Making it available

I needed a dose of reality and a dose of common sense and I needed something to stave off my growing sense of panic. So before I had to finish packing the books I'm keeping, I wanted to take a little time to read Plutarch's essay on "Peace of Mind." I don't know when I'll be able to put my hands on my favorite translation of Plutarch's Selected Lives and Essays again as it soon will join the others in the locked and dark and quiet with my other books. To be seen...when?

Where best to go than a little over 1,900 years ago to seek out a little comfort and courage? After reading it again for the umpteenth time, after realizing I wouldn't have access to it for a while, after having used portions of it for too many damned funerals, after recommending it time after time to family and friends and colleagues, I had a need to bathe my fear in the cool waters of ancient wisdom.

Then it dawned on me that I could have it available, as long as there are free libraries with computers. So, although it took a lot of time, I decided to put it away where I can have access to it, no matter how destitute I might become. Very few are likely to come upon it, and even fewer will stay long enough to read it (and what a loss!), but it will be there and available for me now. I broke the essay down into three parts, as these blogs start with the latest post first, and as I needed to publish it in parts to keep myself from going bonkers with typing, and I arranged it so that the piece can be read from the beginning. Wherever I might be in the future, it has its own place in cyberspace now just waiting for me. If anyone ever stumbles across this blog (unlikely, but...) they may click on the "Peace of Mind" link and find what I have so often found there. It is a comfort, and it may keep me sane. It may.

Sad Farewell

Six cartons of beautiful books painfully packed away--to be given away. Will I find someone who will take good care of them and love them the way I have and find them to be such invaluable company and comfort? Someone who will take my long-time friends and give them a home? I will never see them again. I am overwhelmed with sadness. I am overwhelmed with grief.

This is it

Well, dear readers, this is it. I was up at 6:00am, made two job applications, and as of 9:00am, I have officially closed down my job search. I need to start seriously packing--only about a month to get it all done, find a storage facility that doesn't break my meager bank, find movers who are both inexpensive and trustworthy, and figure out where the bloody hell I'm going. Can you use a hot-plate in storage facilities? Anyway, tall orders for a small amount of time. I'll continue to post periodically--probably late at night, so don't expect a lot of creativity or coherence. Wait a minute, were either of those two present before?

I don't even know how many applications I've made. In the many hundreds I suppose. I'm too qualified or too unqualified, and in both cases probably too old. I never understood baseball statistics, and I hate sport metaphors anyway, but two hits out of many hundreds of strike-outs in four months is likely not very good. In life as well as in baseball. It's as embarrassing and depressing as it is disappointing.

One of my regrets is that I didn't get to do near as much writing as I wanted. It's ironic that when you're working you just don't have the time or the energy, and when you're out of work, you're just too busy looking for work and worrying to concentrate on being creative. Damned either way. I did make some headway on my novel, and I've sent out a few other things (like I really need more rejection!), and sans computer and sans the books I need to keep up with the accuracy of my novel, there likely won't be much writing being done in the near future either. You can weep, or you can stand way back and try to be bemused by it all. To keep what's left of my always tenuous sanity, I think I'll at least try to aim for the latter.

On the brighter side, I'm unspeakably happy that my son seems to be recovering nicely. Although he'll have to spend about another four months dealing with crutches, he's getting good therapy, he's now allowed to swim, and he has an enviable ability to stay calm and focused in spite of it all. He doesn't get the latter from me. He's also under the tender and loving care of his remarkably brilliant and beautiful paramour, and that also makes me unspeakably happy. And grateful.

Though I have but a few friends, the ones I do have are sterling, if not golden, and remarkable in their love and kindness and concern. If it comes to it I know they will see I don't starve, and would probably give me a place to curl up on a doorstep for a few days. They have had extraordinary forbearance in the face of all my wrong-headed flailings and misadventures over the years. There is/was a song by Barbra Streisand (I think) that went something like, "If there's a wrong way to do it, a right way to screw it up, nobody does it like me." Yeah. Right. She's living in an Eight-Million-Dollar house in Malibu. Why can't I screw it up like she did? I've got the nose, but not the talent. I can cross my eyes, but I can't sing.

And, I received a message yesterday that told me I was loved--even if it was likely under the influence of pain medication--I'll take it. I'll take it. Enough self-centered whining for today I think. Hello? Are you still awake? Writing in the infinite space between protons and electrons. Moving on.

Tomorrow and

As I sit here amidst the clutter and pain of packing, trying to look forward—I can’t escape looking backward as well at other shipwrecks in my life. If we are supposed to be the captains of our souls, it would seem I need a better navigator. This detritus, this stuff, the memories attached to them, rub off in my mind as I touch them, wrap them, put them away in boxes to be seen sometime again—I suppose, I hope. And then one memory unfolds into many other memories.

