impulsions from original feeling, as though each were 
a little wire ringing a bell somewhere in her being and 
such wires liable to be set in motion by the great 
exterior force in whom is all feeling, you may perhaps imagine 
in what countless ways she is played upon." 

is she on to something that interests you?
are you at all interested in reading more?
what do you think of her "mentality"?
any and all comments will be appreciated

Monday, December 24, 2012

Sunday, December 23, 2012

crumble like dust oh thou with vision set above

This drab dark dusty telegram is all that remains of a bright light filled moment in time.....that and echoic laughter....

Saturday, December 22, 2012

Translation

for the world has need of translation, yet the best translation may be no translation yet the reason we can arrive at the best (no) translation rests on our experience with translations - there must be a hint in each of them, many hints - it must be akin to having been dropped into the midst of the thickest of thickets (that would be most true the further back our reach, so the Vedas would prove the densest) and so on and yet when the heart is set within to do it, there must inevitably follow the doing of it -
bhaktasAmavedawayne

Monday, December 17, 2012

Exploring Inner Space by "Doing One Simple Thing"

 I cannot say how another might silence the mind - I can only share what I have discovered - for years I attempted to "meditate" but always with instructions that involved the mind as manipulator (breathing, sitting in a certain way, thinking about what was being applied etc.) It was only when I received very specific instructions in a simple technique that I knew I had just for the first time experienced meditation. The technique involved no thought, no ideation, no conceptualiztion - just the installation of an app, as it were, into the mind - the replacement of all the buzzings by simply listening to two syllables which had no relationship to "the world" or to "meaning" and that did it - one had only to listen to these two syllables repeating themselves within in order to have all else disappear from the mind. Only two criteria were applied: is it easy and is it pleasant? This is the function of the mantra - to erase the buzzings, to silence the mind - to allow the deeper mind to emerge. There are many ways to meditation. I am attuned to sound, so mantra meditation was natural to me. Now I listen to the entire Agni section of the sAmaveda as my daily mantra - this took some doing, a lot of "work" as it were, but it is the single most valuable task I have ever performed in my life. It's benefits exceed any manipulative, conceptualizing, mentalizing techniques I have tried over the years.
No exertion. No tension. No thought. No nothing. The mind becomes still. It is a revelatory process. 
I don't presume to instruct or impart, I simply know what works for me. That is all. The biggest hurdle, roadblock, whatever, is our penchant for the complex, and our refusal to believe that something so simple could possibly be of any use whatever.

Thursday, November 22, 2012

Mozart In The Atrium

Art MovesOKC presented by Devon sponsors my Mozart Piano Sonatas in the Atrium of OKC's Downtown Library. Noon. Free. Casual. Stroll in for a while, or stay the hour.


Meditation Made Simple

Based on the sAmaveda, the Veda of Sound, this session will focus on introducing a specific technique which opens the door to one's own "within" through the simple process of listening

Wednesday, November 7, 2012

Michael Segers On Marguerite Young - The Rest Of The Story


Wayne, you asked about my experience in Marguerite Young's writing class, but every experience with Marguerite was so much a part of a huge net of interlocking experiences, that I am going to have to give you more than you asked for.
I first heard of Marguerite Young when I saw in an encyclopedia yearbook covering the year the novel came out, the famous photo of her leaning wearily against the towering manuscript of Miss MacIntosh, My Darling. About a year later, I saw the book listed for a dollar in a remainder catalog.
A few years later, when I was a sophomore in college, one of the English professors had met her and includedMiss MacIntosh, My Darling in the readings of his Contemporary Fiction course. By the time I took the course the next year, he had changed the readings, but at least I had bought the paperback and had begun to read it.
A few years later, after completing an M.A. in English (writing my thesis on Jerzy Kosinski's novel Steps), I moved to New York and found myself a tiny fifth-floor walk-up in Greenwich Village, Back then (the mid seventies), the Village still had characters and still had character. Before long, I began seeing Marguerite Young all over the place, including on the roof of her apartment building. How I knew this was Marguerite Young, I cannot say. Now, I am inclined to say, who else could it have been?
I worked within walking distance of my Village apartment (the best feature of which was an unobstructed view of the Empire State Building) at the American Center of P.E.N., the international literary organization, which at that time had its office on lower Fifth Avenue.
I certainly had no shortage of writers in my life. For example, one day, I was at my desk (typing on the typewriter on which Richard Wright wrote Invisible Man), and my Danish boss popped around the corner, with a rather rumpled but clean-shaven man. "Allen, I'd like you to meet Michael Segers, who helps us out here." The British accent with which she spoke seemed to be especially lilting. "And, Michael, I'd like you to meet Allen Ginsberg." I did get to meet Allen Ginsberg, but it was after he had shaved his beard.
After I heard about Marguerite's legendary creative writing classes at the New School (a Village institution), I questioned whether I wanted to part with something I did not have much of (money) for something that I already had plenty of (time spent with a writer).
Obviously, I took the class.
The first night, as I sat in the classroom of the New School........ and the text resumes with the previous post

