Since 2009, I have been writing a sectional autobiography from the years 1991 to whenever I finish the 14th chapter.
MY TRAVELS WITH EINSTEIN
Authored by
Sieur David Foxdove (my nom de plume)
25.07.2009
Copyright 2009 All rights reserved. Dr. David Deak, Sr.
Memoirs of a physicist and artist traveling through space-time on a Mobius Strip tread mill.
This book meanders through space-time, with pulses and echoes all contributing to a wonderful journey; taking its author in and out of preconceived attitudes, platitudes, theories, and dogma. It travels through a black hole of intellectual discourse and blind faith. All this leading to a white hole of new understanding in search for the meaning of the universe; pristine and intrinsic as it was impulsed to be.
The resonance of time is perfection……………Sieur David Foxdove.
The title of “MY TRAVELS WITH EINSTEIN,” refers to my beloved Bichon dog and trusty companion named “Mr. Einstein.”
My Mr. Einstein was a small being, but giant in personality that has brought so much joy and happiness to my life in flux. As a physicist I named him that, because since my early childhood I was caught up in the persona and physics of Albert Einstein. In addition, I wasn’t allowed any pets as a child due to our economic conditions after WWII; and my father forbade dogs, cats, or any pets. Any dog I did acquire, I usually had to give up. I therefore stopped wanting pets for fear of losing them. Not until I was in my fifties did I get a dog, the best dog ever……my Einstein. He in fact was rescued from someone that abused him as a puppy, so that clinched the bond and love I had for that little mate of mine. My Mr. Einstein was and will always be my hero, for he was so brave in the end.
Now with the new Mr. Einstein the II, I think there is no difference in love and devotion I have for him as well.
The space-time frame for this book begins in 1991 when I first came to New York. That was before I met Mr. Einstein. I met and joined the company of Mr. Einstein in November of 1995; he was eight weeks old then. I must add that in 2008 on 16 May Mr. Einstein passed away in Genoa Italy at 9:00 PM local time, much to my sadness for I loved him so. After several months of being depressed over Einstein’s death, I decided to seek another Bichon companion and so in July 2008, I met Mr. Einstein the II where he lived in Campobello, South Carolina on a kennel farm. It was as though the original Einstein had been resurrected. He looks the same and has
certain personality traits that makes me think he is the original little cookie that I loved so much.
Ergo, the latter part of this book refers to the exciting times with Mr. Einstein the II and what the future possibly holds for us. This travel includes places in the USA, Canada, UK, and the EU during said journey in space-time. The time travel is not linear nor is it in sequence. Rather it is mind travel, where there is no present, past, or future; only an accumulation of sensory signals stored as in capacitors of little deterioration due to little or no influence of exterior impedance.
Now I assure the readers this book is in no way what you might think it to be, for it truly is an adventure, mostly non-fiction in general content, and sometimes unbelievable in detail, but the facts remain as the foundation for this written journey. All characters in this treatise are of names either belonging or not, to the original people so as to let egos go.
To quote the late physicist Albert Einstein: “I think not of the future for it comes soon enough.”
Cheers,
Sieur David Foxdove…………author, physicist, inventor, artist, and wordsmith.
AN EXCERPT OF CHAPTER ONE.
Chapter I
Node Point; Zeroth Dimension: The Start of Art.
