Perceval and Karina

 

I once met a man at Harvard when I was pretending to be a woman from France. He was a third generation attorney named Perceval Harkness Granger the third.  It was the actress in me, looking for something more interesting from life than the hand I’d been dealt. While he told me about himself, I got busy assembling a French accent and history to match. I was just back from France so my clothes reflected the culture.

Yes, this is my first trip to America, I told him, I’ve come to study music.

 I was without shame. Unfortunately, the more we talked, the more I liked him and by the end of lunch we’d made arrangements to see each other again. Now I was really stuck. If I wanted to be with him, I needed to continue to be the person he’d met, which would be an on-going challenge.

The show-down came when he gave me a surprise birthday party, decorated his apartment like a street in Paris and invited all of his friends who spoke French.

 I wanted to make you feel at home, he told me.

 How dear. The only problem was that I didn’t speak French. I just had a great accent from spending my summer there. I walked cautiously from guest to guest, like a swimmer in shark infested waters telling them my latest lies.

I’ve promised that as long as I am in the United States that I will speak only English. That’s what I am here to learn, forgive me if I don’t join you.

It had taken everything I had to maintain my charade with Percy, but convincing a group pushed me over the edge. I decided to end the game. We’d dated for the better part of the school year, when I asked him to join me on a park bench to discuss ’some things of common interest.’ I drank in his image for the last time. He was a handsome young man with dark wavy hair, his eyelashes, thick brush strokes executed with precision. He had opened my eyes to the world of art films, coffee houses, Harvard University and what it felt like to stand on a solid family base.

 My voice sounded flat and ordinary, as I let go of my French accent and explained what I had done. Everything felt different as I did, colors, textures, the light, the very air smelled different. When I finished, he got up and walked away, feeling angry, embarrassed, and used. That was the last I ever heard from him, except for a book he mailed to me written by Eric Fromm, called, The Art of Loving. He wanted me to read it, but the title was enough. I got the point.

Last year I decided to Google him and found he had died. Percy decided not to become a lawyer after all. He migrated to writing instead, leaving a creative legacy for television, theater and the screen. Maybe I inspired him. You think?

Vespa

I was supposed to be studying music at the Mozarteum in Austria, but I couldn’t get myself to care. I had been sprung from boarding school in early June and boarded a plane for Europe shortly after. I was scheduled for a summer of study, before landing in another music school in Cambridge, but how could I study? I’d just been put in a cornucopia of new experiences and cultures. Why would I put my face in a book or run up and down musical scales in another academic world? 

The night clerk where I stayed was young and cute. He owned a red Vespa and offered to show me the countryside.

Show away! I said. 

I did show up for classes a few times, but when I walked into my German class, my instructor actually announced that he hated Americans. Well you know what, I hate ya back. You are just the excuse I need to get out of here.

Our group was watched over by Jesuit priests from Georgetown University. I found my favorite guy and told him a story about being overwhelmed and unable to adjust to a full academic schedule. He agreed to tutor me, so my class schedule was cut in half. The gates were open. I’d return home with half the credits, but didn’t care.

I still tell people I was in Salsburg when Van Cliburn won the international Mozart competition. He was amazing and wonderful, but the truth of my summer would be found more honestly in another place. I was the girl with hair flying free on the back of a red vespa.

One can never be too careful about the stress of academic overload.

The Recital

I entered the Longy School of Music as a singer, but could not read music. I faked it by getting classical records out of the library and learning songs by ear. I was an exceptional student until I could not locate the recording needed, then my voice teacher would shake her head in wonder at my apparent lapse of ability.

Giving a recital on an instrument was a requirement of the school, but I didn’t play one. To comply, I sat next to an overweight man who smoked cigarettes and wiped bored sweat from his brow. He tried to teach me piano and how to read music. I had only been playing for three months when the concert rolled around. The public was in attendance and so was the faculty. Grades were issued accordingly. I went to the dean.

Surely, you can’t expect me to perform on the piano when I’ve been playing such a short time. I’d only make a fool of myself.

It’s a requirement of the school, he said, there are no exceptions.

The afternoon of the recital I was escorted across a grand stage amidst enthusiastic applause to a piano fit for a master student. Positioning myself I said a silent prayer and began to play. This was a student’s time to shine, to show the community and faculty that they held professional status. Naturally no sheet music was allowed. I was sick with nerves, knowing full well that I possessed no skill whatsoever. If only I could sing for them, I thought, everything would be fine.