Tuesday, November 6, 2012

I asked Michael Segers to Remember Marguerite Young and he did - beautifully


a beautiful guest post by Michael Segers @msegers

The first night, as I sat in the classroom of the New School, I wondered what I had gotten myself in for. The hallways and classrooms were sterile, institutional, like so many classrooms in which I have tried to teach and tried to learn, but not at all like my Village. Once Marguerite entered, everything changed.
Marguerite was even shorter than I am. But, she could fill a room just by being in it. She stood at the door, giving us a sweeping glance, then entered, and sat, not at the desk but on it, her feet dangling. Although I had seen her several times, this was my first chance to look at her closely.
Her hair hung straight, and to me, it always seemed the color of tobacco stains, perhaps an effect of her heavy smoking. The hair framed her face, which was not the face of a beauty, but it was beautiful. If we ever have a mountain honoring women, along the lines of Mt. Rushmore, Marguerite's face should be on it, if not because she wrote the great American novel, then because her face looks as if it should be there.
Her body was swathed in layers of scarves, shawls, capes, necklaces, bringing together a wide range of colors and designs. I think she always wore at least one thing with a paisley. And her feet were usually shod in boots that looked as if a fairy tale character should don them before heading off on a quest.
But, once she opened her mouth, the impression changed. She spoke with a flat, Midwestern twang; she was a Hoosier, a proud native of Indiana. It was as if when she spoke, she admitted that her elegant name Marguerite is just a French variant of Daisy.
I cannot remember much advice that she gave about writing. Perhaps most memorably, she said that fiction-writers should not read the fussy and fusty New York Times but instead the rollicking, down and dirty New York Daily News.
What I remember vividly are the fictions that she spun -- or, perhaps, they weren't fictions -- as if she were spinning us into her dreamlike novel. One bitterly cold night, she arrived late, complaining that every clock in the Village had frozen at a different time. She was always reporting about famous people she had shared the sidewalks with. There was a cigar store across the street from Sheridan Square, where she was always seeing Edgar Allan Poe. But she also was interested in more recent people. She seemed to have a special fondness for Amy Carter, Jimmy Carter's daughter. (These were the heady days of the 1976 presidential campaign, when people would buy me drinks to hear me talk my "honeysuckle talk.")
I took her writing class for two semesters, but she has never left my life. I would often see her and chat with her at Pennyfeathers, a little coffee shop which was her second home. Since she did not even have a kitchen in her large apartment with red floors, she had to go out to eat, and as she sat at the counter, she not only took advantage of willing audiences, she also practiced her almost psycho-therapeutic conversational skills in which she, for all her talk, would draw out sometimes unexpected words from the people around her.
After I left New York, whenever I returned, I would stop by Pennyfathers, sit a few seats from her, and wait until she scanned the room, as she had that first night at the New School. She would see me, wave, and call me by name. I do not believe that there was anything all that memorable about me, but she had a capacity to embrace multitudes... and to remember their names as well.
One year, since I was in New York across my birthday, a friend offered to give me a party and asked whom I would like to invite. Of course, I invited Marguerite, and she came, sat in the center of the room, and to the discomfort of my hostess had all eyes and ears drawn to her. The next year, I was back in the city for my birthday. My friend -- old Village nobility herself -- again offered me a party, but when I mentioned inviting Marguerite, she said, "I think not."
I quit returning to New York, settling back in to my native Georgia, but I would occasionally swap a note with her, and I would hear bits of news (analogous to The New York Times) or gossip (think of The New York Daily News). In 1995, she died, and a few years later, a painfully truncated version of her masterpiece of nonfiction, a biography of Eugene V. Debs, Harp Song for a Radical, came out.
By then, I was writing some online essays, and I felt compelled to write an essay on two great but neglected authors: Georgia's own Caroline Miller and my own Marguerite Young. I was fortunate to get a niece of Caroline Miller to contribute an essay on her aunt, and I had the sheer pleasure of not so much writing about Marguerite as trying to evoke her presence with my words.
A few years later, I received an email from a woman from India who had found my online essay about Marguerite. She wrote me about spending a rainy season when she was a child reading Miss MacIntosh, My Darling, but never getting the book from the library again. I could imagine how Marguerite would have cherished that story.
And then came Twitter. When I first signed up for Twitter, I began searching for topics that people had referred to that might mean that I would like to follow them. I entered Marguerite's name into the Twitter search box, and I found...
Well, Wayne, as you know, I found you, and I am so glad that Marguerite found a new way to be a part of my life.
Whenever I think about Marguerite, it seems as if she somehow shows up, as Edgar Allan Poe did at the cigar shop. Even though the suburban Florida cul-de-sac on which I live would be at least as unlikely a fit for her as it is for me, I think I just saw a little woman with tobacco-colored hair, wrapped in layers of clouds or clothes, marching with her familiar, determined gait past, of all things, a palm tree.

