Quince Ensemble (featuring School of Music faculty soprano Carrie Shaw) premieres multi-movement works by composers Paul Pinto and Annika Socolofsky, and performs vocal works by David Reminick - from supernatural Brooklyn shanty-singing and queer feminist rage ballads to dreamscapes both freaky and beautiful.
Program
(World Premiere)
(World Premiere)
*A song cycle commissioned through Chamber Music America Classical Commissioning Program with generous funding provided by The Andrew W. Mellon Foundation
Notes and Text
The Pub - David Reminick
Program Note
Conventional wisdom tells us that you should keep your dreams to yourself. I suppose that’s good advice; words are well-suited to describe the nuts-and-bolts events of a dream, but are a sadly inadequate medium for translating just how intensely meaningful a dream can feel. (I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that the zombie apocalypse somehow being caused by an airborne ribbon of lentils rippling across the city didn’t quite captivate my friends like I thought it would.)
But where words fail, music can succeed. I’ve spent the past few years working on a song cycle based entirely on people’s personal recollections of their dreams. The piece, entitled In Dreams, is in five movements, with each movement featuring a different dream recounted by a different person. “The Pub” is the fourth movement, and uses as its text a dream by my dear friend and fellow composer Alex Temple.
Text
The pub served all sorts of foods I'd never heard of, including one where you dip your hand in a big bowl of sticky chocolate and eat the hardened shell off of your fingers. I couldn't resist — I had to order them all!
But then I had to leave on some urgent business, and when I came back, my friends had left and the food was nowhere to be found. Worse, I learned that in my absence, I had killed two people. I had no memory of it. I hadn't been acting as myself.
There was a way out of this mess, but the consequences were unpredictable. Who cares? Just do it!
After we rearranged the timeline, the pub was gone. What happened to it? How many of my memories had no place in this new universe?
I woke up in my mom's house. A woman in a pink suit was doing something in the bathroom I normally use, so I went to shower in a different one. But while I was in there, I learned who that woman was: a detective who was after me, going through my things, trying to prove my guilt by analyzing my psyche. I hadn't escaped after all.
her lover’s hand - Annika Socolofsky
I. These Songs
Why do we sing these songs?
She never spoke
He held a knife against her breast and pulled her close He took her by her golden curls
Like flames of hell around my bed
Why do we sing these songs?
To scare us?
To ensnare us?
Why do we sing?
II. Knoxville Boy
Go down to the river, you Knoxville boy, and meet you Omie Wise.
Go down to the river, you Knoxville boy, where these tales will die.
Go down to the river, Bad Lee Brown, go down to the river, Barney Dawson, Go down to the
river to no man’s land where you’ll sing these songs no more.
III. She Knows
She knows the songs, she knows them well, She knows the songs of girls in water graves. I am
not a ballad.
I am not your story to tell.
She knows.
IV. Banks of the Ohio
I asked my love to take a walk, to take a walk, just a little walk, Down beside where the water flows, down by the banks of the Ohio.
And only say that you’ll be mine, that you’ll be mine, in no other’s arms entwine, Down beside where the water flows, down by the banks of the Ohio.
And breast to breast she pulled me close, she whispered on my lips that she loved me most, Down beside where the water flows, down by the banks of the Ohio.
This place is ours, she said to me, where no one will discover we. Where lips to lips we can be
free of men, of death, of reality.
Down beside where the water flows, two girls, two wives on the Ohio.
The Approach - Paul Pinto
EPISODE ONE: The Approach
On December twenty-fourth, twenty-sixteen, a twenty-something cash-strapped sailor
approached us on a New York City subway platform, insisting she could blink and change the
colors of the Empire State Building spire to her mood, which was, as a sailor, dynamic and
unpredictable even to herself ---
Aside: Some professional or other would lazily (perhaps zealously, perhaps even arrogantly
(but, I mean, maybe I really don't know shit about that stuff)
diagnose this unpredictability of mood with some acronym or other for the purposes of “billing”
or something (but, like I said, maybe I really don't know shit about that stuff)
Why us? Why did she approach us?