I have a framed and autographed picture of Peggy Lee for instance, that not only brings back the memory of my early days in Philadelphia, but the tactile moment of having it in my hands sounds against all the memories of what took place during my years there as well. It reminds me of the person who managed to obtain the picture for me—someone I loved, and someone I still love—and someone who went on to a different life. It reminds me of how hard I’ve tried to stay in touch—because we shared some happiness together in that brief span of time that no one can know anything about because they’re memories that only two people have. I would still like to be able to share them, but the one who could understand them completely, in spite of my efforts, has changed so much the memories have lost their meanings, I guess. So as I pack this one silly object away, it seems I’ll be packing away a lot of memories with it—and only my memories. It's been packed and moved many times before. While the object sits in storage somewhere, and I don’t know when I’ll see it again, maybe this time it will lose some of its power to resonate so deeply. I’m not sure I want it to. I’m not sure I don’t want it to. I’ll see what gifts tomorrow brings me.

NOW is the time

Okay, now is the time to do some major kvetching about DC traffic. It's no longer "How do you do? Isn't the weather lovely this time of year?" It's "Hi! The fucking traffic in this fucking town makes me want to fucking fling myself off the fucking parapet."

I had a meeting in Herndon, (bleaahg.) Virginia yesterday. I live about 25 miles away from Herndon, not straight as the crow flies of course because one has to take I-270 to I-495 (the infamous "Beltway" outside of which no politician has a clue) to the Dulles Toll Road. Nightmare-one after nightmare-two after nightmare-three and which makes that parapet look so achingly tempting. Twenty-five miles away. Twenty-fucking-five miles away. My appointment was at 9:30 am. I left at 6:30 am. I arrived TWENTY FIVE MILES LATER at 9:10 am. You do the math. May all the Golden Goddesses hear my anguished prayers and lift me away on singing silken wings.

Repeat: "Abandon hope all ye who enter here."

If I could get my hands on one of those warning screen/signs above the Beltway, instead of "Expect Delays Ahead. Duh." this is indeed how it would read: "Abandon hope all ye who enter here." But, "Well," you might say, "surely the cultural advantages that Our Nation's Capitol has to offer far outweigh..." And before you could finish I would say, "Yes, that's true. The cultural advantages are grand if one has money dripping out of one's ass." Or out of a lobbyist's ass. If terrorists really want to destroy this country, the best thing they could do is leave Our Nation's Capitol intact.

Sometimes I wonder.

Classic DC

The fuel on which DC runs is polls, polls, polls, polls, polls. Nobody takes a poop in DC unless the polls are favorable. This is one of my favorite stories about falling off the edge of the world into this--speaking of poop--city. It should be inserted here as I mentioned before that I am an insufferable snob. I was pleased that DC had a Classical Music radio station when I moved here. They're becoming as rare around the country as a book in Dubya's bedroom. I listened for a few weeks and started to get a little perplexed. Where was the Beethoven, the Berlioz, the Delibes, the Tchaikovsky, the Stravinsky, the Hanson, the Adams, the Ades, the Kalinnikov, the Shostakovich, the Jarnefelt, the Saint-Saens, the Pierne, the Borodin, the Gottschalk, and for the Goddesses' sake, where the Hell was Copland?

So I innocently e-mailed the program director, politely questioning the OVER USE of Johann Christian Bach (of all people) among my naive other questions. He snappingly wrote back to tell me that they only play what their listeners want to hear. They poll their listeners. There's a whole big wide world of composers out there, and a Polovetzian Dance every now and then is going to chase their listeners away?!

Esprit de l’escalier : Classical one-oh-three-point-five is not a station that loves Classical Music--they are a station that whores it out.

Sometimes I wonder.

Chicken or the egg

The God-addled among us like to say, "It's (insert unbearable whine here) Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve." OK, let's take that premise and follow it merrily down its path. If there were just Adam and Eve, where did the rest of the populace come from? Incest, obviously. Kinda gives new meaning to the Christian "Family Values" babble, doesn't it?

If Adam and Eve were the first human beings--an instance that occured only 8000 years ago or thereabouts, so they also tell us--we still had to come from somewhere. Why worry about Adam and Steve when the truly Christian thing is to bang your sister or mother, or invite little Jimmy into Mommy's boudoir. Now, with that and Darwinism out of the way, let's all go skipping mindlessly back into the Middle Ages. Bush, Delay & Rove Inc., will be happy to lead the parade, brandishing crosses, waving flags, blaring trumpets, and take us to the gates of Hell where we properly belong, turn their limo around and the Blessed Trinity will be driven back to their expensive digs at Congress and the White House.

Sometimes I wonder.

Books Books Books

I was going to go on a rant about D.C. traffic this morning. But then I thought: WHY BOTHER? So the pricey narrow little streets of Georgetown have pricey little Hummers rambling about (with no mountains--or wilderness for that matter--that I can see), so what? Big asses and big egos need that sort of thing I suppose. Don't think I live there, please. While dripping with cash, Georgetownites are a sleazy bunch. Just to give you an idea of the mindset of these all-too-bewildering creatures, the publisher of a "nonprofit" environmental Press drives his SUV maybe three miles to work. D.C. Sometimes I wonder.