Thursday, November 1, 2012

Marguerite Young

Marguerite Young.
Truman Capote called her "the cow" - they had been buddies at one point, in days of yore, but had fallen out over an assortment of issues, filamental she would have said, the cow, filamental my dear Truman. He was not charmed by her genius, rather, and I go into the drawer of words here with great concern that I emerge with just the thing in hand, no paltry substitute, rather he was threatened.
Ah and thereby hangs the tale, or several tales.
to be continued
"If your one concern is to create literature, to create something of beauty, something that will endure a little while, then you cannot bother yourself with the other stuff-you just can't do that to yourself...you'll see..." and then her voice would trail off, always with the echoic laughter, or shadow of laughter, or perhaps memory of laughter, always, always....
and then you were left, bereft....
it had always been the fact, always...
bereft.
So of course when she took up the thread to trace it between her fingers again she spoke of Beethoven, oh, I do hope he'll be there...you will trace the symbolism of his consciousness through masterstrokes of ingenuity, you will dazzle, but it will be with his brilliance you will shine, with his depths and his ponderings, his fist clenching high drama and his softening diminuendos....
yes, to be continued to be sure....

Thursday, October 25, 2012

Fort Wayne Indiana Concert

When I play in Fort Wayne Indiana it will be a program dedicated to the living legacy of Marguerite Young

Parents are invited to bring their children with them to enjoy this pleasant free hour of great music.

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

An American Metaphysic

...but hasn't that been already done so many times? as time flows into who knew what the word also transforms and conveys a different substance and a different mode......it is ever and ever different.......that's the point.....now, when you consider the word did not mean as the word means now......the word carried its power of realization in the sound, not in the thought.......

How Do You Define Literature?

an extension of "Coming Through The Hole Into The Panorama"

He asked - "How do you define literature."
She answered - "Literature is an entertainment of words."

He - "Who are these persons of literature?"
She - "Pliny, Rabelais Urquhart, Laurence Sterne, Samuel Beckett, Proust, and Henry James...."
He - "And what about Gertrude Stein?"
She - ...with her laugh, how would you describe her laugh? It was so much more. But of what was it more?......."Oh, what about Gertrude Stein? She was the maker of the Making of The Making of Americans wasn't she? What more do you want?"
He - "You did not mention Joyce....."
She - ......another laugh, near inaudible....."No, I read everything you know......."

That was it, she having signaled she had finished.

.......an entertainment of words. It is a topography of literature then? A descriptive map of the surface?
How does it then differ from a wallpaper?

The question remains a question.
Please feel free to comment.