Well, we had that inviting Midwestern thing, I guess. She maybe assumed us
“visiting”. Probably, she assumed us “visiting”. Like we were just
“visiting”. Like, maybe we're all just “visiting”? Like, just
“visiting” in a much deeper sense; Like in some sense quickly passing through, by bones and
nerves,
this mud rock sphere, spinning infinitely downward.
Though, in truth, only some of us (well, two of us, actually) were
“visiting” in any sense of the word.
One of us, me, the Queens Girl, well, she's not visiting, she's from Queens, that's why we call
her that, that's where she's from, and she still lives there, just a block and a half away from her
childhood home in Richmond Hill right by the Tire Shop with the rottweilers, having just left that
childhood home after [mumble] years since finishing college too with her partner, mom, dad, two
of the three brothers, and a couple dogs (not rottweilers) under one roof, because, as you know,
rent fucking sucks and there's no work for [mumble]-year-old mezzo with a severe aversion to
all things matriarchal or even remotely religious that can provide her a decent living wage
(Hmm. Maybe that's telling of societal priorities but, maybe I don't really know shit about that
stuff) And the other girl is immortal, as in, she's kinda permanent... So....
Maybe she simply meant that we all inhabit space, inhabit any and all space temporarily,
quickly passing through as straphanger, or citizen, or immigrant, or diplomat, or whathaveyou;
our state always shifting (and by state, we mean both the governed area of formerly
natural land, (which now demographs a certain citizenry or slavery that's always shifting)
and also the headspace, materiality or purpose of the individual inhabitant that's always shifting
too)!
Even to herself, the sailor, this was a confusing notion,
although I can't be sure she was even having those thoughts, or was thinking anything at all, or
if they were imposed on her by my first impression of her --
that is: moody and visibly cash-strapped), though for her confusion,
she kept her composure and didn't seem moody at this moment,
and she looked so beautiful in the florescent light of the subway in spite of the florescent light
and in spite of being visibly cash-strapped), in fact, maybe that's why she was so beautiful;
maybe that was her charm;
maybe I'd come to know her; maybe I'd know what was going on inside.
How did I know she was a
sailor? Well,
she was the “right one for
me,”
and that felt good enough
and that felt pure enough for
any Christmas Eve in
any state.
I stared, ooh,
I stared at her visage
Compared, ooh,
compared her mien to my own.
Blink one.
She blinked and I could not observe the colors.
Blink two.
She blinked and I could not observe a single change.
Blink three.
She blinked and nothing changed for me at
all.
Blink one.
Blink two.
Blink three.
Blink one...
Blink two...
Blink three...
Blink one...
Blink two...
Blink three...
Blink one...
Blink two...
Blink three...
EPISODE TWO: The G Train
Three blinks,
there she goes,
the sailor.
While we,
waiting with her
without utter-
ing a word, could
only stare,
somewhat ex-
pectantly, ex-
pecting something from her, per-
haps expecting that she, the
sailor, would provide some
clue to what was missing
(hmm) or some con-
dolence for our country
(hmm) or some
luculent gesture or some statement -
at least acknowledging
that we were
on the right path.
Because,
the world is so goddamn reassuring to absolutely no one - we need to rely only on ourselves
(Rely only on ourselves!!? What is that some Libertarian bullshit? Is that like “your body knows
what it needs?”
(No, I hate when people say that. I have no idea what my
body needs because my body seems different than it was a
year ago or a day ago or an hour ago, n' in some
cases I think there’s science to back me up on this)
we need to rely only on ourselves if we want to figure out,
first, that there was somehow a void in us (or in the world)
that purposefully executed color shifts of the Empire State Building spire would fill,
second, that there was a reason to talk to a stranger to figure this whole thing out,
third, that in a time when merely existing (let alone advancing the species)
seems to require some formidable effort, we could revere any individual enough to just say out
loud
“there she goes, the sailor, look at her, look at her doing the
motherfucking thing like a goddamn champ”
That means something.