I wish I could say the book packing was going on apace, but I keep stopping to read what I should be packing. And the winnowing is not an easy task. Do I keep the paperback edition of Moby Dick just because I used it in my college course: The American Novel? I have a hardcover edition, should I remain sentimentally attached to the paperback? Finally I decided "no." But it took me an hour to make that decision. Good grief. Literally. And of course, again, I'm using this as an excuse for not getting back to the winnowing at hand. Later, Dear Reader, we'll discuss the provincial reviewing of books in connection with D.C. as well as New York City--especially NYC--not to mention all the other lit-biz outlets, save one*, and their disturbing neglect of fine books, and why we find ourselves wallowing in this abysmal state. The boxes are calling. Must run.

*The Bloomsbury Review

Which just goes to show

I have an embarrasing confession to make. My star-lit son sent me a tape of some of the music he wanted me to hear, a number of years ago. So on my way to the work-out room I picked up the tape, and thought I would listen to it. If I didn't like it, I'll only be out about an hours worth of listening time--and what's that? It should be inserted here that I am an insufferable snob. All his life I've been force-feeding my son classical music. Which I think everyone should learn about, and that it's important to understand the difference between a concerto and a cadenza. And my son does, and appreciates it. He knows the difference between Bach, Delibes, and Tchaikovsky (whose picture is hovering at the top right of this page)--but I made the mistake of thinking he couldn't introduce to me to any modern music. Listen, my son is brilliant, charming, intelligent, creative, and has excellent taste. Why on earth didn't I trust him in this matter?

At any rate, it proves, it just goes to show, that even old farts like me can learn something--could learn a lot of somethings if I would just "crawl out of my head" and listen to him--and listen to his music. The tape, by people I've never heard of, is some wonderful music.

That explains why Oscar Wilde said, "You should always surround yourself with younger people--you can learn so much from them." Opening your mind is as good as throwing open the window, feeling the sweeping cool wind, and looking over an alien landscape. And I apologize to my star-lit son for not trusting his taste in music.

Sometimes I wonder.

"No [one] is an ISLAND"

My apologies to Donne, but this is the 21st Century, after all. We can no longer justify using sexist language. As Auden liked to say: "This will not "DO!" I'm sure in any case that were Donne here now, he certainly would have written "No one is an island." 'Nuff said.

Of course anyone who knows me well will know what I mean by the capitalization above. And it's a too long and crashingly boring story. Suffice it to say that the past few months have been crashingly shitty.

I will be leaving the DC area soon (and it can't be too soon for me!). After losing my younger brother, after having to see my son undergo some major surgery, after losing my job (not my fault, I might add), it's my chance to get out of here and go back to what's left of my family--both my mother and younger sister died years ago--my sister a few months short of her 30th birthday, and now my brother who just turned 50; after all that shit, I have this wonderful opportunity to leave behind the indignity and incivility that is Our Nation's Capitol. Dear readers, do whatever you can to see that you never have to move here. Trust me.

I'm simply writing today because I'm trying to do things that will keep me from doing the task that faces me: having to go through a thirty-year accumulation of books. I suppose it is time to winnow. There's no way I would actually read a number of them again. The good stuff will go with me--like my Belknap-Harvard The Manuscript Books of Emily Dickinson, and a lot of the poetry, my E. Dickinson books, My Tchaikovsky books, my Alexander the Great books, my Shakespeare, my reference books and the classics. Most of what will go will be contemporary fiction, and some crappy poetry and collections, like the big, fat, 1200 page collection From the Other Side of the Century: A New American Poetry 1960 - 1990, which bears an awful stink. If any of those contained therein are considered good, then we may as well in turn consider civilization dead and throw a wake.

Mr. cat needs to be fed. Talk amongst yourselves until I get back.

Ground Rules

If anyone falls down the rabbit hole and finds me here, you shouldn't be here if you don't know who Howard Hanson is--or Hermoine Gingold. If you don't even know who Mama Cass was, you definitely don't want to be here either because we'll never get along. It would be hopeless, you see, and you should move on.

Otherwise, dear reader, you are welcome here. I'll ring for tea, and we'll have a little chat about shoes and ships and sealing wax and cabbages and kings; and why the sea is boiling hot and whether pigs have wings. And that stupid fascist in the White House.

Dorothy Parker was right.

FRUSTRATION

If I had a shiny gun,
I could have a world of fun
Speeding bullets through the brains
Of the folk who give me pains;

Or had I some poison gas,
I could make the moments pass
Bumping off a number of
People whom I do not love.

But I have no lethal weapon--
Thus does Fate our pleasure step on!
So they still are quick and well
Who should be, by rights, in hell.

--Dorothy Parker