Coming Through The Hole Into The Panorama

You cannot argue with the heart's desire. This is not an explication of the implications of a language. No. There was this serene pause that you would have to take into account, large long stretches of music, all the internal poetics of his mind, ah, that and even more my dear Transparency!
But we have digressed, gone down or up another path entirely. There was this gleaming glitter which was his mind, this dazzling diamond, this bottomless pool, and who knew that what beyond the corner might not bedazzle with sublime exquisitries sudden turns which must always inevitably take you to scenes lovelier still than those that came before.
What did these tones entail? A sublime sense of peace, a stillness and vibrancy of energy at once.
more anon......

Tuesday, October 9, 2012

Dear Anais

Dear Anais
Out of a somewhat chosen obscurity I come to write this book-You have urged the work upon me, and now I must do it or not do it-the blinding vulgarities of reality rush in and scream a stifling "Halt!" yet a soft inner voice whispers "Go on, and do it" while echoic laughter follows, indescribable. Her voice reaches me from some great and interior beyond- "We are writing books..." The plans to bring this to fruition have long since faded, and then they died with her yet the urging has not died and I find myself with this strange necessity...
Time travel.
Snowstorm in a cornfield.
Algodones.
That is all.
More anon....

Notebooking Will Change You - It is a Journey

"Religion is madness given a socially acceptable fragrance. To the seeker of truth this reeks of stench  rather than perfume." The speaker leaned back in his compartment and gazed out the window to the passing landscape. It had been a long journey from Philadelphia to Silver Bow. The mountains he now saw in the distance told him his destination was near now. He awaited a reply from his companion, but she was mute.
Thus we encounter for the very first time in these pages Ludovicus Deepak, Philadelphia lawyer and the concubine Ah Toy who had journeyed all the way from San Francisco to Philadelphia to fetch him. Her concern was with the prisoner, Aloysius Wing, alone in his cell, abandoned it seemed by all. She fancied him travelling by foot in the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo range, taking rest while he contemplated the air-conditioned Mother House of the Little Sisters Of The Poor.
"Concubine," he thought, was such a term as was not heard in the circles within which his life moved, but it was the word she herself had chosen when asked her profession. One would have thought she would be exhausted, but her eyes shone with the energy imparted to them by a clearly defined purpose.
He busied himself with the landscape. The moon, a sliver, cast yet a distinct light....
To be continued....

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

The World Is In The Mind Of Its Maker

"The World Is In The Mind Of Its Maker"

Even without the money being visible you have got to continue doing what you do-and to continue doing-this is essential-more of it. You do the same thing over and over in different circumstances. That is all. Circumstances have a way of taking part in the outcome of things.....

Monday, August 27, 2012

"Dear Heart"

Dear Heart-
Your communication just reached me.
You have been so much on my "mind"-so much the content of my consciousness these days.
Let me begin by saying I so enjoyed the feeling with which you communication was infused, as well as the substance it carried.
Of course I was aware of the momentous occasion that just took place in your lives-this great moment-and felt that I must make some effort not to feel absolutely monstrous for deciding against any attempt on my part to be at all "a part of the festivities" (I would intrude with an LOL there, but have absolute assurance of your quick intelligence in matters of this sort)-as I was saying, on that momentous occasion I was Irish full of thoughts of the sort that blow in from the sea off the coast of Dublin-as when I hear the voice of my ancestors intoning-"Birth was the death of him." with a chuckle and delight.
But to the point-I have thought so much of You lately. You. The who gets lost in the vast panoply of production. Do not let this happen. In all the universe there is only one you. Know this as an eternal verity, not merely as a flippant slogan current in social media.
And of course your selection of pic for the communication was absolutely so sardonically right on! I love how you wrap it up with tribal wisdom:
"You might as well laugh! What else can you do?"
Oh, and one more little thing:
I'll be loving you-eternally

Sunday, August 26, 2012

Marguerite's 65th Birthday Party at Anais Nin's

...when I arrived it had been to thoughts of Ah Toy tapping at her window on Clay Street, for always, at the end of the day, it is got to be taken off to market, to market...no matter what it may be-that is just the thing-no matter what it may be...even if that be the living of a metalife. I knew all about it-had ever sought the absence-the blessed nod to one's earnest request to "Count me out!"
...the moment, what is real, yet is what eludes, evades, escapes our note. We are ever and always elsewhere...
...but you will have been expecting "The Dinner Scene"...
"What was served?"
"I do not remember."
"Who served dinner?"
"Anais and Hugo together. They were a doting couple, in and out of the kitchen together. Marguerite was the birthday girl. It had to be August 26th. The year? I'll have to see, to figure it out. It was her 65th birthday-so it would've been August 26th 1973. I was floating somewhere between Bozeman Montana and Bombay India so that would have put me in place to attend a birthday dinner in Manhattan."
It will be forty years ago next year. I would like to mark Marguerite's birthday next year with an online celebration. During the months that are ahead, I will do what I can to introduce her work to many more people.
Love you Marguerite!
Happy Birthday

