Vampire

instead of sleeping late as planned, awoke about 8, brewed coffee, stared at the penicillin growing inside my refrigerator, and returned to bed, hoping to figure out what to do the rest of the day eventually showered but went back to the prostrate meditation then launched into one of those days of starting on one pile, jumping to something else, jumping to something else, then realizing I’d done nothing with the first pile or my routines so I finally escaped down along the river to check on ripples and wildlife, at least anything that’s moving besides traffic

Cutting to the core about Wagner

Is the German Romantic opera composer the biggest successful egotist in the history of art? (He couldn’t even compose an effective symphony, yet look, he couldn’t trust anyone else with a libretto, either.)

He was definitely stuck in a Madonna/whore complex regarding women and, more specifically, women within further Roman Catholic entanglements like relics and grails and a sword or spear or two. Where was Freud? Talk about symbolism? It all gets pretty lurid, even before we get to the serious limitations regarding his immortals. I wouldn’t call them gods, exactly, but rather something more like today’s tainted celebrities and political hopefuls. What losers! So badly dressed, at that.

He definitely wouldn’t have gone for today’s fashion supermodels, either. Everything in his world is hefty, leading to some of the most sumptuous music ever. Seems nobody ever asked how he really felt about his mother. Give me some more sumptuous scoring, please.

And yes, he goes way over the top, including the seemingly endlessly boring stretches of boredom.

As Mark Twain said, he’s not nearly as bad as he sounds.

Not that he can apparently help it.

But then, as critic Alex Ross has elaborated, he’s also the foundation of Hollywood, from the plots and scenery all the way up. Think of the thousands involved in each movie and then the music.

For years now, I’ve been explaining opera as the movies of their time. Turns out to be more accurate than I imagined.

Tootsie, Lena

it’s autumn when the nine-volt battery for my clock radio keeps time in a power outage so the alarm will go off when it’s supposed to rather than umpteen hours later died in the tropical heat wave during my absence and the warning light kept driving me nuts so I walked to the corner grocery for a replacement and on the trek home stopped at the farm market and picked up a quart of fresh cider full of Vitamin C (how rational!) overlooking the windy interplay of sunlight and clouds just down the street of shape notes with the earlier version of “Morning Star” lyrics

 

Father and son, mostly

while strolling crushed-shell pathways and boardwalks in an indigenous archive of Florida, the elder child of the eldest child from Ohio returns to an aviary with its two injured bald eagles and several owls and large hawks before all this hovering, the anticipation, the tentative rediscovery of some way of pleasing each other, the way sons do, step by step, in feathered conversation with an occasional flight, mostly

We don’t see love but what love does

I mean, focusing on material goods!  very atypical for us, you and me, not philosophy or fine arts or even dramatic late fall weather we’re having we really show ourselves at our crassest but as long as I’m being confessional, let’s continue in the vein: last week, at our Guild meeting, we voted to accept the company’s latest final offer for our new contract, which means I’ll be getting a big retro check covering the wage difference from Jan. 1 till now

 

Learning from our mistakes

after you shoot the breeze on this end “uneventful normalcy” translates swamped by workplace, Meeting, girlfriend, call for jury duty to be gratefully dismissed in a round of flu while attempting to reverse a progressive financial tailspin in the ever-frustrated desire to hike more or read even cook like a genius or sit outside in sunlight still, I’ve had lobster for breakfast the hour most people have lunch, such a life, indeed

 

God doesn’t live on the top floor

the verdict, about time, no more dry and warm she who had been urging me to attend to be together again instead gave me the brush off with no explanation (and still none) but another led into the time and place of a heavy collision, no, things weren’t collecting dust on a shelf or even a one-night stand, these rejections add up without candlelight, fancy linen, or the wine and here it’s gone forecasting brutal winter and not much in the way of mountaineering

From a list of books read

Lawrence Durrell’s “Justine.” Henry Miller’s “Nexus”; Gabriel Garcia Marquez’ “In Evil Hour”; Jack Kerouac’s “Desolation Angels”; Kurt Vonnegut’s “Deadeye Dick” and “Galapagos”; Richard Brautigan’s “So the Wind Won’t Blow It All Away”; Carol Rakoski’s “Ere-Voice”; Anne Tyler’s “Accidental Traveler” and “Earthly Possessions”; Hugh Nissenson’s “The Tree of Life” (interesting use of pioneer Ohio historical materials); Grace Paley’s “Later the Same Day” short stories; Italo Calvino’s “If on a Winter Night a Traveler” (this time, rather fascinating seems I’m finally able to read styles quite unlike my own part of that cleaning out I’m in); William Kennedy’s “Ironweed”; Laurence Sterne’s “Tristram Shandy”; Ray Bradbury’s “Dandelion Wine”; Hugh Prather’s “Notes to Myself” (late Sixties classic that seems so superficial these days); Marilyn French’s “The Women’s Room” (blames men for every problem, including mothers); Nena and George O’Neill’s “Open Marriage” (my wife had wanted me to be influenced by this what I see is that we HAD an open marriage, which is why it failed); Merle Shain’s “Some Men Are More Perfect Than Others” (more blame, this time from an upscale pre-Yuppie bubblehead); Paul Wellman’s “The Indian Wars of the West” (one of my ex’s left-behinds); “The Solution as Part of the Problem” (superficial Sixties Leftist education propaganda); Saul Alinsky’s “Rules for Radicals” what else?