Ghosts I've Sought

     "Antique-ing" was a passion of mine back in the days when I could afford it. Even then, I could indulge only in the most modest way. Unfortunately, most of the things I wanted to collect had the potential of becoming too expensive—Bakelite jewelry, literary first editions, pre-twentieth century dip pens and inkwells—so I reluctantly had to leave many desirable items in the shops and just visit them from time to time, fondle them briefly, and walk away from them disconsolate.

     Just across the street from my last apartment in Houston, there was a small antique mall, one of those cozy, cramped, but relatively clean havens relished by nostalgia lovers like me. I would go there weekly, usually coming away empty-handed, sometimes bringing home a vintage fountain pen or some unopened jars of Skrip ink from the 1940's. One day, while rummaging through some handwritten letters and old postcards, I came across a little diary from the '30s, written by a teenager named Mary Edith More. It wasn't a comprehensive, detailed journal; only one of those day-a-page affairs that allow the diarist just enough space to record events in the most perfunctory manner. Still, browsing through a few entries, I found myself being charmed by Mary's brief accounts of her acquisition of a new dress and the latest film showing at her neighborhood cinema. Paraphrase: "Went to see Stand Up and Cheer. There was the cutest little girl that sang and danced. She was adorable!" Shirley Temple, of course.

     I found a few more day-a-page diaries of Mary's and decided to purchase them. Why? Firstly, they afforded me a firsthand look into everyday life in the 1930's; secondly—and this was crucial for me—I thought of how I would feel if my journals wound up in an antique shop, possibly never to be bought and read, or, worse still, if they were left to dust and worms in some trash heap. I felt a pang for poor Mary More and wanted to rescue the words she had taken such pains to write.

     When I took the diaries to the register I asked the clerk if he knew where they came from. It turned out that the clerk was also the man who purchased the diaries at a family estate sale. Apparently, when Mary's widower remarried, he and their son decided to sell all of Mary's personal property, which included, besides her diaries, the whole of her personal correspondence. I've no idea why they wanted to rid themselves of her effects, but I felt compelled to rescue them. At eight dollars per diary, this was one life on paper I could afford to save. So I bought all the diaries that day and had the clerk hold her correspondence for me until my next paycheck.

    Over the next few days, I got to know Mary Edith More from upstate New York. I was introduced to her friends, her brother, and her parents. I learned that, like most teenagers, she was obsessed with clothes and recorded each new purchase with typical adolescent rapture. I went with her to the cinema to see the latest Fred and Ginger film. I shed a tear when her father died. Unfortunately, I also learned that she was a terrible snob, judging from several derogatory remarks she made about Irish immigrants.

     When I brought home her correspondence, I discovered among it all the courtship letters exchanged between her and her future husband Bron, so I got to know him as well. If I remember correctly (it's been some years since I read the letters), Bron worked for a rubber plant during the war (his and Mary's reactions to Pearl Harbor were particularly poignant); after he and Mary wed, they moved to Houston where Bron worked for a petroleum company. Throughout their courtship, he wrote Mary many letters, two a day, almost daily; in reading them, I found out that he was a sensitive man, very patient and devoted—and, in my opinion, too good for Mary! He treated her much better than she him—and wrote more often, as well. In fact, Mary came across as quite a little snit. I liked her best friend Eleanor Bianco much better; her letters, and the letters of Mary's other friends, were highly entertaining and well written, unlike Mary's.

     Although I was somewhat disappointed that Mary wasn't a better writer or a more likable person (at least on paper), I was still so very glad that I got the chance to know her and her circle. When I entered the monastery, which was not long after I "met" Mary, I unhappily had to leave all her papers behind. I did not throw them out or sell them, but left them in my apartment for the next tenant, whom I knew and who had asked to take over my lease. She enjoyed the diaries and letters, too.

     Mary, I'm glad I rescued you from the antique shop! I'm sorry your husband and son discarded what was part of their own history. I toyed with the idea of getting in touch with them and giving them another chance to keep your things; but I thought, perhaps they have deeply personal reasons for selling them off in the first place. I only hope my own journals and letters have a better fate.