That node, that point, that intrinsic reference, or emergence into the other dimensions of existence from the zeroth dimension, remains as my beginning; unique in the universe against all other nodes that come into being. Conditions set, with pseudo-random variables of energy and space-time, placed me at the door of birth in a little section of the blue orb called Bethnal Green, East London. What caused the entry point of my reality remains unimportant in the behavior of the universe. It just happened as part of the dynamics of energy transformation; a rather exciting continuum of space-time. Speed up in time from my 1942 birth in a war torn world. Me a
troubled and curious child emerging into adulthood nothing special other than pulses of questioning existence, and any other topic crossing my cerebrum. I omit the post WWII years for they have been told by others and better as well. For I seek no pity relating to my childhood, it was what it was. I loved art, physics, mathematics, ham radio, inventing, fishing, playing drums, and girls. Then of course, as I grew older there were women. All beautiful beings these women are, lending credence to the purpose of the zeroth dimension entry points into those multidimensional shapes of desire. If I am rambling, then good it is. In fact it was a beautiful young and gorgeous woman I had met in London that brought me to Copenhagen in 1965 to visit, and that caused me to live there and to gain Ph.D. status in physics at Copenhagen University and then a post doc thesis. I declined a position at my alma mater of Imperial College London to go find her and then observed myself falling in love with her younger sister that caused the rest of my stay in wonderful Copenhagen to be testy at best. My advisor, friend, and
colleague Prof. Peter Molested, urged me to forget the girl and carry on physics and I did so. Peter was a great friend and I lived with him and his wife whilst there. There were many zany times we had in Copenhagen, going pub crawling and arguing about science and politics with others that crossed our paths. I remember that on one occasion, when we were in a restaurant, there was this drunken old and fat German bloke that kept boasting to people – around him -
about Nazism and how Hitler was a great man. Now the Danes in general, are really sensitive about the takeover of their country by the Germans during WWII. Peter went off on a tangent,
I’ve never seen him that angry, and he started to verbally tear into that Nazi loving bastard. I thought he would punch his lights out. I also saw this coming since Peter was a WWII war hero and a member of the Holger Danske (Danish) Resistance Group during the war. He killed many Germans, as was told to me by others that knew him and as a matter of Danish public record. In fact he was part of the Holger Danske Group that had Bent Faurschou-Hviid (known as Flame) and Jørgen Haagen Schmith (known as Citron), who both died during the war.
One of our favourite spots that served a special offering to grad students and others, which was wine and pomme frits; was a favourite place we visited often. The place is still in existence till
this day, near the old university, it’s called Det Lille Apotek. This is the oldest restaurant in the city, more than 200 years old. This was formerly a pharmacy, and this restaurant used to be the
favoured dining and drinking place of many of the renowned Danish poets, such as H. C. Andersen. The management tries to keep the atmosphere from 200 years back, and there are real Danish foods on the menu.
In December of 2005 my son and I traveled to Copenhagen on a business trip and stayed a week. I showed him my old digs in the central section of the city known as Gammel Kobenhavn in Danish, or the old part of the city close to the university. My address at #22 Rorholmsgade, Gammel Kobenhavn, a flat in a building that used to be predominately used for grad student housing. Now it’s a prestigious and expensive condo as all of the other renovated buildings along the street are. It also houses many art galleries and boutiques. I hardly recognized the place. It is strange for me to think about how my interest in art was not in sync with that street’s meaning now, when I lived there. I was in fact ahead of what was to be. This condition of being a day early/late or a pound off/on, has plagued me all through my life, and no doubt rewards me with
the most provocative of life’s experiences. So perhaps I am more fortunate than thought to be.
My love of doing art and art itself, I think, caused me to set out in 1992 and come to New York City to live and work as an artist. I further suggested to myself that I would forget physics and
become an artist at the ripe age of 50 years young. So it was that I came to see if I too could be the next Warhol, Lichtenstein, Jasper Johns, or Rauschenberg. Little did I realize that the NYC POP art movement, epicenter, energy and money began dimming after the economic fall of the late ‘80s? Steaming full ahead, I jumped into the art scene of NYC. My first visit was during Xmas of 1991 when I stayed for a week in the Washington Square Hotel and ventured into the SoHo District to visit galleries and proceed with window shopping.