I think that means something.
I think paying someone a compliment means something. Yeah!
I hear it makes your skin tighter;
I hear it makes your teeth whiter;
I hear it makes your nails and hair stronger;
I hear it makes people want to have sex with you and buy you things and
tell their friends how often you message them...
(The Immortal One thinking to herself, I get paid a lot... of compliments.
Wonder what that does to my psyche?)
...because a compliment can be the start of friendship,
the start of disarmament, or save someone from therapy shopping at
J. Crew or some other purveyor of fine, but pricey, scarves.
(Aside: she doesn’t even really like J. Crew, but her mom likes her in J. Crew, and, what the
hell,
she’s got that gift card, even though, everyone knows damn well ain’t
no one gonna walk away with exactly fifty dollars worth of scarves; they’ll either
a) leave that place with a useless four-seventy-five in the ether which they’ll forget, except it
might gnaw on them for the day that that money is just gone now, not even part of the
ecosystem of goods producers, tax-paying-mother- having consumers, and banks, now it’s just
banks, or
b) (and the anti-capitalist in me might say “worse”)
they’ll leave that place with a receipt that has “DISCOUNT COLON FIFTY DOLLARS” printed in
all caps, and a few lines below it “Total colon one hundred-twenty-six, seventy-nine” in less
indelible type, but you'll feel okay
cuz you actually really do feel you deserve it, and look good in those scarves, and maybe you'll
keep that receipt for a day or two so you can look back on that purchase with some sort of
satisfaction, or maybe it'll be a tax write-off (If you're a cheap fucking bastard), slash, if you can
actually can keep track of expenses properly, (but who the fuck can?!) and then day three
comes along, and you knew damn well that receipt is gonna end up like all the other receipts
you crumpled and left somewhere (often the trash, but sometimes just in a place that's the
equivalent of the trash) and then you wished that you hadn't, wished instead, you played it safe
and shredded that receipt, because, y'know, identity theft is real...
...and it scares the shit out of you.)
Anyway, three blinks...
The technicalities of this ability (or if illusion, the mechanics of the illusion) gave me pounds to
ponder on the short ride, but I was glad of the company whether we got to see it or not, and
friendship with, disarmament of, or therapy for this blinking member of the armed forces was
alright by me. We thought...
Three blinks, and
she, the sailor,
eyes unchanged,
registering
no thoughts,
giving away no
sequences,
acknowledges that
our quartet’s
curiosity
(if it could be called that)
could not yet be
satiated;
that her claim
that she
changed the colors
of the Empire
State Building
spire (in fact, three times, if at every
blink, voluntary or un-)
could not be
substantiated while
we four and
she one, the
sailor, one,
we, now, five,
were still in Brooklyn...
(hmm)
at Hoyt-
Schermerhorn...
underground with no view of the
skyline. Were we then to
follow her to check? Or
step outside to check? Or
step outside and move north a bit to
gaze at the skyline to check? Or just
take her at her word (or not) and
have a story to tell
later.
Well,
we decided (well,
three of us decided - the
Immortal One didn’t care one way or the
other) that
of those options
(options undiscussed
vocally at the time) that
following her to Greenpoint seemed the
best idea. Cuz
following anyone to Greenpoint
is always the best idea.
We were,
after all, just
coming from rehearsal there, and
it was
relatively easy,
it required no
transfers, just a few
stops - and we still had
friends out at the area in
case we needed witnesses or
back-up. And within
fifteen minutes or
so (once the
train actually decided to show
up) we could be in
Greenpoint,
overlooking the
River, with an
impeccable view of the
skyline,
and the
Empire
State
Building
and its spire.