I played for ten measures before my memorization collapsed.  Determined not to fail, I reached into my bag and pulled out the forbidden sheet music, praying for a miracle of comprehension. I envisioned red ink marks being splashed across my report by the faculty seated in the back row, but no longer cared. This was an exercise in survival. The notes on the page ran together, while restless whispers from the audience amplified. I stopped to gather courage, took a deep breath, and straightened my posture. A vast landscape of black and white ivory lay before me. I had only to place my fingers on the right tract to make my way to safety, but I could not. I missed the mark over and over again.

Finally an authoritative voice from the back of the auditorium rose and called out to me.

Miss Banfield, may I make a suggestion?

Yes, please sir. I was in desperate need of a lifeline.

Try playing a D with the third finger of your left hand, instead of an F. I think you’ll find it gets you back on track. I changed my fingering and it momentarily eased the pain.

Dear God, can someone tell me how a gentlemen in the back row could indicate which finger was amiss, while I, giving it my full attention was completely lost?

I played on, being guided by whatever saints take mercy on inept musicians. When I finished, I closed the sheet music and returned it to the bag. I pushed back the piano bench with what dignity remained and prepared to leave. The same man stood again at the rear of the concert hall.

Miss Banfield, I have a question for you before you go.

A renewed sense of panic filled my body.

I’d like to inquire, do you enjoy playing the piano?

Shielding my eyes from the glare of the spotlight, I probed the sea of faces before me, searching unsucessfully for his.

No sir, I answered, I hate it.

He made some marks in his book and dismissed me by saying, it shows.

Be Mine

We did a fund-raiser before we left Alaska. After the theatrical performance I hid behind the set as long as possible, hoping to avoid being social. It had been a long day and I didn’t know if I could smile at any more strangers. Eventually, hunger got the best of me and I ventured toward the food table.

Oh, Miss Banfield, a voice called out, I’ve been waiting for you. Would you join me please? 

I had to. It was my job.

Just one moment, let me get some food and we’ll talk.

I was in the mood for prime rib and potatoes, but settled for the crackers, cheese and bite-sized vegetables offered. I peered back at the circular table that was tucked in the corner, and quietly assessed the gentleman who had spoken; middle-aged, businessman, reliable, somewhat dull. A rapid evaluation, I concluded, and probably unfair.

Balancing an abundant supply of food on a tiny paper plate, I approached his table. He stood to pull out my chair, reached into his briefcase and placed a file on the table. Miss Banfield, I have figures I’d like to show you.

I blanched. Oh dear, I thought, he’s from the Internal Revenue Service. I stopped eating.

Don’t be alarmed. I have a list of assets I want to go over with you, just take a minute.

I slowly began eating and studied him again. He must be the bookkeeper from Pacific University, I thought. They were our financial host. Perhaps he needed me to take figures back to the main office.

I ate and listened, while he spoke of land, houses, machinery and cars. He disclosed his personal income and many of his intimate tastes. When he finished I was completely baffled, without a glimmer of comprehension. I wiped my mouth with a small green napkin and looked blankly into his eyes.

I don’t understand a word you’ve told me. What’s your purpose?

He straightened his back and became very formal.

I was wondering if you would consider marriage. As you see, I am a very stable man, well employed and respected. I own a great deal of land and have been looking for the right person to share it with. There is a shortage of women in Alaska, so I don’t have a bursting selection. Would you consider my proposal?

I was completely taken back, tried to be gentle, wished him luck and made a hasty exit. What a girl has to go through to have a meal in Alaska.

Artistic Community

I had a friend named B’Lou, short for Betty Lou, who was an incredibly gifted, intense and sharp-edged woman. I met her when I sang in a Rock Opera at Storefront Theater. We became fast friends. B’Lou cut her hair short, smoked long brown cigarettes and had the lean styled body of the professional dancer she was. She was aloof, elegant, and both baffled and alienated by the culture she lived in. We shared a background in the arts and many long afternoons in her costume closet.

B’Lou either liked you or she didn’t, there was no middle ground. If a person had artistic qualities, or if the men were gay, she sensed a potential friend and playmate, then her world was welcoming and wide. But if people were not on her preferred list, she could be rude and distant. They were greeted like a bug in her caviar.

