Finke Ink

The space shuttle Enterprise flew to New York today, and as the plan was to take it up the Hudson River I knew we would have an amazing view from the rooftop at Cunningham.

With only a few minutes to spare I gathered a couple co-workers and we made our way up. We could see other roof-toppers and a crowd out on the piers as we talked about the end of the NASA’s shuttle program. About a minute after we walked out to the edge we received a text, “It’s there!” and while I’ve never wanted to be an astronaut, a wave of anticipation washed over as we strained to catch our first glimpse of it.

Here you can just make it out as it flew over the Statue of Liberty (which is even more difficult to make out, but you can see her head and torch poking out over the greenery.)

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It was pretty awesome, I must admit.

It came closer and I said, “Go back into the sun!” and it listened. Or the sun complied by highlighting a lovely cloud over New Jersey.

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It disappeared for a moment behind part of our building and we ran over to the other side, hoping for another view. Suddenly it was right above us and we all cheered! It was like opening a present that you thought was great, and then finding a secret tiny present INSIDE the first present… it was impossible to contain our elation.

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My colleague said it looked like a baby whale swimming by its mother and I agreed.

It looked so small riding on the 747.

Here you can see the NASA logo on the tail, (which is fun for people who love NASA)

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It was gone again behind another building, reappearing exactly where I needed it; getting the perfect shot to prove we were on the roof at Cunningham. Another really great memory to add to the many.

I have been feeling quite nostalgic of late. I think it’s the change of seasons. 

The smell of the rain tonight is like the smell of all the rains I have ever taken in. Running to the car with jacket held high, the last time walking back to my elementary school as a sixth-grader, sitting in the shop at Jacob’s Pillow, standing in the barn waiting to make a break for the house but happy to take the moment to just stare out at the weather.

The rain gives us a moment to pause.

One good thing about living in the city again, without touring, (I’m trying desperately to find the good things about that) is that it affords me the chance to attend performances. In the past couple weeks I’ve gone to Broadway shows, dance shows, plays, dance theatre, small solo music shows and sold-out concerts. 
In keeping with the nostalgia theme, being in the audience for these shows has brought me back to my earlier years as a performer. One production reminded me of the musical I was in, so shy as a high school student attending college— hanging out in the make up room, getting up the courage to joke around with the other kids who seemed so old and wise at the time.
Another production reminds me of college— the last time I wore pointe shoes (was I aware when I took them off that I’d never don them again?)

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Sometimes it is easier to look back to old times than to look ahead to an unknown future.

MCDC is winding down, though there is still so much to do. Each day contains more farewells, more opportunities to perfect that habit of suppressing heavy emotions.

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One performance reminded me of my Purchase days, thinking back to the years spent giving myself to something that didn’t give much back. All the hours, all the pain and it seemed as though no one ever really saw me. Then I got the lead in Rodeo and finally felt recognized. I knew I nailed the audition; I was a tomboy, a farm girl, rough and tumble and how I loved to jump! They told me I got the part and I thought, Yes! finally… finally I can prove what I can do.

Then the funding fell through and they dropped the piece. Given how I’d been treated, combined with my own insecurities, I felt that they were probably happy, that they hadn’t wanted to cast me in the lead anyway.

I thought about this watching a ballet last weekend, allowing myself to really go back through that deflation.

Then it occurred to me— had I the chance to perform that role, to prove myself, perhaps it would have changed my path; perhaps I would have pursued a dance career. While thinking back on that time is still difficult, I realized had I stayed focused on performing, I would have a completely different life now. 

I never would have had my career with Merce. 

Looking back with the clarity of time, I gladly would go through that pain again for what I have had instead— to travel the world with remarkably talented people, to gain a new family, to have artistically contributed to such an amazing company, to have known Merce.

The pain of the past, while still present, is acceptable. I’ll gladly take that burden for the trade off. Applying that attitude when in the midst of a struggle is not easy, but I guess we have to accept the past for what it is, knowing it is shaping our future, hoping for the best.
In the meantime? We let the rain fall. 

There are many annoyances that come along with running around the city. I am lucky in that I can walk to work, but on days when duty calls me elsewhere I hop on the train and hope nothing exciting happens.

Today I went up to Baryshnikov Arts Center for a fitting— former MCDC dancers are performing a Merce work for the first time since we had our final shows. This will perhaps be a post of its own as there are many emotions tied to this occasion.

Waiting for the train, at rush hour, I am thinking thankful thoughts of how this is not my regular commute. Crowding forward as the sound of the train signals its appearance, I hear a guitar coming from one car down so I jumble through the masses, choosing the music over the easily-accessible door in front of me.

The car is packed, but in the center I make out two 30-something guys playing guitars through a wireless amp. They sound good. I am happy to realize they aren’t the move-through-every-car type; they are settled in here, so I settle in too.

A white-haired gentleman in full Irish/Scottish regalia, kilt and all, has just dropped a tip into their box as he complimented them. The more talkative of the musicians says, in jokingly bad Spanish, “Oo no momento, poor fahvore,” as he puts new batteries into their set up. To pass the time he tells some jokes. The first I cannot hear, but I could tell I didn’t think it would have been funny. 
He then looks at the dressed up man and says, “Two Irish guys walk out of a bar.”
Ba-dum.

And then my favorite thing happened— the old man proceeds to tell a joke to the guys; I’m only hearing bits as the train is moving and I’m a door away, but I soon recognize it as one of my father’s favorite jokes. My eyes open wide and I look around, hoping to somehow see a family member so we could share the amazement of the occasion.

To understand the importance of this you must know my father. He has a million jokes that are actually funny, he is always making people laugh, and every year or so he happens upon one that he makes The Joke of the season. You would hear it carried on the wind as he crossed the strawberry rows, checking on customers, entertaining them for a lucky moment. You would hear it when we got together with friends, with relatives, with strangers in a long line next to us. Even though you knew it inside and out, the way he told it was always great. You knew when the punch line was coming (for one specific joke I’ve waited, camera in hand, to capture the moment) and the joy you got out of it was seeing how a first-timer reacted.

There are certain words, certain phrases, that are triggers. When I hear them I think, this is what Dad would say now, and I have probably repeated what he’d say often enough to friends that they are getting a bit of my father through me.

So to hear someone else tell one of Dad’s heavy hitters was a thrill of sorts.

I’ll not try to capture the joke here. It needs accents and inflections and basically for my dad to tell it. What was interesting— the guy on the train, apart from being nowhere near as captivating as my father when he tells a tale, was that his version took place in Ireland with shots of Jameson, whereas my dad’s version is with Norwegians and beer. 
Cultural differences.

I could tell the end of the joke was near, but couldn’t get a good angle to take a photo of the reaction. Though it would have been disappointing; the joke is somewhat lengthy and these guys had long since replaced the batteries and were ready to play again.

I did catch this young girl dancing away, and she was loving every note.
 

The woman next to me was recording everything with her phone. It was one of those rare times when the whole car was into listening, into the show.

“This may be one of the first times I’ve been sad it’s my stop.” I told them as I dropped some money in the hat, stepping through the doors. 

What a great New York experience, I thought as I went through the turnstiles. Then immediately was annoyed by a tourist who couldn’t make up her mind on which exit to take.
Maybe I’ll call Dad to see if he’s heard a good one lately.