The Crane Brothers & Me in P. E. Hell

     I freely admit that I am addicted to Frasier. I have all eleven seasons on DVD, and watch them over and over. Everyone who's watched the show knows it is brilliantly written and acted, but most likely my addiction is based on the many things I have in common with the characters of Frasier and Niles (Niles is my hero): love of the arts, particularly opera, love of fine food (unfortunately, I can't drink, so I can't share their love of wine), love of language and literature; last, but certainly not least, their early ineptitude at sports and athletics. Niles, of course, took fencing in prep school, then as an adult got into kickboxing; and both he and Frasier eventually became squash enthusiasts. But all through school, they were among those unfortunate students who were humiliated in gym class.
     One of my favorite episodes is from season 10, called "Trophy Girlfriend," in which Frasier dates an attractive P. E. teacher (played by Jeanne Tripplehorn). He visits her at her school and watches her (unwittingly) humiliate an overweight young girl by holding the entire class after the dismissal bell while the poor girl tries in vain to climb up a rope. This triggers a flood of unpleasant memories in Frasier, which temporarily cripples his relationship with the P. E. teacher. He eventually tells her that her treatment of that student could possibly scar the girl for life, as his own experience has scarred him.
     Oh, how I felt for both Frasier and that young girl when I first saw that episode! My own memories of P. E. hell came rushing back, along with the old resentment at being made to feel inadequate and indeed abnormal because I couldn't climb a rope or do more than a few pull-ups. Fortunately, I also have a vivid memory of the one time I was avenged by a kind God against my middle school gym teacher, whom I'll simply call Ms. O. One day, I can't remember why, probably because I couldn't accomplish whatever physical feat she had us do, she ordered me to run extra laps till the end of class. It was exceptionally hot that day, and I wasn't feeling well to begin with, but I of course obeyed and ran round the track until her shrill whistle called us all in to shower. I staggered into the shower room, sat down, and my face must have been a ghastly shade of green, because one of my classmates ran to get Ms. O, telling her I was sick. Ms. O approached me where I sat on the bench, but before she could say a word, I baptized her snowy white tennis shoes with the manifestation of my infirmity. Needless to say, that was the last time she made me run extra laps.
     My biggest nemesis, though, was my high school gym teacher, Ms. S. How she loved to mock my reluctance to take part in sports that could possibly injure my hands! Being a pianist, my hands were the most important part of my body, and I was understandably loath to expose them to possible peril. I participated as much as I could, however, but even those efforts were more often than not rewarded with snide remarks from Ms. S. And it didn't help that, even when I did try, the results were less than stellar. I just wasn't athletic, and she couldn't accept or acknowledge that with any kind of sympathy. Finally, I got heartily sick of it all and started skipping P. E. altogether—which is one of the reasons I never graduated high school.
     Oh, well. There is more to life than P. E., though I had to wait many years before I could screw up the nerve even to join an aerobics class—and by the way, I was great at aerobics. I can look back on my confrontations with the Misses O. and S., laugh at some, cringe at others; either way, I'm thankful that's all in the past. Scars can heal. Slowly but surely.

My Visit to Lucca, Part Four

     7 July 1997.   What a frustrating morning this was! There are times when I simply need to speak English because I don't know how to say what I want to say in Italian; and there are times when I need to have things explained to me in English. This morning we were studying passato remoto, called a "literary" tense, because it's used more in written Italian than in spoken. Delia asked me a question which I was supposed to answer using passato remoto -- but while I was pausing to think, she answered the question for me! And it wasn't even the answer I wanted to give. She does that a lot. So I tried to tell her, "That wasn't what I wanted to say," but the Italian wouldn't come to me in my frustration. As I struggled to think of the words, she kept saying, "E' difficile; passato remoto è molto difficile, e non è usato tanto nella lingua parlata." ("Passato remoto is very difficult and not used much in spoken language.") Finally, the words came to me: "Non è quello che volevo dire!" ("That isn't what I wanted to say.") Then she'd ask another question; for example, "Cosa faresti quando andasti a Londra?" ("What did you do when you went to London?") Well -- first of all, I have to think of something to say; then I have to think of how to say it in passato remoto. But while I'm still thinking of what to say in the first place, she supplies an answer for me. What the hell did I do in London? She didn't even give me chance to come up with that, much less how to say it in Italian, still less how to say it in damn passato remoto! I got more and more frustrated, so finally I just gave up and let her talk away.

