Thursday, October 4, 2012

Jazz Records

October 4, 2012

Last night I dreamed I was opening a record shop on E. 5th St. between A and B. It seemed like a crazy idea, but my business partner was an optimistic young woman from San Francisco and she believed we could succeed. Even more economically challenging, it was a jazz record shop.

I got very excited about writing up the dividers--those white plastic sheets that alphabetize and separate the bands--and enjoyed writing the names on the tabs with a black Magic Marker. One of the bands was called Zoot Suit Lollapalooza. I spent a lot of time getting the lettering just right.

"I can't believe I'm opening a record shop," I kept thinking to myself while I wrote on the tabs. "I'd rather open a bookstore--that would be more me--but here I am with a record shop." I was very amused with the whole thing. I also amused myself by thinking about how my fellow East Village bloggers would come in to blog about the shop, and wouldn't that be ironic, since they wouldn't know that I was me. And I figured it would be weird for me to blog about it myself, sort of like a conflict of interest.


Seaport Dream #2

I was at the old fish market building, but it was a big gold-colored stone warehouse. It was present-day and the building had been abandoned for 30-40 years. I broke in with a male friend (can't remember who he was, but he was my age) and discovered the place had been preserved all that time.

On the second floor, at the south end, was Joseph Mitchell's old office. Instead of a writer, he'd been known as a photographer. And, instead of being a nice guy, he was famous for being a big jerk (sorry, Joe!). I'd also had a long-standing affair with him. This doesn't really make sense as far as time goes because I was younger in the dream (early 20s) and he had been in his 60s when he died at least 30-40 years before (when the building was closed up).

I was feeling very sentimental as I poked around the office, looking in boxes, opening drawers and closets, sitting on the big leather couch. I remembered spending time there with JM--he wore a dark gray suit, white shirt, black tie, tan overcoat and dark felt fedora. He'd yell a lot and be angry, but he was also brilliant. I opened a cabinet and found three of his cameras. One was a dull gold color and the other two were black. Not sure what types of cameras they were, but they were big, cumbersome, and covered in dust. I looked through the lens of the gold one, pointing it out the window at the seaport. That's when I knew I was seeing the same vision of the city JM had seen, and that with that camera, any picture I took would look exactly like his. I'd discovered his "eye" so to speak.

I took the camera and my friend and I left the office and went down the stairs. When we went outside, I turned and looked back and the building and felt extremely sad because I knew that since I'd re-discovered the building, new people would, too, and they'd ruin it. So I went back in and took the remaining two cameras. That's when I found a note underneath them. The note was addressed to me and was from JM's widow. She'd known I would eventually find his things and she wanted me to have the cameras. The realization made me cry because I knew she wanted me to carry on his work. I left the office and everything else behind, but I knew I took away a treasure.


Vanishing Ray's

I walked into Ray's. There were several men in there taking things down. Ray wasn't around. A man unfamiliar to me was behind the counter. Oh, don't worry, he said, we're just closing for a few weeks for upgrades. He smiled.

I left, wondering what to do. I knew one person who could help. I went to Bob Arihood's apartment. The metallic gate covered the entryway, but the door was open. Nothing was inside his storefront apartment. Then I remembered.

--E.V. Grieve