INTRODUCTION The Symbiosis of Cities. Bill Evans sees the antithesis to the rush and grit of living in a city. It's as if time and motion for him were dialed back, projected in slow-mo so you can witness each blur, each passing moment, clearly and wide-eyed. "to slow it down..." Cities stand at collision points. Where geography and history, where native cultures and pioneer righteousness, where commerce and livelihood, run/ran head-on into each other. The wreckage can be disorientating. Experienced from inside bars, cities ...
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INTRODUCTION The Symbiosis of Cities. Bill Evans sees the antithesis to the rush and grit of living in a city. It's as if time and motion for him were dialed back, projected in slow-mo so you can witness each blur, each passing moment, clearly and wide-eyed. "to slow it down..." Cities stand at collision points. Where geography and history, where native cultures and pioneer righteousness, where commerce and livelihood, run/ran head-on into each other. The wreckage can be disorientating. Experienced from inside bars, cities eventually become dark and grungy. The lounge pianist hitting chords and keys that alternately mimic/mock what's happening outside on these streets. We end up living in our own heads. "congruent with the city / and losing its context" When you choose to live in a city you choose improvisation, you choose collaboration. Communal and commiserate are common concerns. You react to what the other player lays down ahead of you, an action and reaction, a call and a response. "i sway when you sway" My nephew Jordan Edward Moss camped out along the Genesee River in Rochester, N.Y., near the shores of great Lake Ontario on ancestral lands of the Senecas of the Iroquois Nation. And I ensconced in the fort at Seattle, Wash., on the shores of Puget Sound on ancestral land of the Duwamish tribe. We are 2 poets riffing on shared titles from 2 cities on 2 shores. Responding to each other's lines with corresponding lines that complement and collide, dance like jazz musicians or slam like punks or stumble home like drunken beat poets. Stopping the rush for a moment to see what's left. -jb
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