 B’Lou always had strange and unusual ideas. For instance she thought it was great fun to put on a costume and parade with friends down the street like Princess Di, smiling and waving a mindless regal wave. She taught movement classes and encouraged students to go to a near-by shopping center to create as many variations of walking as they could think of. Ultimately, security guards arrested her for walking backwards too long; they found it threatening and unnatural.

I made my way through prize dahlias and artfully sculpted foliage to seek her advice. I needed a place to live but had no income. I don’t know how to move without money, I told her, but I have to leave. The only place I’d found to stay when I came back from touring was in the house of an x-husband. She looked intently at the end of her long brown cigarette. You obviously need to leave, she said, we have to figure out the funding. Her face lit with an idea. Henley is having his house foreclosed, but that could take a very long time with the legal procedures. Maybe you could move in there. It would not be ideal but it would buy you some time.

I don’t even know Henley, How can I introduce myself and say that I’m interested in living in his house rent-free, until his life self-destructs? Seems a bit much, don’t you think?

No, not really. I’ll take care of explaining it to him.

Henley had the corner house next to B’Lou. I liked the idea of being neighbors. Of course you’ll have to clean it, she said. Henley is a trasher of the highest order. Be prepared for that. She knocked an ash into a large crystal bowl and welcomed her Siamese cat into the folds of her sweater. The other reason this could work, she continued, is because Henley is interested in metaphysics. You could teach him in exchange for rent, if you are both in agreement.

When I showed up for our meeting, I met a man whom I can only describe as alarming. He looked like he’d been foraging through garbage cans all morning, the zipper of his trousers was undone and he was dirty and smelled. I was not impressed. As I sat across from him, I thought I would sooner land in the gutter than share a space with such a man, free or not.

To my surprise, when he spoke I discovered an intellect that bordered on genius. He was regal in his mannerisms and remarkably knowledgeable. I wondered how such a man could have fallen so low. Henley had been an internationally known ice skating coach, who still received calls from Olympic hopefuls. He had lost his father, thought he had cancer and completely bottomed out. Something snapped and he stopped functioning, stopped working and thoroughly neglected his appearance. The ironic part was that he was totally optimistic.

Henley lived on the second floor and told me I could have the first, which had its own entrance and plenty of privacy. The furnace was hopelessly broken but a woodstove in the main room provided heat. The building was a lovely vintage home which had fallen into the same disrepair as its owner. Uncontrolled blackberry bushes covered the sidewalk; the front porch was piled with garbage, old magazines and official looking threats from the city. He opened the door to a black and white tiled entryway, a large living room, two bedrooms and a kitchen. The backyard looked like the front, overgrown and untended. He had junk, refuse, discarded garbage, dirty clothes, and smelly debris knee-high inside.

What should I do with your things, I asked while trying a new technique of breathing out and not in. I’ll throw everything away unless it looks valuable.  

He moved through the space as if he were in a meadow. I don’t care, he told me, do what you like.

The next two weeks were spent hauling away garbage, scrubbing walls and tiles and waging a battle with blackberries. I made my way through the lower part of the house, while Henley studied philosophy and metaphysics. It was hard not to hate him for the squalor I worked in. I scrubbed and disinfected while saying to myself, Henley, you Idiot. How could you let his happen? How could you live like this? How can you stand the odor?  I’d fill great black garbage bags with untouchable belongings and he’d come up behind me, thrust a tarot card over my shoulder and say, What does this one mean? He was oblivious.

This is not the best time for me, Henley, I’d explain gritting my teeth. Could you wait a few minutes? He was obsessed with curiosity.

If I got money from a reading or from the rare arrival of a child support check, we’d go shopping. I’d buy him shoes that didn’t leak, warm socks and food. The first time I took him to dinner, I told him to order anything he wanted.

Do you mean it, he asked.

Anything!

He ordered three separate meals plus dessert. He hadn’t eaten in a long time. I knew that B’lou also fed him but most of the time he lived on coffee, and the mental pleasure of books. I wasn’t paying rent, couldn’t afford to, but shared what I had with him, and he was good to me.