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

A Gradual Evocation

a form emergent in the gradual evocation itself celebrating the eternal meaning of all that which passes.
I reach back far. I am reaching back far-to the orange crate on the lawn-to the sublime solitude, alone, with my Notebook and my pen.
African violets often occupied my mind, I would see them when I went within-purple and yellow on black velvet-or it was of their care and maintenance my mind was full-a single leaf, its stem planted firmly in the soil, puts down roots, brings forth life, blooms-a car passes-the child takes note-an out-of-state license plate-Delaware-Delaware-the word was so lovely, as lovely as the silver star shining brightly in the not yet dark sky-The child looked up, and, looking down, made another note.
"The bright star appeared before the fall of night." He liked how that sounded. He liked it a lot. He mulled it over in his mind. "It is not the statement that is made," he had then thought, "rather it is the word-the word and with it the thing. The word and the thing."

Sunday, August 12, 2012

"Well, there are scales you know..."

"Well, there are scales, you know just such scales as gold is measured in-just such, and as exacting, in which the measure of our act's taken."
It was not so much that all this transpired on an empty stage, as it were, no not that at all. It could have been an encircling satellite of some distant moon on a planet more distant still and made no difference whatever.
The Orphan Theme.
Her father left, and so she had searched for him in every shred and shard of man who happened by. Gonzalo and all the nameless hordes, those whose names were never known, who joined as the night marked as night. This was a Bombay deep as pitch. They came, and there was this sudden exitation, as would have arisen, no doubt, at the birth of an idea that some distinguished thing might this way pass...yes, that had always and ever been it, precisely. ...
and when she reckoned the image of her mother, her little fairy tale moght, it would have to be from an old all but forgotten photograph, a mere shade of a shadow of a shade-
The air is thick with grit-fine particles of dust adhere to the page on which I write...
It is all a matter of mirrors-a matter of mirrors.
She who was to be embraced as the embodiment of passion was as relentless a mechanist as the coldest of intellectuals. -
We think we see what we see, hear what we hear, think what we think and yes feel what we feel yet even in the dusky shades inhabiting all that is feeling were the mirrors, ever, and always.
This must be taken in...
to be continued....

within which fostering absence was almost guaranteed

"A FELICITOUS CLIMATE"

"A felicitous climate within which the fostering of absence was almost guaranteed was afforded me as a child. I spent my days far away. in the presence of a somewhat fully guarded someone. There was none of that largesse of the serene sea in her world-at any moment, the shriek of a siren, no matter at what distance, was a jet into the black and the red-hers was the intellection of the conceived real, that over which she fancied she held some directing sway...."

Friday, August 10, 2012

Anais Nin Jan31 1971

among this morning's fragments

Monday, August 6, 2012

"..his habituated parsimony favoring art..."

"...for years he'd been inscrutably monotonous" and now this sudden turn, this coming into new terrain, this unhazarded outcome, brought him to his narrowest quarters ever...alone, alone, alone in his cell he heard the voice of a cricket musician seeming to penetrate the thick adobe wall or perhaps it came from above through the small window open to the outside...he thought this over before resuming his journey, eyes closed, back home. He inspires, somehow, an ambition within me, an ambition first of all to do...to do thus to be...to do something instead of nothing, not needing a reason why...to trace with him the insistence of a ghostly character given yet another chance to shine is to at once examine the ghosts of all unfinished intentions within one's own sphere-to bring again to light with the vividity of the possible, those half-forgotten projects of the past. And with this comes the dertermination of a moment...to make them real..."
to be continued

People ask me "How'd You Meet Anais Nin?'