     9 July 1997.   Finally this week the weather is what I had expected it to be -- clear and warm. Glorious. But the nights are cool. It's strange -- yesterday it reached 100F in the afernoon, but it stayed cool inside the house, even though there's no air conditioning. How I adore this sun! It's so much drier than Houston; you don't sweat nearly as much, and the breeze from the hills is very refreshing.
     I wonder why all the houses here have green shutters? Also, the window blinds are green, and the net curtains they hang outside the kitchen doors to keep flies out. Even in Pisa and Siena and Lucca, the shutters are all green.
     It's very pleasant here on the terrazzo, enjoying the sunny, breezy day and looking out at the hills. The birds are chirping, the chickens at La Fosca's house are clucking, dogs are barking, and somewhere in the cool dark shade of the neighboring woods the cat Puffi is sleeping.
     (Later)   I'm in my cool room now, the window is open to the sunny day. I can hear Vittorio working in the garden, snip-snip-brush-brush; I can hear the workers next door grunting and growling to each other in some garbled dialect which I can't understand; the dogs are still barking at God knows what; and I'm surprisingly hungry after that rich, heavy lunch. My reflexes are very sluggish today; everything feels heavy. Heavy and lazy.
     This is another thing that puzzles me -- in a place where the summers get hot and air conditioning is rare, which means one has to open the windows, why the hell aren't there any screens? You open the persiane to let light in because Delia won't let you turn lights on during the day unless it's absolutely necessary, and you open the glass to let air in, then all the flies and bees come in. You could, if you wanted to sit in semi-darkness, roll down the persiane so that only the tiny slits are open. Or you could, if you don't mind suffocating, roll the persiane all the way up and close the glass. The simplest solution to all this is, of course, to put screens on the windows. But there are none. Anywhere, almost.
     Delia just called to Vittorio to clean up for dinner. I heard him pause under my window to talk to Puffi-the-Cat in his peculiar wheezy voice: "Puff-eeee! Che fai? Dove sei stato?" Puffi hears the rattle of dishes and knows it's time to eat; he comes slithering from the bosco and if the kitchen door is closed, you hear his hoarse miao, asking to be let in. Yesterday as I was practicing, I heard "miao-miao-miaaaoo" and turned to find him standing near the piano, asking me, "Where's Delia? Where's Vittorio? I'm hungry!" Tremendo!

     10 July 1997.   God, it's beautiful! Today I took two lovely strolls down the road toward Celle dei Puccini. The countryside on that stretch of road just outside our village is almost wide open and very sparsely inhabited. I returned by way of the church, where I usually walk, and stopped in front of the church to sit and rest. There are two beautiful white doves that live there, a husband and wife. This morning they were having breakfast -- someone had left some grain on the pavement. And this afternoon they were back in the eaves of the porch, staying cool. I see them there at the church every day when I pass by.

     11 July 1997.   There is a major flaw in this total immersion process: sometimes, during a lesson, I want to ask a question, but I can't express it clearly enough in Italian; therefore, she can't give me the right answer and I would get frustrated. So my question remains unanswered. This morning, I must have spent 15 minutes trying to ask the same question, trying every way I could, even using diagrams on paper. She just couldn't understand what it was I wanted to know. She gave me a gezillion answers, but none were the right one. Finally, I just gave up and said, "Basta! Avanti." So we went on to review imperatives. The exercise was (written in Italian, of course):

               Tell your friend to:
                    (followed by a list of commands)

