I did a quick spin through the latest special exhibits, Hidden Meanings: Symbolism in Chinese Art and Pioneers of Philippine Art: Luna, Amorsolo, Zobel, which began with Fernando Zóbel's stunning rendition of the myth of Icarus, but my forearms weren't strong enough to carry me through the museum for more than three quarters of an hour on my new aluminum forearm crutches. We lucked out again when we arrived in Samsung Hall, because there were two empty seats left for the disabled and elderly. Nobody objected when I made myself at home.
Nick and I used to talk about "Yale moments," moments when we were confronted with the magnitude of the privilege and extraordinary luck and sheer impossibility of being at Yale University. This morning I had a San Francisco moment. I was sitting in a magnificent Beaux Arts chamber with a Rococo ceiling, once used to house books and now used to showcase the arts of Eastern cultures, with hundreds of people from black to white and many colors in between, from babies to young couples to the elderly, from tourists to Japanese (and white) monks, entranced by the haunting strains of a shakuhachi improvisation, followed by the deep, throaty singing of the monks that I had only heard before on some of my most treasured recordings, punctuated by the high floating ring of a ceremonial hand bell, and concluded with 108 strokes of the 2,100-pound 16th century Japanese bell.
I was in group 34 and set my crutches aside to ring the joya no kane with a small group of adults and children. I have heard and played 16th-century bells before -- the Waghevens dynasty was flourishing in Mechelen when this bell was cast -- but ringing the sho was an entirely different experience. It sounded ugly to my ears at first, with its harsh strike tone a ninth above the hum tone and intense beating of the fundamental. But after the first few strokes it became spiritual, meditative, reminiscent of thoughts not yet recovered. I could understand why the Japanese considered this an annual cleansing ritual. My only regret was that the room became a bit of a madhouse with everyone clamoring to participate, and the MC didn't insist on maintianing a respectful silence.
The afternoon was uneventful besides a ridiculous amount of young carillonneur network building on Facebook that could only be accomplished by someone in whom intense bell fever and OCD were united, but in the evening we went to Mifune for my favorite comforting slurpalicious udon. While waiting for our food at table 34, I crutched over to the bookstore and marveled at its wares, resisting Hokusai and Hiroshege to the best of my abilities while scoping out potential belated holiday gifts. When I returned, the Daimyo tray was sitting on the table, laden with sashimi and steaming, thick udon. Culinary heaven.I had really been looking forward to playing the carillon all day at Berkeley, but I suppose some things still weren't meant to be this year what with the accident and all. This afternoon I at least got to peel off my bandages and shower. There's not much to say about the incisions since they're still under surgical tape, but the main incision was definitely extended to about 3 inches or so. I can't wait to see how the scars turn out.
Conversing this evening with a drunkenly gregarious Andrew, I wondered at his talking to me from 2007 while I was still in 2006, as if we were in parallel universes. I also realized after having my father flip through a couple of channels (being too good myself to near the television) that the networks record the NYC celebrations to broadcast 3 hours later on the west coast. Seems lame, but if they didn't, they'd be broadcasting the new year around the world for 24 hours straight.
That would be kind of fun. Kind of sickening, but fun. Let's see if I make it to midnight, since my parents both went to bed while I was jabbering on the phone. For mysterious reasons Andrew has assigned me the impossible task of calling him at Pacific midnight.