People have asked me how I met Anais Nin - I supposed they were inquiring about the circumstances under which I might have encountered in this life such a a moment so full of rich promise, hope and destiny. When I look back I think "Whew-stepped right into the lap of twentieth century literary history in the twinkling of an eye.
Well although I'd like to tell a brilliant story such as might include the princess who was kissed by a toad and who kissed that toad right back, this is a story far less romantic and one might indeed say even yes pedestrian.
A letter came in the mail in a fine light blue envelope - I think the letters began to come at first in Montana. Yes, that would have to be it - Montana.
"They hung Aloysius Wing by the neck until he was dead, while the band played "There'll  Be A Hot Time In The Old Town Tonight" for he had requested some gay music for the occasion."
"Your writing" it began, and I wondered "Who could this be that is writing about my writing?" - "Your writing," it began "is so beautiful that I instantly copied it out."
So the story began in writing. Without the writing there'd be no story.
My words met Anais long before I'd even heard of her.
Could it be that we create in the theatres of our own brainboxes, these characters we shall later meet as is said in real life?
For so many years I had lived with Ah Toy and the Princess TaTa and then in a very sudden triangulation of universe energies and entities I found myself between them, among them, with them, voyaging together into vast uncharted waters.
to be continued
to be considered:
always geography-on the planet we were general-our name legion-Coos Bay Oregon, Silver Bow Montana, the old Bombay, hill stations, Pondicherry, the old Madras, we occupied the benches of the train stations, we were on the corners of every street, Singapore, the opium dens, rickshaws, Goa, Dublin, Amsterdam, Rotterdam, small towns up and down each and every coast, we were everywhere, Marcus Hook, Cape May, Monaco, Rio, Buenas Aires, New Oreleans, Nice, Guanajuato, Taos, Indianapolis, London,

Saturday, August 4, 2012

A Sudden Triangulation and We Are All One

I cannot think of Anais without Marguerite, yet with the greatest of ease I think of Marguerite without Anais. Anais was always here, always present. Marguerite was well, she was very much here also, and yet, and yet..."Marguerite, beyond the ether, travelling there - in her absence was her presence, and her presence was her absence - as we moved from one point to the next always there emerged another face, another doll face, another book...when she would pause before making the next introduction, holding the doll to face you she says "and this is Martha Washington. Finally, having met Dolly Madison, Mary Todd Lincoln, and other first ladies, we come to two dolls seated together..."and this" she says "this is Alice B. Toklas and  Gertrude Stein" - pause, a muted laugh, almost stifled, before continuing - "and so you see everything turns out fine in the end."
So this triangulation which emerged over a period of time gave rise to the reality that we are all one.

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

The Death Of Marguerite Young's Mother Brings A Sympathy Card

As I said in my recent post on the long correspondence I had with Anais, when we talked of turning our letters into a book her biggest enthusiasm was that we bring attention to the genius of Marguerite Young, and most of all to the great novel published by Scribners in 1965. It was agreed that Marguerite was at the center of our book. Going through the materials to prepare myself for the task of beginning this work, I came upon this extraordinary document: a Sympathy Card which Marguerite sent to me when her Mother died. The text reads:
"Dearest Wayne My beautiful little fairy tale mother is gone - suddently - without warning - and I feel that now I must die.
Love,
Marguerite Young"
The re-reading of this and feeling the embossed silver letters "In Deepest Sympathy" evoke a profound sense of, not loss really, but of a poetic nostalgia for all dead loves and all remembered things because nothing of Marguerite will ever be lost, it being inscribed, as she would have said, on memory's whirling disc. All these years later, this stark cry acts as a talisman propelling me forward to define the very center of our book.

Saturday, June 16, 2012

This is the first letter I received from Anais - It set the tone for the content of all our future correspondence- the subject was writing and she begins "Your statement on Marguerite Young was so
beautiful that I wish I had been able to quote it in my Novel of the Future! I copied it for Marguerite instantly and sent it to her. She needs it." All the themes of our future correspondence are there in that opening statement. She continued to invite my work into her books, and as the communications progressed she wrote to me: "We are writing books in these letters." Noteworthy in this letter is the lack of a date. Anais was so very very particular about such details. She always dated her letters, and it was a source of frustration to her that I never dated mine, as Marguerite never dated hers. In her final days Anais requested I publish these letters, but to wait thirty years after her departure from the planet, then to write the book. I have begun that process now, and it attests to my devotion to her mission and her vision that I have never once thought of exploiting our friendship in any way. I address this material now to fulfill her own wishes as stated in many conversations over the years. It was her wish that I emphasize give my attention to Marguerite Young as (in Anais's words) "our greatest writer." It is with a sense of reverence that I approach this task.

