When she said she wasn’t good enough for me, it turned out she was right.
Oh, my, the things I uncovered later.
I really was so green.
Others can say the same of me.
You never know what we'll churn up in cleaning a stall
When she said she wasn’t good enough for me, it turned out she was right.
Oh, my, the things I uncovered later.
I really was so green.
Others can say the same of me.
New Englanders sometimes joke that a town name will be found repeated in five of the six states of the region. It can be confusing. You know, people moving from one place to a new one but keeping the town name.
Maine, however, has its own twist, since much of the settlement occurred after the American Revolution, especially in the early 1800s, when “singing schools” became a popular community activity. Many of these were related to church life and the spread of four-part harmony hymn singing. So what if someone else had claimed the town name you had hoped to repeat, here was a fresh source.
Today many songs in a hymnal carry a title reflecting the words, but in earlier times the name identified the music itself – many of their lyrics can be transported from one composition to other scores within a given syllable-count system anyway.
That older tradition is continued today in a style of a four-part cappella singing called Sacred Harp, reflecting the title of the hymnal of shape notes that it used. Shape notes, should you ask, are not all of the round kind you see in most musical scores. Instead, some are little flags called fa; others are little boxes called la; or diamonds called me but spelled mi; and the round notes are called so. And there are no instruments, not even harps, much less pianos or organs, in this often rowdy tradition.
So much for that arcane sidetrack. Back to the song names.
I had assumed that the composers applied them to honor where they were written or some such. “Detroit” is one that always makes me smile.
At any rate, during a sacred-harp singing session a while back, it was mentioned that some Maine towns were actually named for the tunes, rather than the other way around.
Bangor was one. Though not in the Sacred Harp collection, the tune was written in 1734, “Oh very God of very God,” and influential. The Maine city was incorporated in 1834 from what had been known as Sunbury or Kenduskeag Plantation. The name “Bangor” is said to have been taken from a Welsh tune. Voila!
Now, for ten examples drawn from the shape-note collection. The name of each tune and town is followed by its date of composition and then the first line of the text it accompanies in the Sacred Harp collection, the date of the founding of the town, and then by something about the Maine community.
There are arguments that some of the hymns were named after Maine towns. Just consider Mars Hill, 1959, or Mount Desert, 1985.
Contrary to widespread opinion, hell is air-conditioned, though prone to frequent power outages. This is crucial, according to the dream, since hades exists largely as something akin to cyberspace – that is, its endlessly interlocked and hushed interiors are covered with wall-to-wall carpeting and bathed in recessed fluorescent lighting, each room assigned to a particular array of deceased souls. There, they may be called up on large-screen, high-definition television screens, although addressing them is an experience akin to conversing with an advanced Alzheimer’s patient. Unlike most funeral homes, these room contain is little furniture and no flowers.
The experience of hell is not fire, as commonly thought, but rather that there’s nothing to do. The result is endless boredom, with only the memories of a single lifetime to reflect on. There’s no music, neither harp nor lyre, and singing never emerges from the throat. Here, insanity is not an option. Escape is impossible from the utter silence. This is solitary confinement amplified, without even periodic meals for variation. The basis of humanity is awareness. In damnation, the awareness is amplified – awareness of nothingness.
Visitors to this realm must be careful not to be separated when a power outage strikes. Do not go to the bathroom alone or attempt to double your productivity by working multiple rooms at the same time. Should two members of a family obtain an unequal knowledge of the deceased – information gleaned separately during their quest to better know the departed, but not yet shared with each other – they may be told they cannot leave hell, but must themselves join its ranks. This is, of course, a bald lie, but getting through its sales pitch is emotionally exhausting.
The power outages occur to reinforce the awareness of eternity. That is, they retain a rhythm of time within timelessness.
Dante, we should note, wrote of inferno before electricity became part of human life. Had it been, he may have placed the worst offenders in electrical chairs, with continuous executions. It’s possible that happens in the deepest recesses, contributing to the power outages. I report only on what I’ve seen, briefly. I remember nothing of our guide, other than his dark, single-color suit and highly polished shoes leading us down a set of three steps into our last room.
~*~
My, I don’t quite know now where that originated in my mind. But there it is, from some deep past.
Whatever happened to the art of witty retorts? For that matter, the cozy gathering places of sophisticated regulars in urban centers, where at least one of the participants slyly made note of the ongoings?
Does this have anyone else evoking a picture of the New Yorker crowd at their daily luncheons at Manhattan’s Algonquin Hotel, where Noel Coward, Harpo Marx, and Dorothy Parker, among others, held forth. I’m surprised to see that cartoonist James Thurber wasn’t among them, especially since he resided in the hotel, nor was Cole Porter diddling away at a piano. Well, Thurber didn’t enjoy their penchant for practical jokes.
Still, on other occasions, the Algonks delighted in charades and the “I can give you a sentence” game, which spawned Parker’s memorable sentence using the word horticulture: “You can lead a horticulture but you can’t make her think.”
I’m assuming you groaned there.
Now, let’s consider ten more caustic wisecracks from Dorothy herself:
Let’s not overlook her classic verse:
I like to have a martini,
Two at the very most.
After three I’m under the table,
after four I’m under my host.
An alternative way of knowing Christ. Not just about him – or it or they.
And definitely not just by the Book.
Who am I, really? What do I want to be remembered for?
Raccoon as a Trickster, a local Native twist.
Why be clever?
“The distance I felt came not from the country or the people; it came from within me. I was as distant from myself as a hawk from the moon.”— narrator in James Welch’s Winter in the Blood set in Montana
A viral carousel.
Quaker by degrees. Turn up the heat?
Quaker vagabonds were Dharma bums, too. The itinerant ministry proffers its own humor.
Things I learned in two years of college French? Le is pronounced luh.
As a youth, I admired crystals grown from supersaturated solutions. Deep blue copper sulfate was my favorite.
I never expected a film literature course under Harry Geduld would influence my poetry as much as my college writing class under poet Dick Allen. But it did: the clash of thesis and antithesis producing an unanticipated synthesis in reaction, especially.
When I first began reading contemporary poetry (for pleasure, independent of classroom assignment), he sensed that often the poem existed as a single line or two, with the rest of the work as window dressing. Now I read the Psalms much the same way, for the poem within the poem, or at least the nugget your or I as the psalmist is to wrestle with on this occasion. Psalm 81, for instance, has both “voice in thunder” and “honey from rock.”
I’m past the bitterness, the years – all the lost potential.
Even this far north, we’ve had our moments. Among the things to consider:
Upon graduation from college, in my social-activist period, I wondered how American society could possibly afford High Art while so many went hungry and homeless – domestically as well as internationally. Then I began to see everywhere a desire for expressiveness – in every ghetto, the ghetto-blasters and Playboy, spreads, graffiti and blues bands. To say nothing of the influence of professional sport, to which nearly every ghetto youth seems to aspire. (And more than a few others.)
So opera and museums and other “Establishment” operations came to lose their exclusivity in my vision. Extravagant expenditures in those realms are overshadowed by big-league athletics sports for similar reasons and then by military budgets across much of the globe.
See how much each person needs to reach into the realms of thought and imagination – the spirit; anything less reduces our existence to nothing more than economics, impoverishing everyone in the society.
So I noted.
By the way, Versailles still offends me.
The famed English playwright was also an esteemed music critic, though he wrote under the pseudonym Corno di Bassetto, 1888 to 1889, before moving on to a more respectable newspaper for four years. There, he signed his reviews G.B.S.
For perspective, he was an ardent advocate of Richard Wagner, which put him in opposition to Johannes Brahms.
Here are some sharp notes.