The technicalities of this ability (or if illusion, the mechanics of the illusion) gave me pounds to
ponder on the short ride, so much so that I didn’t speak at all. I wondered...
At every blink?
Voluntary or un-?
In sync with the eyelids?
Responding to each one?
If willed, could she suppress it? Could one
assess a change if, more or less, her
mood had stayed the same, remained
unchanged, would we see variance of hue, or do you
think at every blink her mood is modified?
Oh?
I guess I hadn't thought it through.
Oh.
I guess I hadn't given this idea its due.
At every blink?
Voluntary or un-?
In sync with the eyelids?
Responding to each one?
If willed, could she suppress it? Could one
assess a change if, more or less, her
mood had stayed the same, remained
unchanged, would we see variance of hue, or do you
think at every blink her mood is modified?
Oh?
I guess I hadn't thought it through.
Oh.
I guess I hadn't given this idea its due.
At every blink?
Voluntary or un-?
In sync with the eyelids?
Responding to each one?
If willed, could she suppress it? Could one
assess a change if, more or less, her
mood had stayed the same, remained
unchanged, would we see variance of hue, or do you
think at every blink her mood is modified?
EPISODE THREE: The Creek
These thoughts were often echoed or anticipated by the more vocal three
but the sailor would say nothing else except “you’ll see”
and there was an anxious thought, an anxious thought lodged in amidst the deeper
(however still anxious)
unvoiced questions, from the Quiet One that they, the other three
might always think her dumber cuz she spoke less
And always think her duller cuz she never made a fuss.
In truth maybe the Quiet One was dumber and duller
(But who the fuck knows?!
These are four fairly intelligent persons, after all.)
But it had nothing to do with her more reserved conversation and fussless demeanor in large
groups
(and even without the sailor, four women is a large fucking group)
She often has almost the same ideas as the other three at almost the same time as the other
three
(But O.M.G. How many precious rehearsal hours would be
saved if concurrences and agreements didn't need to always be vocalized?)
Sometimes, though rarely, her thoughts preempted the thoughts of the other three in the room.
Most times (if we're keeping track of these things) her thoughts trailed their equal but earlier
utterance ever so slightly So if speed of thought is a metric of intelligence, then, well, yes,
maybe she was the dumb on.
And if fussiness if a metric of excitement, then, well, yes, maybe she was the dull one.
But not by much, and besides those are pretty shitty metrics.
Maybe there was some reason they missed their stop. Maybe there was some reason four (we
have established) fairly intelligent persons (musicians, no less) and one dynamic (perhaps
magical and perhaps misdiagnosed) member of the U.S. Armed Forces, together, their minds
together, their attention on the journey, on the task of arriving and witnessing, witnessing
something magical, some great action of the individual, had not noticed Greenpoint Avenue
approach and disappear, themselves finding themselves, finding themselves in the dark tunnels
below the Newtown Creek, only then at that moment under the Creek, realizing that they had
not intended to end up in fucking Queens.
The sailor
Now below the Creek
Now with the four of us
Now below the Creek with the four of us
She pauses
Bellows her cheeks
Inhales and looks at us
With a smile of resignation she looks at us
She is resolved. Resolved to change a pattern
That her life has been, to now, a pattern, matters
nothing to her. We did not
witness this- There was no
world at that moment- There was no
time to exist in- There was no
space to occupy- There was no
planet of sharks- There was no
planet of sculptures, each older
holdover of the generations
before, showed, for one lone moment,
no motion, nothing, not
motion, nor moment, nor god nor
matter, mattered.
The pattern plained. The pattern planed. The pattern
shattered at its veins and, with it,
pity. There was no
place for shit that cruel in this cruel
city. Shat spat spatter out.
Spitted out and spit it out.
Her thoughts without bloodflow, without
electric charge or particle.
Her mouth without restriction, she was
boundless, could utter
any word if uttering were
possible, could scale
any peak if she could move at all.
