What Is It All But Luminous Read online

  I have come to address this letter: Mr. and Mrs….Challenged-by-Identity, you, me, America. We’re all at a loss by the nouns. It’s in the verbs that we see ourselves—drivin’, takin’ it, reckoning, assembling the cast of man, outlasting.

  Primeval Kathryn and Arthur

  Wintertime nighs. Perhaps I’ll light a fire

  this year. Maybe I’ll put away her things.

  Kathryn Ward Cermak found Minneapolis too stultifying for an actress. She came to New York City with a chip on her shoulder and soon found herself doing book covers for Anthony Loew, the same photographer I did my Scissors Cut album cover with. Tony was a straight shooter. I believed him when he put her 8x10 glossy in the mail. “Here’s an amazing girl I recently worked with…” Love slipped in on me. It was organic. It wasn’t the thing I thought I was looking for, but it felt so good. This was something else again.

  In the late ’80s, I put a band together and started to gig. I began to read the Random House dictionary and started to walk across the USA. I put out a book, Still Water, and walked my baby down the aisle.

  It’s the organza that’s got her.

  That’s why this is happening.

  A sea of billowy white stuff

  must enfold her limbs.

  No one said “Kathryn”

  before “clothed in crinoline,”

  but the ears that hear cathedral

  bells are Kim’s.

  And they’re dripping, tripping down

  for her, who’ll walk no more

  on fields unfrosted;

  What a dream—

  what hypoglycemian hymns.

  And shouldn’t we make her happy?

  Mustn’t her heart be glad?

  Are we not bound to ride her train

  of sequins and darts

  and all the pictures our hearts

  have had?

  From February 1984 to January 1989 I read 198 books. These 26 books stand out:

  Thomas Mann, The Confessions of Felix Krull, Confidence Man (1955)

  L. N. Tolstoy, What Is Art? (1896)

  Iris Murdoch, A Severed Head (1961)

  William Thackeray, Vanity Fair (1847)

  Thornton Wilder, The Ides of March (1948)

  Constantin Stanislavski, An Actor Prepares (1936)

  Lucretius, On the Nature of the Universe (c. 54 BC)

  Frances FitzGerald, Fire in the Lake (1972)

  Lao Tsu, Tao Te Ching (6th century BC)

  Richard Ellmann, James Joyce (1959)

  Herodotus, The Histories (446 BC)

  Edith Wharton, The House of Mirth (1905)

  Julian Jaynes, The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind (1976)

  Vladimir Nabokov, The Enchanter (1939)

  Harold Schonberg, The Lives of the Great Composers (1970)

  Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan (1651)

  Carrie Fisher, Postcards from the Edge (1987)

  Michel Montaigne, Essays (1580)

  Sigmund Freud, The Ego and the Id (1923)

  Friedrich Nietzsche, A Nietzsche Reader (1880s)

  Mark Twain, Life on the Mississippi (1882)

  Fyodor Dostoevsky, Notes from Underground (1849)

  George Eliot, Middlemarch (1872)

  Francis Parkman, The Oregon Trail (1849)

  Confucius, The Analects (c. 500 BC)

  Charles Dickens, Bleak House (1853)

  Wedding Day, September 18, 1988

  Egyptian limo driver, Thirty-eighth and Mad,

  steamer and shiatsu on the mezzanine;

  Joseph and his brothers—does it mean

  estrangement, wasn’t he scorned for his

  virtue first, thrown with a coat in a pit?

  Is it his wits with which he fights, hitchhiking

  with the Ishmaelites to Cairo, to a jail cell,

  and eventually to the Pharaoh

  via Dream Interpretation?

  “lean cows eat up fat cows”

  Didn’t he sit like this and miss his father

  and baby Ben, and turn again to the riddle—

  “Let seven lean cows equal seven tough years?”

  (say Seventy-nine to Eighty-six)

  He didn’t expect enthronement or the

  fortune-telling royalties; he didn’t exactly

  say, “Buy cheap, sell dear.”

  But there he sits, the Pharaoh’s prize,

  trade minister of grain supplies, disguised

  as planned, when his brothers appear

  It isn’t easy being the fortunate son, the middle of three brothers—

  There’s skin-colored wood in the sauna, and three Caucasians blending in. I, on my orange towel, in the corner (next to the rust-colored sand in the timer) stare at fire in the rock bin.

  Take me to the tannery.

  Into the closet of cobra and crocodile.

  Let me linger a while with skin,

  stacked and slaughtered. Take me in.

  Let me hide when the tanners begin the dyeing process.

  Close my nose but let me watch the washing.

  Stain the beast in original sin.

  Put his open mouth before me,

  let me take it on the chin,

  and whisper past rows of pointy teeth within

  the ghastly masquerader:

  “See you later…”

  SEPTEMBER 18, 1988—WE PLIGHTED OUR TROTH, STOOD ON THE BOARDS, SWORE BEFORE ALL OF OUR FRIENDS: “THIS IS MY BELOVED.” SUCH PROMISE SEEMED TO FRUCTIFY AND INDUCED EMOTIONAL SECURITY THEREBY. SO YOU MOVED IN.

