Beyond Language

It's Friday night, I'm I'm heading down Second Street toward Chestnut to set up and play music and sing for all the passers-by, as they move from one bar to another during the course of the night.  I pass a pizza place and for some reason a young Asian woman catches my eye briefly through the window, as she stands at the counter, ordering a slice.  She doesn't see me and I continue on.  I play a song or two, and the same Asian woman, probably in her late twenties, comes up to me, pizza slice in hand, and stands near me and smiles, as she finishes her food.  At the end of the song, I greet her.  I find out quickly that she understands almost nothing I've said.  My Korean is limited to Hello, how are you?  Once I used that line, I was at a loss as to where to go.  I tell her my name, pointing to myself.  She does the same.  We stand in silence, smiling, looking around awkwardly.  I then say, "Beatles."  She smiles and applauds.  I sing for her "Yesterday."  And then a few more Beatles songs.  John Lennon got in trouble once for saying that the Beatles were more popular than Jesus Christ.  But maybe he wasn't too far off the mark with his comment.  Anyway, this Korean angel applauds after each song.  She hangs with me for at least a half-hour, maybe because she feels secure with the music, a familiar hook, an asylum in an otherwise alien city.  I manage to ask her about her travels, and she is traveling alone from NYC to Washington, D.C. via Philadelphia.  Alone.  No English.  What courage.  She stands at my elbow as I continue to sing.  A silent partner.  It was almost like she was catching her breath from the darts and arrows.  Finally, I sense it is time to move on for her.  She hands me a ten-dollar bill.  Her generosity touches me and I give her one of our albums.  We bow, as we say good-bye, then I blow her a kiss and she blows one back.  A blend of Asia and America.  We have learned from each other.
I wish you luck and safety in your travels, my Korean angel.  Thank you for listening and sharing with me through music, the best language I know.

The Blessings Continue

It's beginning to feel like a regular love fest, this busking thing.  Today alone was worth an entire entry.  Two businessmen from Saudi Arabia stood in front of me listening.  This was their first visit to Rittenhouse Square, and the were in love with the friendly atmosphere.   They remarked how people of all ages and income levels and races seemed to be getting along well and all enjoying the gorgeous May weather.  They wanted to take a picture of me.  As I was posing, a very cute, young African-American woman ran up to me and threw her arm around me and smiled at the camera, wanting to get in the picture.  I had never seen her before, but she was very friendly and we posed together.  She disappeared as quickly as she had appeared.  The men asked me if I knew her.  I told them, no, but that type of thing happened every day to me when I was busking.  The city that loves you back.  I sang a few songs for them, and eventually the crowd embraced them and they were gone.

Then there is the aging hippie who claims he met me thirty years ago in his recording studio and the August Sky albums my wife and I made in 2002 were actually made thirty years ago.  This man visits me regularly.  He is warm and friendly and harmless.  We always exchange handshakes and he often leaves a token of his appreciation in the guitar case.  Today it was a nearly empty bag of loose cigarette tobacco.  Anyway,  today was exceptional, because he was giving me insider information about the end of the world, which is going to happen next week.  But I shouldn't worry, because he loves me and my wife, and he's reserved a place on the boat for us to safety.  Then he started babbling in tongues.  I swear.  Occasionally he'd lapse into English, but primarily he babbled his own syllabic mumblings.  I finally thanked him for watching out for us and I'd be sure to pack my bags this weekend.

Because I love you, my readers, I feel compelled to share this insider information with you.  Be ready.  Pack your bags.

Finally, the day ended with a wonderful little girl and her mother sitting down in front of me.  I sang her some kids' songs.  She was pretty precocious and requested I sing something I wrote myself.  "Fake" songs, she called them, as opposed to "real" or popular songs.  I sang her my song about Rittenhouse Square called "September Painting."  As I sang, she pulled out paper and opened up her marker box and started drawing.  She created a beautiful portrait of her and her mother.  I was hoping she'd give me the "painting," but I wouldn't presume anything.  As I was packing up my guitar to leave, she ran over to me with the portrait.  Signed with a heart.
I think I have the best job in the world.   But I'm not so sure about next week.  The end of the world.  I might pack a toothbrush and guitar, just in case. 
But in the meantime, the blessings continue.

Still Full From Breakfast

This week has been a week for reflection.   I see such a broad spectrum of society passing before me.  When I'm busking, I'm in pretty much one spot.  The world passes me by.  I see all ages, all races, and people in very different financial situations.  Rittenhouse Square is one of the affluential parts of the city.  People smoke expensive cigars on sidewalk cafes, sipping hundred dollar bottles of wine.  Others eat out of bags from McDonald's on park benches.  Some go hungry.
The park is a mixing pot of society.  I've been thinking a lot about poverty and homelessness this week.  I see many of the same people every day.  The park is their place to hang out while the sun is up.  Same bench, same companions, same clothes, day-in, day-out.  I also see the same affluent people walk by.  I used to teach in a posh charter school, and the director has an office on Rittenhouse Square.  She walks by now, but she no longer knows me, now that I'm busking.  I also used to work in an exclusive museum nearby, where a few "high-roller" members would chat up a storm with me, when I worked in the museum.  Funny how they don't look at me or recognize me now.  Convince me it's because they suffer from short-term memory.
I use the term "street people" loosely, to describe those who spend their days on the streets.  I'm sure many of them have places to go at night, warm beds to sleep in, but have no job or occupation to go to during the day, so the park is the logical choice.  Many of them have befriended me.  I'm a soft touch, and they know it.  I do like talking with them.  Many listen to the music more closely than others.  Many comment and give me feedback and encouragement.  Some ask for money.  But not all.  And that's o.k.
Yesterday a well dressed woman was eating a piece of chocolate cake she had bought from a nearby bakery, which probably cost her at least $4.75.  She didn't seem to like it.  She balled the entire piece of cake up in the paper bag, and walked twenty feet to the trash can, rather than walk five feet to the next bench, where a street person was sitting, and probably hadn't had lunch that day.
I was moved today by observing three street people in succession who rummaged through the trash can next to me where I play, looking for food.  I thought of my beautiful lunch my wife had made for me.  Tunafish sandwich with chopped celery on 12-grain bread and two mandarin oranges.  I offered the third man the bag, describing it's contents with appetizing adjectives.  He thanked me profusely and hurried to a bench nearby and dove in.
The irony was, I was still full from breakfast.
I thought a lot about that.  Still full.  From breakfast.
How fortunate I am, never to go hungry.
Just wanted to share these observations with you.
And now I'll get back to playing my guitar and singing.