One afternoon sitting in B’Lou’s hot tub I inquired. Why do you think Henley is the way he is? He’s so smart but completely checked out. I care for him but don’t understand him at all. We were soaking in evening air underneath a cedar tree. The yard was lit with candles. B’lou’s eyes reflected light as she answered. Karen, we’re all case studies of sorts. Henley’s file is just a little thicker than ours, that’s all.

Eventually things turned around. Henley owned several pieces of professional work-out equipment. I talked him into selling them so he could use the money to live on. He had a friend who began making arrangements to save his house. I cleaned and rented the attic space to a chiropractor who could afford to pay rent. Things were looking up, Kristen and I settled in.

B’Lou managed to place friends in bordering houses when they came up for lease, so we had a community. We gathered at her house on Sundays to share food, talk about our lives and the latest creative projects that might save us all from poverty.

The Crush

Business began at Storefront Theater with daily gatherings to write music and a script about energy conservation. I became the Energy God Mother on roller skates, and propelled myself across countless school auditoriums teaching children how to conserve energy so they could, have a brighter tomorrow. I also made a special guest appearance near the end of the show as a pink satin washing machine. Not the career in opera I had trained for, but I was having fun.

Unfortunately, I developed a terrific crush on Charles, the piano player. Men were the ones to make advances in my world, like the wedding proposal I received from a complete stranger between shows in Alaska, so I had no skill for initiating. When the time came to speak to Charles about anything but work, I was silent, tongue-tied, frozen.

Did you want something, he’d ask?

No, no, I’d lie, as I disappeared quickly behind the stage. Just wanted to say you played well.

Finally I’d had enough. I was standing in the lower hallway after rehearsal and saw Charles making his way to the elevator. Do it, I told myself. For God sake put an end to this and ask him. Ask him what? I couldn’t remember. He was getting closer to the elevator, running for it. Each step brought him nearer. If I didn’t speak he would run right past. I had to do it. It was now or never. I would not let him go by without settling this. It was essential I speak, but nothing was coming out of my mouth. He was getting away. I couldn’t let it happen.

In frustration I reached out and grabbed his belt loop. He kept going, never even slowed down as it ripped completely off his pants. He heard the rip, felt the tug. He ran to the elevator, leaned against the back wall, looked down at his torn pants and out at me. There I stood with dazed eyes, his belt loop wrapped around my finger, long threads dangling in space. He gave me a look that said, oh my God, it’s you. I should have known. I winced, sorry Charles, sorry.

We worked together for the next six months, and neither of us mentioned the belt loop incident. Charles fell in love with another woman, which was just as well.  I’d decided I wasn’t in love with him after all. It was just too darned hard.

Madame Schinnerea

At boarding school I traded gym class for music and went into town to study with the worldly Madame Schinnerea. She was accomplished, rigid, expensive and formally trained.  The woman managed, all by herself, to remove any joy I had ever felt for music. Under her training, music became cold and technical. If, at any time, she felt my work was less than perfect, she would cancel whatever engagements had been scheduled.

The minister from the Congregational church was especially put out by this. During my lesson he stopped by and demanded to know why my performance had been canceled.  Madame Schinnerea replied, she does not sing the piece as Handel intended. I won’t have a student of mine doing sloppy work.

The minister pleaded; couldn’t she just sing a simple hymn? It’s the beauty of her voice we love, not the sound of her jumping through classical hoops. She glared at him with all the impatience of a superior mind, dealing with the hopelessly ignorant. No, not even a simple hymn. It was over. I was to be perfect or not open my mouth. I tried; I pushed and pulled myself to become a gifted musical acrobat. I sang arias I didn’t understand in Italian, French and German - still not good. She gave me Hamlet to recite, in the hope of elevating my mind and thus my voice, but I could not please her. Finally I rebelled and joined the cheerleading squad where I screamed for hours in damp weather.  She was furious and informed my mother that I could have had a career on the concert stage, but lacked ambition.

I never had such lofty ideas. I was full of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, never Maria Callas.  Defying her further, I went to church every Sunday and sang hymn after hymn in the choir. I was their soloist, the only dormitory student, and was regarded with curiosity by the white haired ladies. We’ve never had a boarding student take an interest in the choir before. What an unusual young woman you are.