The sailor’s eyes, they widened. Her eyes seemed always open wider when aimed in our
direction and her eyes were aimed in our direction. We had, the five of us, an aim, and had, as
five, abandoned that aim, willingly or not, aboard the train that night. It was our group's decision
(without any witnesses, of course) – without any one individual verbalizing her thoughts, but, as
was always the case in this group (and I guess, in all groups), all individual's unverbalized
thoughts “firing on all cylinders” as it were.
What causes individual intelligence (or attention and experience) to drop in groups, she
wondered. Why is it a single mind’s function reduces to the mean among more and more of
humanity? Could it be, the Quiet One asks herself, that, as perhaps a rebuttal to her libertarian
relatives, humanity’s mean is humanity itself, and the individual, born sweaty and damp,
covered in mucus and microbiomes,
can’t clear her way to the ocean (like a goddamn baby turtle)
without a little aid from kin, from doctors and doulas, and the skilled attention and experience of
those
holdover generations. As the attention and experience has been acquired, willingly or not,
the attention and experience, will be transmitted, willingly or not, as if attention and experience themselves were beings with an instinct to survive and a keenness to do so as poetically as
possible.
The Quiet One
Now below the Creek
Now with the three of us
And the sailor
Now below the Creek with the three of us and the sailor
She pauses
Chews the inside of her cheeks
Inhales and looks at the sailor
With a smile of anxiety she looks at the sailor
She is in love, of course. Resolved to change a pattern
That her life has been, to now, a pattern, matters
nothing to her. We did not
witness this- There was no
world at that moment- There was no
time to exist in- There was no
space to occupy- There was no
planet of sharks- There was no
planet of sculptures, each older
holdover of the generations
before, showed, for one lone moment,
no motion, nothing, not
motion, nor moment, nor god nor
matter, mattered.
The pattern plained. The pattern planed. The pattern
shattered at its veins and, with it,
pity. There was no
place for shit that cruel in this cruel
city. Shat spat spatter out.
Spitted out and spit it out.
Her thoughts without bloodflow, without
electric charge or particle.
Her mouth without restriction, she was
boundless, could utter
any word if uttering were
possible, could scale
any peak if she could move at all.
This leads to all sorts of ideas including the idea that ideas themselves can
exist in concrete space (that's what I mean by “firing on all
cylinders”). And “firing on all cylinders” was indeed the state of the
Queens-Girl as they entered her home borough with a palpable, yet undisclosed
disdain (the alcohol had worn off by now, of course),
nevermind that it's such an awesome place, and from this particular part of Queens
she lived almost as far away as possible, and they, the other three,
actually like Queens (at least this particular part – she was aware, none of them had
actually been to her almost-as-far-away-as-possible home in Richmond
Hill), and, thought the Queens-Girl, like a kitten nibbling on
Christmas ornaments, their playful ignorance would lead to eventual regret.
Le sigh... “fucking” Queens..., they all
thought, and again this disdain for her borough was palpable. She wondered
if the sailor had ever been to Queens before, and wondered if the sailor also
carried this same unlearned disdain for a place so awesome.
She wondered where the sailor was from. She wondered what conditions led her to join the
navy in the first place. She wondered if the sailor associated herself primarily with her
military career (or if it was her career at all, after all, she was probably in her
mid-twenties, and that's too early for a career in New York.) Though, she admitted,
Queens was a little different. And she was a little different from Queens, where her childhood friends
did in fact have careers in their mid-twenties, although she was all but certain, they'd
never associate themselves primarily with those careers.
The Queens-Girl
Now below the Creek
Now with the three of us
And the sailor
Now below the Creek with the three of us and the sailor
She pauses
Dimples on her cheeks
Inhales and looks at the sailor
With a smile of inquisition she looks at the sailor
She is in love, of course. Resolved to change a pattern
That her life has been, to now, a pattern, matters
nothing to her. We did not
witness this- There was no
world at that moment- There was no
time to exist in- There was no
space to occupy- There was no
planet of sharks- There was no
planet of sculptures, each older
holdover of the generations
before, showed, for one lone moment,
no motion, nothing, not
motion, nor moment, nor god nor
matter, mattered.