On the morning of Xmas Day 1991, I awoke and prepared myself for an exciting Xmas Day in Manhattan. At the front desk, when I inquired about a good place to go for breakfast, the chap at the front desk informed me that the hotel had just opened a new restaurant on premises and this was the first day of the opening. So I was able to have breakfast there. As I entered the restaurant that beamed with newness and smells of bacon, eggs, and cinnamon biscuits with,
coffee so fresh that it caused my stomach to send signals of extreme hunger for those staples of delight. I was given the suggestion to sit where I liked by a waiter, and so chose to breakfast in a corner table. Whilst adjusting my chair for complete comfort, I looked up to gaze upon an iridescent glow coming from across my setting. The day was mixed with sun and clouds and somewhat tepid for temperature in December as well. As a burst of sunlight came piercing
through a window most clear, it struck upon a vision; that iridescent glow, a beautiful strawberry blonde, a gorgeous young lady in a long blue feathered coat. As the sunlight struck her, I thought how fortunate that very light be for the action. My immediate thoughts of recognizing her presence caused pulses of embarrassment for me, then several bursts of insecure feelings, teetering whether I should look up again or bury me head in the menu, which was only a one
page deal. Not conducive to disguising oneself, I fiddled with the sugar and cream, none of which I used in my tea, then decided to read the menu again in case I forgot to remember whether I should have eggs with bacon or bangers. Oh the hell with it all, I chose to look straight at her glowing face. She smiled and I of course melted back into my chair hoping that I would be able to move or eat at all. I was bloody hypnotized to say the least, almost to the point of my
forgetting that I had to urinate immediately, but what if I got up and tinkled in me knickers I thought. I say my word, a grown man afraid of a beautiful woman; how odd. In my case how normal, I pondered. Now I had to pass her on the way to the loo, and there it was as I
passed; that smile and she actually said hello with what appeared to be a Scandinavian accent with her English spoken words. In the loo, and I might add some of my most important decisions in life have been made in the loo, I decided to say hello as I reentered the café section of the restaurant. Not only did I do that, but I actually asked her for her name and if she was a guest at hotel. She told me her name, long forgotten of course, and indeed she was guest at hotel. A holiday of her dreams brought her to Manhattan for the Xmas season, and she traveled from her home in Stockholm Sweden. So excited was I that I forgot my nervousness and bobbed right into
conversation. She asked if I would join her for breakfast and so we had a chatty, but cold breakfast due to the heightened intensity of sharing personal likes and dislikes on life and things most general. I suppose that at the zenith of our breakfast, we heard an extremely loud and annoying alarm, which pierced our inner ears to the point of commanding pain. The fire alarm went off and there was a wave of smoke propagating out of the kitchen in the café. So intense and immediate was its’ bellowing and choking presence, that we had little time to rush out of the hotel building. I latched her arm and pulled her, with me, out as fast as I could; then found ourselves on the street viewing flames coming out of the windows of the newly opened restaurant. “My coat” she screamed, “I left it in the café.” Well guess who dashed back in the café to secure same, why of course me; hoping for score points from her in my favour. Not one
day would pass before the restaurant would be a disaster not to open again for a year or more. The fire brigade was there within minutes of the alarm sounding off and they did minimize fire damage and eventually put the fire out. Alas, all this before noon on my first several days in New York. However meeting my Swedish beauty was a fait accompli. After that we departed company and went our ways for the day’s activities. I did ask her to dinner and she announced, with that beautiful smile, she would ring me up in my room after resting; and inform me of a dinner time arrangement.
That late afternoon, after a visit to Central Park, I returned to my hotel room to nod off for a few ticks. Coming out of a dream state awakened by the hotel phone, shocked me like a Tesla Coil turned full on. It was the Svenska beauty and we were to meet in lobby for dining at a small French Style restaurant in the Greenwich Village section of Manhattan at half seven. Wow I thought this was very romantic and exciting in content. That evening we walked to the
restaurant, no fire in this one, and dined with delight, chatted, and had a glorious time. Now when we finished, we both walked back to the hotel, and she told me she was leaving the next day for a side trip to visit friends in Boston, I bid her good night and never saw her again. I wonder where she is if she still exists. My only regret is that I just kissed her once.
New York, a new way of life.
