Month: September 2019

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Climate Strike

We went to the climate-change strike on Friday the 20th. The kid and the granddog Sullivan came for the event, and Lizzy Fig went to the health spa for cats while we attended. The strike was just that, as advertised, and not at all a demonstration ala the 60-70s. Which was of course fine, their call, but quite different for me. The last time I was at a demonstration (when I got hit by a rock, but another story) we were marching across the U of Iowa campus shouting: Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today!

But today’s times are quite different, as we well know. There were quite a few speeches and only a very few chants, no marching. I was a wee bit disappointed in the format as it seemed to me that speeches about why something need be done were unnecessary. The crowd there already knew something should and must be done. Perhaps what might have been more powerful. That and more chants. Not only do I love chants, but crowds respond to chants, and a slogan is great for unification. It will come, I’m sure. At least the many gatherings across the world sent a message. Now for continued pressure and forward movements. It was at least inspiring to me with a remembrance that every little bit helps. And I’ve renewed my efforts to eliminate plastic from my life.

Town Square, downtown Cleveland

Angela in front, multi-red shirt and red pants, sunglasses

Meanwhile, at the health spa for cats, it wasn’t exactly a rapturous event.

Lizzy Fig—frozen in a corner, clutching her blanket
A photo of Lizzy Fig having fun. It’s blank because she didn’t have any.

Subsequent photos of Lizzy saying hi to me showed no movement. She was fine once I got her home, even in the car with me. She’s just too shy and timid for life out there.

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And But Then Good Grief

Really. Books moved and dropped and yet again with the fire. I set the oven on fire yesterday, as is my seeming need to start fires and it’s been quite a while. The short version: plastic item left in the oven, a preheat setting that caused melting and mess. So off we went. A whole heck of a lot of smoke, rolling like clouds, and small flames jutting through the burners on top. Inside the oven, an amazingly attractive and petite melt of strings and pearls. The photos do not due justice.

The one on the right looks like a rather nice abstract. It is quite original at least. The white puddle inside the oven looks like a large blob of white pudding.

I ended up with forms to rival that of the crayons melted in a child’s Easy-Bake Oven.

I soldier on.

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En Medias Res

Another in-between we go. I want to talk about the past week/weekend with the kid here & climate change, but cannot yet as moving forward calls for more books to be reviewed in order to empty the large bookcase. The bookcase-headboard was cleaned out and is ready for exit, and I have started on the large bookcase in the dining area. These things will make it decidedly easier for the faux-wood floor and carpeting to be installed. They are scheduled for next week. I need to review the storage and boxes in the garage also, as that is where the bookcase and headboard will go. And those of course will not be easily addressed. No doubt larger areas of disarray will follow. *sigh* *heavy-heaves of sighs*

Meanwhile again, let us contemplate those things said that make us dig deeper into the psyche as we move forward and stay in the same place, which can never be in the same place. And there is no forward or backward either, as we well know, and as all of the fellows of Being tell us. Which again, can only be known if we already know them.

P.S. I thought I heard just then the warning calls of Jacob Gator. Jake was the conure-parrot who lived with me. He would issue his warning sound and the dog(s) would go running and barking for the door. He would tease with this sound and make the dogs and me quite crazy with all of the commotion. I loved him desperately, and do still.

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San Francisco

SF with Joel, in 1997? I was living in Delaware, OH, working for Nationwide Insurance. The company was supposed to pay for my trip at a training session and I had asked Joel to come with me. It was cancelled at the last minute, so Joel and I decided to go anyway. We had a great time wandering about, exploring and taking photos. We stayed at a great little motel next to the tenderloin area.

We of course did the Beatnik tour, saw Allan Ginsberg’s apartment, as well as all of the old places: Grateful Dead apartment house, the Purple Onion, visited City Lights bookstore, and went across Jack Kerouac Alley to Vesuvio’s where we drank and ate.

The inscription on the wall reads: “when the shadow of the grasshopper falls across the trail of the field mouse on green and slimy grass as a red sun rises above the western horizon silhouetting a gaunt and tautly muscled indian warrior perched with bow and arrow cocked and aimed straight at you it’s time for another martini.”

This episode has resurfaced as I’m still cleaning and clearing which causes photos to reappear. If you look closely at the inside of the bar you will see a photo of James Joyce on the back wall.

  • City Lights
  • Inside Vesuvio’s
  • Vesuvio’s
  • Wall outside Vesuvio’s
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Musical Mumblings

Clara Schumann is rumored to have had an affair with Johannas Brahms, an idea pooh-poohed by many. Just look at the size and shape of that guy, yes? And yet, he—like many of the rest of us—looked quite different as a young man. He was said to be quite handsome and dashing as a younger. Ah yes, and a musician too. What better than the electricity of sexual attraction to someone who has everything going for him? Add to that that her husband, while a grand musician and composer, was a bit off the beam. Playing at A-flat, so to speak.

Robert Schumann did create many beautiful things, including some of my favorite piano pieces. Perhaps I’ve said this before, if so, apologies: When questioned about where the music or inspiration came from, he replied it was in his mind. He just had to write it down. The questioner said how marvelous that must be. Good God no! He replied. How would you like that *****###### in your head all the time. You can’t get rid of it!

Poor man, it did indeed drive him crazy. And then there’s the incident of the hand. Pianists like to have an octave-and-beyond reach for chords. The farther the better. Robert therefore bound his hand(s?) with his fingers stretched out while he slept in an attempt to improve his reach. In doing so he crippled them. Imagine the horror—a pianist who cannot use his hands to play properly—and at his own doing. Eventually Schumann died in a mental asylum, although he had—again, like more than one musician/composer—attempted suicide more than once.  

Rachmaninoff is reputed to have the largest hands measured with a span of a 12th… C – G’ in easy playing, not just stretching. That explains some of his chord progressions. He too, as with many musicians, went off the beam now and again, especially suffering from depression. To resume his career at one point he consulted a hypnotist who seems to have benefited his return to the concert stage.

I find it puzzling why many people ask creatives—writers, artists, composers, et.al.—where they get their ideas. Such an odd question, and one impossible to answer. Let it suffice to say it’s many things, not the least of which is craft—after the inspiration—work, work, work.

And no, not everyone who creates goes crazy or kills herself. The demons land where they must.

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Conductor Marta Gardolinska: Our jobs are similar to those of sports people’s high pressure and physical strength is needed…”