The pattern plained. The pattern planed. The pattern
shattered at its veins and, with it,
pity. There was no
place for shit that cruel in this cruel
city. Shat spat spatter out.
Spitted out and spit it out.
Her thoughts without bloodflow, without
electric charge or particle.
Her mouth without restriction, she was
boundless, could utter
any word if uttering were
possible, could scale
any peak if she could move at all.
And motionless they were, however relative that
word may be on a moving train. Maybe better to say how
unchanging they were, even though their life and
their feelings for it were changing so unnoticeably fast.
The Sad One notices. She always notices.
(By the way, she wasn't very sad at all – just into her routines).
She defines herself very much by her routines, and
taking subways with strangers may not have been so unroutine for her,
but falling in love with them and missing her stop certainly was.
When she gets up, at around 7:30 every morning
(no children; she can sleep however long she wants), her instinct is
not to be sad (and, remember, in fact, she wasn't very sad at all – just
into her routines) but, as for many of us, the day and its miseries
(maybe NPR, maybe flipping through who was still available on various
dating apps, maybe the goddamn ceiling and that same goddamn
splotch of dried beer she never cleaned up (she should really clean that up;
it's been like eight years) and the fact that every morning (well,
most mornings) she wakes up to be reminded that she hasn't cleaned it up
(despite it being like eight years), (not that all these things can really be defined
as miseries per se – but sometimes it's nice to be melodramatic))
begin to whittle the bare pine-log of a good night's sleep
(she always gets at least six hours no matter what) into a skewer –
and the old adage holds: where there's a weapon held, a war
follows (not that her days can be defined as wars per se – but
sometimes it's nice to be melodramatic).
'Sup bird (she never named her bird), the Sad One says every morning
Bird doesn't reply (or maybe it's always replying, who knows)
Birds love company. Or is it misery loves company. (Maybe she should've
named the bird misery (maybe that's too much baggage for her –
or at least it would invite a ton of questions about her baggage – or maybe that's just a
funny name for a bird... I think it's a funny name for a bird) she
convinces herself that misery would, in fact, be a funny name for a bird,
but how would she begin to change it. Yes, change begins from within
(she thinks that's the old adage) but, like, after that. There's no
bird naming authority, this is not a registered bird (what a crazy concept)
and in any case what good is a name if she keeps greeting the bird with 'sup bird?
Its pet name (i.e. her pet's name?) (nee, her pet's name name)
would become its name name (i.e. her pet's name?)
Sad One thinks, well, if the day is gonna start off like that (i.e. a
total goddamn mess) might as well have a bird
(a gentle reminder of her state – also of the state of the world,
or rather the state of the state of the world she has assumed for all of us).
But, this is not her apartment, and when she quote
“wakes” from the state that kept her unaware of the station names, there she is.
(Everywhere you are, there you are, the old adage) and
there she was, beside the other three and the sailor,
on the G train. No bird. No beer stain. No service. No NPR.
Truly... she is roughing it.
The Sad One
Now below the Creek
Now with the three of us
And the sailor
Now below the Creek with the three of us and the sailor
She pauses
Dimples on her cheeks
Inhales and looks at the sailor
With a smile of suspicion she looks at the sailor
She is in love, of course. Resolved to change a pattern
That her life has been, to now, a pattern, matters
nothing to her. We did not
witness this- There was no
world at that moment- There was no
time to exist in- There was no
space to occupy- There was no
planet of sharks- There was no
planet of sculptures, each older
holdover of the generations
before, showed, for one lone moment,
no motion, nothing, not
motion, nor moment, nor god nor
matter, mattered.
The pattern plained. The pattern planed. The pattern
shattered at its veins and, with it,
pity. There was no
place for shit that cruel in this cruel
city. Shat spat spatter out.