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

Anais Nin - The Lover of Philosophy and of Bach

Anais feared her literary legacy would be eclipsed when the erotica was published. The other day I went into a used book store in Oklahoma City and asked for "Seduction Of The Minotaur" - I was pointed to the "Erotica"section of the store, and upon asking if all of Anais's books were in that section was met with "Oh yes"  "including the Diaries?" "Oh yes"
Here is a postcard I received from Anais. She was continually sending me books - this one by the French philosopher Gaston Bachelard - I remember a beautiful edition she sent me of Dante's La Vita Nuova - what a generous spirit she remains -
Our correspondence over a decade centers on literature, philosophy, music, and my writing which she championed tirelessly, "showing it around" as she said, to Henry Miller (who loved it) Hiram Haydn (editor at Harcourt), Swallow Press, William F. Claire Jr. (editor of Voyages, a national literary magazine, and she chose my "Two Faces of Death" as the Afterward to her novel "Seduction Of The Minotaur"

Monday, May 21, 2012

"Marrying Mozart" by Stephanie Cowell - a short appreciation

My reading of “Marrying Mozart” provided me with some of the richest moments in my long life with Mozart – having played his Piano Sonatas for nearly 70 years now, this book placed them in a new dimension which I can best simply tag as “reality” – I was suddenly inside his world, as I ascended the stairs to the Weber musical evenings, and could hear the breathing of his Mama who had grown so weary along the long way of their life. The Weber girls were vivid for the first time, and their Mama was flesh with all her passions upon her daughters’ fates. It was a tremendous experience, and continues and will continue to inform every note of Mozart I ever play.
Thank you Stephanie Cowell. “Marrying Mozart” is much more than a book. It is a living communicating entity with a heart and a spirit.
Wayne McEvilly

Wednesday, April 25, 2012

My Upcoming Performances / You Are Invited

Where and When-And You Are Invited 


Friday May 25 1pm back to my regular final Friday spot on Oklahoma Live TV52 KSBI with Lyn Hester, a leader in the Laughter Movement - you never know what might happen on this wild and wondrous show - so tune in!


Saturday May 26 at 2pm "Serimages With Metamusic" - An Hour of Art, Music and Storytelling with pianist Wayne McEvilly and  images of paintings by the artist Ser choreographed to Metamusic for The Grand Opening of the new NW Public Library


Tuesday May 29 at 9:30am - a storytelling time with pre-schoolers
- stories may be told in words, and also in music - Mozart always speaks directly to those who listen with the heart, as children do.
Capitol Hill Public Library


Thursday June 7 at 7pm my 7th annual performance at Bartlesville Public Library with Art by Ser in a new music video choreographed to music by the master composers -


Saturday June 9 at 2pm Miami Public Library "Music Of The Night" for the Summer Reading Program / Mozart, Beethoven, Chopin and more


Thursday June 14 at 2pm Wetumka Public Library "Music Of The Night" for the Summer Reading Program


Wednesday June 27 at Noon OKC Arts Council presents ArtMoves sponsored by Devon / the program is my "Joy Of Mozart" for children of all ages at the OKC Museum Of Art


Now booking programs for Summer and Autumn


Questions?  Tweet me: http://twitter.com/waynemcevilly
or email mcevillymozart@gmail.com


















Monday, March 12, 2012

The Agni sAma Project

......it is lovely to know as I write these words that they will be read by very very very ah so very very few......that thought gives me a big thrill right now, right in this very moment.........so I hope to finish the first segment of my Agni sAma project by July 2012 - moving on into the second segment is a process already somewhat haltingly begun........communication has as of late been gathering a sort of accumulated strenuosity about it of my own design no doubt.......and so silence has been imposed upon the word.......but upon the word alone.........the rule of silence has a place within but does not reign in the realm of music.........so might Schubert have sung..........singing singing singing.........the song from the New Moon........and yet they could pass by, how could they have passed by? yet they did pass by Death And The Maiden - let the mystery of it be..............