  I am Mr. Mickey Mouse and she’s my Minnie Mouse.

  Around the house she’s Mighty Mouse.

  O mounted spouse divine,

  O scintillant Mouse be mine.

  Be mighty, be mini, or any amount of chantilly.

  Be winged Minty Mouse, timeless and sublime.

  NOW THAT I AM A TOURING CONCERT ARTIST, HERE IS MY TRIBUTE TO JAMES TAYLOR.

  I sing to James Taylor before every show I do. I warm up in my dressing room to “Handy Man,” “Sarah Maria,” “Song for You Far Away,” “Sweet Baby James,” “Copperline,” and about twenty other favorites. Then I go from James’s bass-baritone to tenor singing with the Everly Brothers—first Don, later Phil.

  While I’m unisoning with James, my reverence rises, my heart and mind become engaged in the sober intelligence of the song and the beauty of the singing. James’s accuracy of pitch is like a trader’s honesty. To me, it has always been paramount in singing. There is an illuminating love of living things—all of them here on earth—that lies within the tenderness of his line readings (listen to his song “Gaia” from Hourglass). If vocal cord vibration were like surfing off the swelling of the heart, James would be my favorite rider on the cusp—a little in the air, sublime in the spray.

  It’s no accident that the Beatles’ newly formed Apple Records signed James Taylor at its inception. He is the finest of us Americans. I know the “folk music” he must have listened to. (I too had been wand’ring early and late…) I have experienced the thrill of collaborating with him numerous times as we have invited each other into our respective albums. I recall our trio arrangement of “(What a) Wonderful World” with my Paul. We met at Paul’s apartment (of course). It was ’77. Two extraordinary artists were giving me the gifts of their vocals and guitar parts for my album Watermark. I must have done something right. What is memorable today is the ease and efficiency with which we three found our harmonies. There was a mutual musical sensibility and a serious mutual respect.

  James is so fine. His exactitude with the Note is simple impeccable musicianship. Call it his refinement or the civility of intelligent life. Hear the innate dignity of James’s tribute song to Martin Luther King Jr. (“Shed a Little Light”). Some people have a hard time with the self-consciousness of perfectionism. But I think perfect is the best review.

  I hope he reads this little tribute of mine and recognizes what a great personal value his existence is to o
ne of his colleagues. And I hope he breaks into another grin from ear to ear as he feels “that’s why I’m here.”

  With James Taylor, 1997

  April 17, 1990. Sports Illustrated covers my walk. Tom Dunkel, the writer. Nebraska.

  I think of Dunkel thinking: What is Garfunkel thinking as he walks this part? Okay I think of Breughel, the painter, the elder, the sixteenth century. And Pico della Mirandola.

  NEW YORK CITY. PLAZA HOTEL.

  Sanford Greenberg came to my fiftieth birthday.

  He helped the hostess plan the ball.

  He made all the people he spoke to feel his light.

  He spoke to the group about David and

  Jonathan, honored his blindness and

  riffed on the Godfather, told all the people

  How powerfully Arthur did right.

  I, in back, abuzz, aloof, was enchanted,

  hand in pocket, leaning against the

  doorjamb. I heard myself praised for not

  discarding loyalties and moving on.

  I took the compliment.

  I let him call me angel singer

  and felt myself connected to the race;

  I kiss you for all the years of supporting me

  In truth, I bask in the embrace.

  It wasn’t Monet, it was France;

  It’s not what we say but the dance we’re in—

  Therein lies the mysterious glue

  and the printed page I paint for you.

  MAY 14, 1998. NOW I BEGIN TO WALK ACROSS EUROPE, IRELAND TO ISTANBUL.

  It’s the not exactly knowing of the way—

  the map thrown away,

  no thruway near—

  that makes the setting sun the guide

  and makes the setting come alive.

  Out of the airport, over the Shannon divide,

  I started to walk across Europe with only a prayer—

  Hold me and keep me down to the Dardanelles;

  Into that other air—carry me there.

  County Clare, fair weather in the dells

  A lover’s excursion, a lyrical Limerick song—

  A merry man sang in the very middle of May

  In Arthur’s Quay, inviting me along.

  Here I belong to the road, and I rode my way

  Through golden hills, green orchards rolling down;

  Ireland in upland atmosphere.

  And so I came to Tipperary town.

  After the rule of survival must be

  People’s passionate need to feel free.

  Now let the Walker fall into a clockwork groove.

  Fifty-three paces a minute shall be my gait.

  Every two minutes, a tenth of a mile

  I set this date: Nineteen hundred and ninety-eight.

  Let the millennium wait, and let Clonmel by

  Lead me beside the waters of Suir (SURE) so clear.

  SHEHECHEYANU, bless me, O Lord, bless my feet

  Thanks for sustaining my life and for bringing me here.

  Ever so near to Ulysses in my conceit

  He left Turkey after the Trojan fight

  Against his tide my fantasies secretly yearn—

  So I return to Byzantium tonight.

  We all know destination’s call;

  How you make your way is all.

  Identify your pleasure in the land—

  Notice the knoll, see tincture of pink in the tree;

  Queen Anne’s lace is in your face to smell

  Tell of BOREEN beauty bountifully.