Spitted out and spit it out.
Her thoughts without bloodflow, without
electric charge or particle.
Her mouth without restriction, she was
boundless, could utter
any word if uttering were
possible, could scale
any peak if she could move at all.
The Immortal One spoke just then: “Maybe all this poetry is why we missed our stop!” Good
grief,
the other four (that is, her three friends and the sailor) must have thought. The Immortal One
didn't really understand most people's acceptance of their limitations and this business about their
mouths and movement was no exception. This, we should say, was a privileged position, and
she knew that.
“Oh, I love that lime green scarf you're wearing” they'd say. “I just bought it, three minutes ago,
for three dollars from the street vendor on that corner... right there”, The Immortal One would
reply. “Oh... [giggle giggle giggle amazement giggle giggle something something about some
excuse inevitably ending in:] I couldn't possibly pull that off.” At this point her eyes would widen
and pupils dilate in a way that marked the conversation over.
But here's the thing, she's always so fucking sweet and charismatic, that no one thinks this
threatening, and everyone just walks away content with the pleasant exchange they had with
her. Strange, she thinks,... that it drives her to the point of madness. Was their love not worth a
three minute walk? Are they
short on change? (A three dollar purchase being a relatively painless purchase in this country
among
the people she usually hangs out with) Did they think carrying cash was for immigrants, and
they only
had their credit card? Like, the excuse they gave to themselves when passing beggars (though
beggars
I read in the Times are now accepting plastic - tainting our entire vision of poverty). Did love not
necessitate a brief jaunt to the ATM? (Yes, I know what you're thinking... the processing fees
are more than the scarf!) Or did love... love, remember... not necessitate a brief hiatus from the
pride of independence? The Immortal One would've gladly spotted you the ringgits for love!
(Though the anxiety of habits without boundaries is maybe too much and so maybe “gladly”
should be substituted for “cautiously”) The Immortal One would've cautiously spotted (no, that
comes off wrong) The Immortal One would've sapiently spotted you the money... for love! And if
not me, she thinks, another friend
(maybe one even less threatening) would've given you three dollars for love.
Or three friends each giving one dollar for love. Maybe the street vendor themself would knock a
quid or two off for love... and then not only would you have love, you'd also have a great deal.
Though, arguably, three dollars for a fabulous lime green scarf is already a deal – says the
person
(this is Paul writing now) that won't spend more then four dollars on breakfast (and scarves last
longer than breakfast – in fact, they serve a multipurpose, some of which can be argued to be a
requisite for living a good life). Maybe this wasn't about the exactness of the amount, though.
Was it just fiscal prudence? You have money now but how many lime green scarves stand
between you and a life on the street. The Immortal One understood that for a moment, and for a
moment (in just a moment) devised the perfect way to steal the scarf. But that moment passed
because, y'know, WE ARE MORAL PEOPLE, and the street vendor needn't and shouldn't get
the shit end of this socio-capitalist quandary.
Maybe the problem was capitalism in general (that's food for thought). That any scarf of any
color should cost any amount (to be childish about it) or, (to be more mature about it) that no
matter the love, they need only the love they currently have (or no love at all thinks the Sad
One) to be satiated, and needn't save up, steal, or supplicate for more love than they need... or
really wanted to pay for.
And then the Immortal One thought good grief, and begins wailing tearfully “take it I want you to
take it I want you
to have it” as she tears the lime green scarf from her nape, and hands it out, hand outstretched
and shaking, head turned away to hide the tears and the mess of makeup from the ecstasy (the
goddamn nirvana) of the release of the material, the relief of the yoke, the rapture of the
largesse.
But maybe that would be awkward, especially if they really never wanted the scarf for
themselves.