Saturday, March 10, 2012

Body And Soul

It is necessary to come into one's own in full possession of body and soul.

This is an accomplishment. It may or may not entail some arduous labour -

The accomplishment, or-one might say-the accomplished fact consists in an embrace of the mortal flesh while at the same time residing in the everlasting soul.

We use words which do not penetrate the ground beneath us, where the reality of our being must stand and so we rob ourselves of more than joy - Ah -
We must come to grips with the starkest aspects of our reality.
And then each must choose the path, the technique, the application best suited to his makeup.

No one can do this for you.
This is where you must stand up for yourself.

The End -
tAtA

Tuesday, January 10, 2012

My Play Dates - You Are Invited

I will be performing the Mephisto Waltz of Liszt on my 8th Annual Valentine Weekend Concert at the Downtown Library in Oklahoma City. February 12 at 2pm.
You are invited.

Also (through Feb. 17th read on) -
On January 17th at Noon I will improvise music to a gallery walk video by the artist SER at the Oklahoma City Museum of Art - presented by ArtMoves through the OKC Arts Council, sponsored by Devon Energy

I will be a guest on "In The Spotlight" KCSC 90.1fm at 10am January 12th & again on the 26th

On January 27th I will be the musical guest on KSBI "Oklahoma Live" TV 52 which airs at 1pm. This is Mozart's Birthday, and I am hosting a global #MozartChat on Twitter, joined by musicians and music lovers from Brazil, Hong Kong, Europe, Arkansas, India and other exotic locations. The London Symphony Orchestra will be participating.

On January 30th at Noon Thanks to OKC Arts Council's Art Moves I'll be at the piano in the Chase Tower downtown Oklahoma City playing the music of Schubert in honor of his birthday.

On Tuesday January 31st at 9:30 in the morning OKC toddlers are invited to Capitol Hill Library for "Story Time" and I'm there to tell "The Story Of Mozart In Music and Words" - The children are the true V.I.P. audience -

February 14th is Valentines Day - and from the 14th through the 17th I'll be at the piano (through the generosity of OKC's Larsen Music) for the Noon hour in the lobby of Oklahoma Tower playing romantic piano music.

I love playing the piano for you. It's all free. Please come say hello.

More Info go to @ mcevillymozart@gmail.com and inquire




Sunday, January 8, 2012

We Speak Of Knowledge - Do We Know Of What We Speak?

Every Sunday Morning Kumud ( @ajmanik on Twitter) hosts a #SpiritChat It is a wonderful hour which gives rise to thoughts of the inner life and the Divine Within throughout the week. This week's topic drew this from me:
Kumud -
Knowledge and the Spirit of Knowledge. This is a vast and wonderful topic - When we say "knowledge" we usually mean something which is linked to an already disposed brain mechanism - our "mind" has begun to be "made up" before we are said to have "knowledge" - it is a field housed in aconceptual shell - But there is another kind of knowledge - One "sees" it in the eyes of infants, and at times in the awareness one discerns in animals, in birds, and the insouciant motions of a butterfly - in the deep profound gaze of an intelligent dog, and if one truly listens, in the vibrations which speak to us from the silence of a stone -
I have a recurring experience - it is always a marvel - I am shopping in a grocery store, pushing my cart around and I encounter the gaze of an infant cradled in a cart being pushed by Mama fixed on me - there is energy link between my eyes and those of the infant - There is a specificity in the communication that happens in that moment - there is a sense of eternity - there is a recognition - the infant is "saying" - I have just come from the womb of the Eternal, and I recognize that you, too, still have a foot in that terrain - I KNOW ("knowledge") that we two, infant and I, have just enjoyed a moment of real communication. The energy is like a clear light - it is a wonderful experience - it just happens - and it happens often enough that I know it is real - and sufficiently seldom that I do not take it for granted.
That is the different sort of knowledge that we seek when we seek the Divine Within.
It is a knowledge we are born with.
All our life long we might strive to regain it.
I believe simplicity is the key -
Hare Rama was all that Gandhi required, and he received it from his Nana - none of his later knowledge was vaster, greater.
Devotion is the great good thing - What we know through the heart of devotion we truly know.
Love
Wayne