My goal of course with this initial visit to NYC was to find a place to live and work in Manhattan. A few days after Xmas, I got in touch with an estate agent for assistance with finding a flat. After several dozen places and my being tired from it all, it was like looking for a bloody job to me, he finally showed me a flat/loft that was designated for a live/work situation. This Jamaican bloke found me a fantastic flat/loft in Little Italy on Broome Street near the Bowery. I
took it because it was lovely and within my budget. 1,800 sq ft of loft space for live/work with 20 feet high ceilings, is used to be an ice house. I was told that a lot of Mafia killings either took place there or some of the bodies once were stored there. “It made no never mind to me” I fancied…………….I took it as fast as I was approved to live there. So on Broome Street was where I would become a famous artist I thought. My conclusion is that we don’t always know where in hell we are going even when we think we are going there. If you catch me drift. It’s akin to saying me brother was an only child. I really had such great and stimulating times there in that flat of flats. The most interesting feature of the place was the 15 ft square window that gave a view of a red brick wall of the adjoining building. It was on the 4th floor and one down from the roof, where I would go at times to think and meditate. It was on that very roof that I saw my first ever solar eclipse in 1994 on 10 May, a day after my birthday. It was 88% totality. I would not see another until 11 August 1999, whilst I was living in Odessa, Ukraine. That one was 93% of totality and remains as one of the shortest 2 min. and 21 sec of my life. I hope to see another before I escape this space-time continuum.
My life as an artist in Manhattan was, at first quite exciting and profitable. In fact upon that first visit to NYC during Xmas 1991, I went down into the SoHo district to visit art galleries there, when they were at their peak during the early and mid 90s. It was on Green Street that I found a gallery that looked rather interesting and friendly. Friendly to say the least, not like most of the art galleries where underfed grey looking female fashion model wannabes or rejects look like the chief assistant to a funeral director peek at you just at eye level. Peering off those WWII Nazi like fortified barrier emplacements, that they call curator booths or enclaves. What a bunch of phonies. They all look like they needed a good meal and a stylist. I entered this gallery and addressed a young man with pre-mature graying hair and asked if the curator would view any of my slides or photos the work I do. He said that he was the curator and owner and he would be willing to look at me work. I nervously, but firmly told him that I had some in my hotel room
and would bring them by if that was permissible. He agreed to that and stated that there was no hurry to bring them by. I immediately thought about dashing out the door and running back to the hotel, but I said I would do so soon. Then as fast as I could muster, I dashed out the door and ran all the way back to hotel and stormed my room in search of the slides and photos. Tearing into my still mostly packed luggage, I produced the items of search and sat on
the bed for a few ticks trying to compose this lad; me. Blimey, hell, bloody hell in fact; I did run back to that gallery and almost knocked a few people along the way, quite normal for New Yorkers to experience I would later discover to my delight. This lad looked at the slides and photos, and said that he actually liked my work.
He said, “So where are you from, London?” I said, “Yes and I am here to find a place to live and work relating to my art.”
“OK” said he, “The next time you are in NYC perhaps if you could bring some work, I will try to sell the work for you and take a 50% commission.” His thought were that he could promote me to some recognition in New York City, the timing was right, since his gallery was relatively new and he was looking to increase his stable of artists on board. Before I could leave, he remarked: “Your work does have a style and seems unique enough, where did you study art?”
I told him I was self taught and by training I was a theoretical physicist.
“Now that’s not only interesting, but it will be a great advantage to you since most artists usually fall short too often with technical matters, even though they think they know the technical side of
art,” he said as he laughed with a twinkle in his eye that read as dollar signs to me. I could see a bit of Ebenezer Scrooge in his character I thought. Good news! No great news for me I thought. I
actually had some work I brought with me and plotted to go back to the hotel and test his sincerity, but the day was late around 6 PM and he was closing for the day. The next day Sunday he would be closed and Monday as well: Ergo, I had to wait until Tuesday but I would bring them by then was my order of the day. Blimey, I had no idea what to ask for the works. None the less I would leave it up to him to make the first offer, and I had a few days to consider what I
would settle for as a fair price for all concerned. A selling price no doubt, within reason of course was my thinking.