My best friend during those years was a beautiful Lebanese woman named, Susan. She was a townie, as distinguished from a boarding student. The academy was attended by local students, which saved it from being elitist or intolerably over run by the behavior problems of the wealthy. When I spent the night with Susan, I’d put on classical music and delight in the beauty of Chopin’s Piano sonatas, but she’d have none of it. I keep telling you, I don’t like that stuff. Put on something good, like Joni Mitchell or Bob Dylan. I didn’t know who they were, so she educated me. When Susan put Dylan on the record player I was very glad Madame Schinnerea was no where around, because I knew she’d die of a heart attack on the spot. I could imagine her gasping for air and clutching her heart at the sounds he produced. Why wasn’t somebody canceling his performances?

Puppet Theater

What if the only life you had depended on someone picking you up and taking you out of your box? What if you had no capacity for life on your own, but when you were put in the skilled hands of another, you could bring audiences to tears, cause roaring laughter and see them spring to their feet in appreciation.

We wrote original scripts in a studio just over the river in the state of Washington. As an educational theater company we were the welcome reason children left their classes to experience the wonder of Japanese Bunruku, shadow and hand-rod puppetry. We performed from Oregon to Alaska for children young enough to be mesmerized by the magic of make-believe. 

It was my job to provide movement, character and voices for three or four puppets at a time, while a male touring partner did the others. The children energized the performance with rapt attention, laughter and wild applause. It was exciting to see how completely the children stepped into another reality, accepted it, and became the moment. For example, we had written a show about a coyote getting stuck in a cedar tree, but had to revise the scene when I said as the voice of coyote, I seem to be stuck in this tree. Is there anyone who can help me get out? That line was supposed to announce the entrance of a Native American, but to my surprise three hundred children rose from their seats screaming, I can help you coyote. I’m coming. 

The puppets were nothing more than fiberglass, fabric and wood, limp in my hands, but in front of an audience they were alive and vibrant, as if the truth of them resided solely in shadow. I became their midwife over and over again, birthing them into existence at each appointed moment, than placing them back inside their long coffin-like traveling boxes after each exhausting exposure.

This was a mind-bending experience, and enough to make even the most realistic among us pause. In performance the life of the puppet became legitimate, played out against the darkened room of the stage, while I watched the shadows on the wall, as another reality, another kind of life, played out next to the one we intended. Was this a kind of karma, or gift for those not ready to move fully into life? Was it a skillful birthing of spirit while hiding in illusion, a sort of trying out life before actually showing up? I don’t know. I just know the chills I felt every once in awhile, as I watched it all play out.

Rock Creek

The Rock Creek Tavern is a family place full of tapestry rugs, original art and stained glass windows. It’s five country miles from our house, past tall red barns, flooded wheat fields and acres of horse-fenced hills. Every Tuesday they host bluegrass music in a non-performance environment. Being there is like walking into someone’s living room where a group of friends have gathered. There are no microphones, just kindred spirits coming together to play stand-up bass, mandolins, banjos, guitars, fiddles and dobro. It did not surprise me that most of the musicians were my age, because playing music in that way was such a strong part of our past.

After a hard day at work, my mother would lower her tiny frame on the piano bench and allow her raven hair to move free against her face. She would pour the sorrow from her heart into the songs she sang and lament in minor keys and sultry tempos. My older brother played guitar, my younger brother played drums, while my sister and I sang background duets.

We danced in the village once a week. Accordion music propelled us in great skipping circles as we learned to polka and follow the commands of square dance fiddlers. We swirled until we were out of breath and red in the cheeks. We never went to visit neighbors without migrating to the piano to play hymns, folk songs or show tunes. Schools required every student to play an instrument or go to choir. People played music on the porch after dinner, and children in elementary school had music day once each week.

I remember thinking, when I first worked in dinner theater, how odd it was that a whole room full of people would sit in their chairs, heavy from too much dinner and watch me do what we should all be doing together.

I am truly saddened by television, our cultural Chernobyl, because it put an end to all of that. Instead of playing music, singing, enjoying community and feeling alive, we became inert and comatose by comparison.

When did we forget how to dance?

When did we forget how to sing?

There are children leaning over the railing that divides the upper dining room at Rock Creek from the musicians below. The woman playing the stand up bass has stopped, and turned her attention to them. She invites the little ones to stroke the strings and experience the magic that’s created. The dobro player is telling them about his slide guitar, a cherry wood instrument with a shiny silver top. Her name is Rosie, he explains. She’s one hundred years old and lived undiscovered in a barn for a long time. I found her and brought her to life again. I take good care of her because she is beautiful and important to me.

