And here we have the Modes so noted. (Yes, couldn’t resist.) However, I had never heard of them before. But I did leave music school years ago, and the refresher training a few years back. And I have never been one for the technical side of it. Looking up the definition didn’t help much. There are modes in math also, which makes sense. In the end though, I’ll leave this behind and not carry it with me. It’s enough sometimes, to know that something exists.
Posted by Analytical Grammar
Denis Johnson
Photo by Lit Hub
The obituaries for the novelist and poet Denis Johnson, who died in May at age 67, mentioned his National Book Award, his many rave reviews, his almost saintly status as “a writer’s writer’s writer.” Now he is collecting another prestigious accolade. He’ll be awarded a posthumous prize on September 2, as part of the National Book Festival in Washington. It’s the award from the Library of Congress of its annual Prize for American Fiction.
I always wonder. Does it matter to the creator of art when he receives an award after he has left this plane of existence? It might, I suppose, depending upon one’s view of the after life. I personally don’t think so. I think that any belief—or none—would grant a level of something, a something else, that would remove any earthly desires. It’s sort of the equivalent of winning a million dollars without the ability to spend it. Yet it is nice for those left behind. They get to know that their loved one mattered. That it mattered in a way that counted for him. His journey here is noted. I figure that’s good stuff.
Posted by Analytical Grammar
I cannot remember the last time I heard someone use “lain.” It’s probably one of those words that is on the chopping block for the new and revised grammar books. I have some old English language books that are fun to look at sometimes. A photo or two of those old pages might be worth a post or two in future.
When you are immersed in something, all aspects of it are a part of that whole, the whole of it that you love. In books it’s the scent of new books, the scent of old books, books to be read, books already read, stories of authors, stories of stories, manuscript pieces, marginalia. I have several moleskin notebooks. I have Blackwing pencils and a hand sharpener. I have good pens, used pens, old pens—those that perform well. And a trunk full of my own writing. All of these things, sacred.
In music it’s the same. Even the photos of music scores. I have my childhood music books and my current books. I have the flute my son used to play. I have an old manual metronome. Books about Glenn Gould. (Of course his records.) And here, above, is something I ran across on the internet, so I had to print it. I wish I had the real thing here, to hold in my hands and place on the piano stand. In the meantime, a photo will do. Isn’t it beautiful?
P.S. 1. There were more words attached; there were more posts and pages; Nothing Worked Right! Maybe later. I could not Save or Publish. But Titles to the posts published.
P.S. 2. I have no idea what the Likes were seeing.
Writers Ink—Writing and Stuff 