green party (part two)

As I mentioned earlier, it's springtime—which, in New York, equates to a master class of false starts and frustrations. One day, sunny and 72. The next, 42 and blowing rain.

Growing up in the South, I'm not used to such a vernal cocktease. Come March (sometimes February, even), the clouds part, the trees bloom and—boom!—it's hot until September. Not so in NYC. Last April we were still getting hit by sleet and wearing scarves. This year it's been warmer, but unpredictable.

Such fluctuations annoy the living hell out of the BF, who tends to have more mood swings than even Manhattan meteorology. Throw an unexpected temperature dip or sudden thunderstorm at him and he's ready to pack it back to Atlanta.

This weekend it rained until Sunday afternoon. The city spontaneously burst into life once the showers stopped, like the Munchkins popping out of the bushes after Glinda gives the green light. The BF and I took the chance to tool around the neighborhood some, and ended up in Washington Square Park—teeming with life, as always. There's a plan afoot to renovate the park, lose the lovely mounds and apparently even move the fountain to line up with the Arch. I'm a little sad by the prospect, though I realize that's one truth of life in the city (and everywhere, I suppose): change is constantly coming. Springtime or not, life means regeneration, breaking with the past, embracing the now.

After a long talk in the park, we headed to the Joyce to catch the Stephen Petronio Company. I'm usually no huge fan of dance—the BF loves it, with its raw emotion and abstract movement—but I prefer narrative, thanks very much. I wanted to see this particular show, "Bloom" not so much for the dance but to hear the original songs Rufus Wainwright had created for Petronio's piece.

The opening, "Bud Suite," provided movement for four older Rufus tracks, the best being "Oh What a World," with two male dancers wearing bisected business suits and clashing in a complicated ritual that I took to be an indictment of modern masculinity.

It was all warm up for "Bloom," a grandiose, sometimes stilted but overall elegant work meant to symbolize springtime and the passage from youth to adulthood. With three dozen adolescent singers from the Young People's Chorus humming in the balcony, the dancers on stage writhed out a ritual of a seed coming to life, among other passages.

I was more intrigued, of course, by Rufus's choices, and a bit disappointed to find that the "original" songs actually didn't call for new verse; instead, he crafted new music and used words from two Walt Whitman poems and one Emily Dickinson.

The Whitman pieces ("Unseen Buds," "One's Self I Sing") sounded distinctinly Italian and spiritual, like a sacred mass sung partly in Latin, perhaps, though it had a few very "Bohemian Rhapsody" flourishes. I was also reminded, oddly enough, of "School House Rock": Rufus sings Whitman! I can almost picture A.P. English students humming the song quietly to themsevles in exam rooms.

The Dickinson piece, "Hope is the Thing With Feathers," felt less polished but also somehow more exciting, sort of like a B-Side on an E.L.O. album, but with less orchestration. Between this and my earlier Queen reference, I can't help but wonder if Rufus is revisiting his '70s power vinyl; perhaps we'll hear more of this sound on the next CD?

Leaving the theater, it had started to sprinkle rain again. On the walk home, I was thinking that maybe this city doesn't need a springtime. The spirit of creativity here, of collaboration and constant exploration, seemingly knows no season.

Still, I do wish we could enjoy these blossoming works in shorts instead of scarves.