Maybe that's it. Maybe they really never wanted it for themselves. Maybe they were glad of its
existence and glad of her existence with it, and thus glad of her existence at all (she thinks
fondly of her three friends). Maybe this was their way of loving her and not the scarf – a love of compliments (they were always complimenting her – why were they always complimenting her,
and what must that do to her psyche?). Maybe their love was not one of a possessor but of a
witness, and they couldn't help but say the thing aloud so that their witnessing would be
witnessed.
Or maybe, they just said the thing to say a thing, and to avoid not saying a thing about her new
lime green scarf.
But better safe than sorry, as the old adage reminds us. Maybe the best thing is still to carry
cash around –
in case love shows up.
The Immortal One
Now below the Creek
Now with the three of us
And the sailor
Now below the Creek with the three of us and the sailor
She pauses
Wiggles her cheeks
Inhales and looks at the sailor
With a smile of determination she looks at the sailor
She is in love, of course. Resolved to change a pattern
That her life has been, to now, a pattern, matters
nothing to her. We did not
witness this- There was no
world at that moment- There was no
time to exist in- There was no
space to occupy- There was no
planet of sharks- There was no
planet of sculptures, each older
holdover of the generations
before, showed, for one lone moment,
no motion, nothing, not
motion, nor moment, nor god nor
matter, mattered.
The pattern plained. The pattern planed. The pattern
shattered at its veins and, with it,
pity. There was no
place for shit that cruel in this cruel
city. Shat spat spatter out.
Spitted out and spit it out.
Her thoughts without bloodflow, without
electric charge or particle.
Her mouth without restriction, she was
boundless, could utter
any word if uttering were
possible, could scale
any peak if she could move at all.
-Paul Pinto, 2021
Aùn - Dave Reminick; text by Maria Ruiz Perez
“Last night I dreamt of Abuelo Candito.
We were driving around Santo Domingo,
And we kept getting turned around
Because the streets had changed since last he was there, he said.
Then we passed by the gate of his house and I started crying.
He stopped the car, put his hand on my shoulder,
Looked at me very deeply and said:
El hogar no es un edificio
Ni uno que yo construí.
Es donde tu familia está
Y más aún cuando está orgullosa
En la persona que tu eres.
Pero nunca dejes que el orgullo ponga nada
Primero que tu familia.’
‘Home is not a building
Not even one that I built.
It’s where your family is,
And even moreso when you are proud
Of the person you are becoming.
But never let pride put anything
Before your family.’
Then he held my cheek until I took a deep breath and nodded,
And we kept on driving and he continued telling me
How this street used to go this way and that street used to be called
Such and such.”
Artist Bio: Quince Ensemble
Singing with the precision and flexibility of modern chamber musicians, Quince Ensemble, an all-female vocal quartet, is changing the paradigm of contemporary vocal music. Described as "the Anonymous 4 of new music" by Opera News, Quince continually pushes the boundaries of vocal ensemble literature.
As dedicated advocates of new music, Quince regularly commissions new works for voices, providing wider exposure for the music of living composers. In 2019, they launched the Quince New Music Commissioning Fund, a fund to grow the repertoire for women and treble voices. Quince has released four studio albums, Realign the Time, Hushers, Motherland, and David Lang's love fail, all available on iTunes, CD Baby, Spotify, Bandcamp, and Amazon.
Quince has been featured on many festivals and series like KODY Festival in Lublin, Poland in collaboration with David Lang and Beth Morrison Projects, the Outpost Concert Series, the Philip Glass: Music with Friends concert at Issue Project Room, University of Michigan’s Hill Auditorium, and the SONiC Festival in New York, to name a few. During the 2021-22 season, they can be seen with The Chicago Symphony Orchestra/MUSICNOW, University of Chicago Presents, University of Florida, University of Miami, Frost School, and more!
Comprised of vocalists Liz Pearse (soprano), Kayleigh Butcher (mezzo soprano), Amanda DeBoer Bartlett (soprano), and Carrie Henneman Shaw (soprano), Quince thrives on unique musical challenges and genre-bending contemporary repertoire.