  Partake of the verb “to be,” for all is well

  Even the I.R.A. can go visit their moms.

  What Guinness stirs in the breast of every dragoon

  Breath itself returns in full bloom and becalms.

  Lay down your arms, the harbor calls you soon.

  Drop your shoulder blades. What’s in a name?

  What’s Celtic, what’s Gaelic? All garlic in Irish stew—

  O Land of Yeats and Joyce and of poverty’s shame

  It’s emigration’s broke your heart

  And tore your families apart.

  With Jack Nicholson and Warren Beatty, c. 1976

  I’m on a tear with my newborn son.

  Kim is a kite.

  I have climbed the string from earth to her.

  And now we fly together.

  Margaret Ashley helps us.

  She rocks our boy in the rocker that Laurie designed.

  Faith like a feather supports my love and I.

  Clouds of good fortune, some stacked and

  heaped with silver-shaded caves, go by.

  Aloft in love in a lucky breeze.

  Although we have a baby, I haven’t changed.

  I still am in your power.

  My brilliant lights would still go out

  if you would turn away.

  A leaden heart would follow me about

  and everything I say or sing

  would be a flightless thing.

  I still desire you.

  Please be kind to the victim of your charms.

  I still need to see you

  turn to appleblossom in my arms.

  Let our cup run over.

  It wasn’t for only the sunny days

  that I promised my love to you,

  but till time and tides are through,

  my love.

  I haven’t changed. My love is true.

  I have sung for creatures all my life.

  It started with humans in fifty-one.

  People heard the bird in my throat and

  I was so happy to make the sound.

  Word of mouth was meager, but I

  heard the gift and I went with it.

  Married in the synagogue to echo and

  the minor key, I sang ancient melodies

  in the Main Street temple in Queens.

  Many years later I sang for cows.

  As I walked the country, there they were

  On a hill

  Looking at me.

  So I sang to them

  And they gathered round.

  I give them the old vibrato.

  The sound is sincere and the love of

  connection is deep.

  I belt out a beautiful “Ol’ Man River.”

  Many eyes widen.

  One creature’s cryin’

  I AM “feared o’ dyin’.”

  My life is a brimming lake,

  a lake that runneth over;

  What break in the rim?

  This is the day when flow was set in motion.

  Around what hill did contentment spill?

  THE ’90S WERE ABOUT RAISING A SON AND TOURING THE WORLD WITH A FOUR-MAN BAND. THE TWO CAME TOGETHER, IN ’97, WITH THE RELEASING OF TWO ALBUMS: MY NINTH SOLO, ACROSS AMERICA—THE CONCERT AT ELLIS ISLAND, AND THE SONY WONDER ALBUM, SONGS FROM A PARENT TO A CHILD, MY TENTH.

  Kim, Art, and Arthur Junior, 7 minutes old, 1990

  My darling son, I want you to know Music, Melody, a thing called a Song, and this thrill that I get in my throat—Singing. Your Daddy ’s work is making things—with all the beauty and care I have. I surprise myself when I make these things. I see who I am in the shape I make. It’s a silver Disc and I made it for you. Know me, my son. Love life through its gifts.

  —Daddy

  FEBRUARY 14, 1997. TO KIM,

  Because I count your love divine,

  my heart is yours and yours mine.

  And since yours is the sweetest heart,

  I call you sweetheart—

  I am your counterpart—

  and you’re my valentine.

  WALES

  Why not play with words again

  What else is there to do?

  Lean on winter’s western wind

  And let it pull me through.

  Wales across the southern shore

  Pembroke to Pendine

  To Laugharne and to Dylan’s inspired pen

  I’ll write another nine.

&n
bsp; Here in the mercy of his means am I,

  A pebble in the religious stream,

  A tribute in the deep heart’s core,

  My peripatetic dream.

  O Earth—you are too wonder-filled

  I walk the way that God has willed.

  East to England, hills unfold,

  Behind me, the Irish Sea;

  Off to my right, beyond Cornwall and Devon

  Brittany, Normandy parallel me.

  What’s in a field? What is Wales?

  Indian takeout? The Carpenter’s Arms?

  Undulation uncontrolled,

  The house-high hay of her farms.

  Under Cymru’s* leaden skies

  I forge my chain of days—

  * * *

  *  Pronounced “Cumry.”

  ENGLAND TO FRANCE

  Flying is breathing. I stand on the deck in the back of the ferry from Poole to Cherbourg. The noon sun shines on our departure. Hungry gulls again. They waft between wing beats. The glide is my model, my Plato’s Ideal. Descending notes sung in a sigh.

  Kathryn IS the month of May,

  All the days belong to her;

  Baby’s breath becomes her hair

  And everywhere the lilacs stir.

  Mother’s Day commemorates,

  But all the dates proclaim her worth:

  Renaissance of Earth named with

  The Twenty-fifth—her very birth!

  All the swollen, sap-sweet smell

  Of hill and dell are pale and dim

  Beside her fragrant exhale…

  Spring’s her trail. May IS Kim.

  PARC MONCEAU, PARIS

  APRIL 30, 1997