The children are laughing and smiling, the wonder of music alive in their eyes.

Finding Balance

 When I was in my thirties, I lived in Seattle, or rather crash-landed there after two exhausting years of being on tour with the theater.  Travel, hotel rooms, performing and restaurant meals left me ill and defeated. I had to leave the theater with no idea what to do next. At that time, I did not see my intuitive healing work as a career, it was just something I did for the people I met who were in need. I seemed to always have a small stream of folks coming to my door for help. My Aunt Ethel had encouraged my sight in a playful way, by reading my fortune in tea leaves. It was a game we played together. I moved on to using cards and eventually to nothing but my own knowing.

Because I was new to Seattle, I took myself to a psychic fair at a local yoga center to meet kindred spirits. After an afternoon of readings, a man approached and asked if I would come on NBC to demonstrate my skills. I told him I’d think about it. Not being a television watcher, I had no way to judge if the experience was meant for ridicule, so I asked neighbors if the show was reputable. It was, so I accepted, hoping the experience might provide a few new clients to tide me over.

 I was broke the morning of the program, so I borrowed bus fare from the man who ran the neighborhood market across the street. I grabbed a large paper bag, stuffed my belongings inside, and ran out the door. Others came in limousines.  When I arrived, I was ushered upstairs to a waiting room, where I met interesting women with similar abilities.  The television hostess took me aside, and asked if I would give her a quick sample of my skills. She was scurrying around in a frantic state of disarray, looking like she could have a nervous breakdown at any moment. Every hair had to be perfect, as well as her clothes, make-up and voice. She was on a fast-track to the top, despite personal cost. I told her as much. She declared me a genius, and that was that.

When I was escorted into the television studio, she was calm, confident and inviting. I know that psychics have many rituals they use in doing their work, she told the audience, and noticed that you carry your special things in a brown paper bag. Could you tell us about the significance of that?

I sat in a moment of disbelief. The only significance, I laughed, is that I could not find my purse this morning.

Well folks, she continued, Karen blew me away with the accuracy of her reading earlier, so I am excited to hear what she will see for us now.

Another moment of disbelief. ‘Blew me away?‘ Reading for her was like asking somebody if a house was on fire. Not a tough assessment.

I shared with the audience what little I knew about the history of using cards for divination, then read for a woman about a new business she was opening, what it would involve, and what it could mean to her personal life. 

The producer had arranged for the same woman to stand up and ask the same question of each of us. We were kept in isolation until we read, then taken off again, so we couldn’t hear what the others reported. We were being publicly tested.

Long story short, the show was a success. I had never watched television in the morning, and had no understanding of the number of people who did, so when my phone started to ring, I was pleased. I did not know that the phone would not stop ringing. The phone did not stop at any time during the day or night. It did not stop for a full month! At first I left the receiver off the hook, so I could have moments of peace, but eventually I unplugged it all together. I thought I should be able to manage the calls, but it was like trying to stop a human tsunami. And so, I walked away. 

I began doing haircuts for neighbors to make ends meet, and put up signs to help as a Girl Friday along Lake Washington. An older woman named Margaret was my first client. She was my idea of a Norman Rockwell style grandmother. She spoiled and loved me to such an extent that I dropped other clients, and worked only for her.

I felt unsettled by the television experience, and guilty. I knew my sight could help others, and felt a strong sense of duty. But I was only one person and my inner resources were already dangerously low.

I remember being frightened during this period. I felt I should be able to create or read or sculpt or write whenever I pleased. I was afraid there was something wrong with me when the activities that gave me comfort dried up and went away.

Margaret was wise at these times. She would remind me about cycles and seasons over tuna casserole, warm cookies and coke. She helped me understand the timing of things, and that it all came down to keeping my balance, no matter what cycle I was in.  When life is abundantly good and showering you with gifts, stay humble and centered. When life is throwing stones and pulling you into the mud, stay humble and centered. Watch it all. See it for what it is, and never let it define you. I learned that year that receiving too much, was as dangerous as receiving too little, and that if I centered and waited, well, pretty soon, all that I needed would come back around again.