     So, okay, I start to give the answers using the personal form of imperative beause I'm talking to a friend, right? Well, she started to correct me, using the formal imperative. I said, "Ma è un amico!" She was just confusing the hell out of me, and I wanted to quit right then and there. I mean, if there's one thing I'm absolutely clear about, it's the personal imperative.
     I tell you, I would have killed to be able to speak English this morning.
     All in all, I think I was making more progress studying on my own. The only thing I can't do on my own is converse. Maybe Delia just isn't the right teacher for me. I catch on to most things very quickly; I only need one clear explanation and one clear example, I don't need 25 examples, that's just wasting my time. I need a teacher who will give me more time to come up with correct answers rather than jump in and supply them after only five seconds; I need a teacher who will let me finish my sentences rather than anticipate and finish them for me; I need a teacher who simply talks less and teaches more.
     I wonder if Delia considers me a difficult student? God knows I've never been a model student; I always hated school, I never did homework, and in the 17 or so years I spent in a classroom, I didn't learn a hill of beans. But I have to admit, the fault was mine, because I had no interest. And why didn't I, when I can be so incredibly, almost maddeningly, self-motivated? Once I get the notion in my head to do something, I go at it like a bloodhound. So why didn't these notions ever come to me in a classroom?

My Visit to Lucca, Part Three

     5 July 1997.   It was a very rewarding day. We departed early for Florence, where we picked up Delia's brother Giancarlo. We stopped for a moment on our way out of the city at the Piazza Michelangelo to view the city, which is even grander and more beautiful than I dreamed. But we had no time to tour it, so on we went to Siena.
     I fell instantly in love with Siena -- the color of it, the ambiance, the hilly narrow streets and alleys. The next time I come to Italy to study, I'll come here.

     In th afernoon we moved on to San Gimignano, which from afar looks like a miniature medieval Manhattan. I've never seen such stupendous countryside! I love the mighty green hills around Lucca, but somehow I'm much more moved by the gentleness of the land around San Gimignano, the softer undulation of the hills and the cultivated fields, the patchwork of every kind of green and gold. This, to me, is really Tuscany.

     San Gimignano was, of course, packed with tourists, but never mind. Even Delia told me, "You're right -- you can't come to Italy without seeing San Gimignano." So much magnificence packed ito such small confines! I climbed up to the top of La Rocca and simply gaped at the view. Tuscany stretched out in all its glory. Then you turn around to see a wonderful view of all those famous towers. Unforgettable.

     We had dinner at the house of Giancarlo and his wife Fedora, who are the parents of Gianluca, one of the young men I met my first night in Lucca. As soon as I entered their flat, I collapsed in a chair and wasn't fit to be spoken to until I got some substantial food in my stomach. Fedora and Delia prepared dinner right away. Pasta asciutta pomodoro, popone (canteloupe), prosciutto crudo e prosciutto cotto, mortadella, fagioli (beans), e bruschette. I ate like a piglet.
    
     6 July 1997.   This afernoon, Vittorio took me to Puccini's birthplace. It was the most terrifying drive I've ever been on -- the second half was almost vertical, with one hairpin turn after another, on a road that was scarcely wider than a corridor. And people still live in those tiny hamlets clinging to the mountainside! Incredible. I think they're nuts. I don't care how beautiful the view is, they're still nuts. And how the hell they work the steep slopes, planting vines and harvesting grapes and olives, I have not the slightest clue. Anyway, we finally reached the top, where 5 generations of Puccinis lived. It was fortunate that, just as we got out of the car, we met the curator of the museum, which is normally closed on Sunday. He opened it just for us -- nice man. He even let me play Puccini's piano! I would never have believed that I would come all the way from Texas and play on a piano that Puccini played, in the house where he was born, way up on a mountaintop in Tuscany.
     The village itself is so lovely. I could almost feel myself tansported back in time; the very air seemed ancient.
     We took a different route back down the mountain, less steep, more travelled, with wider roads. Why couldn't we have gone up that way?

To be continued. . . .

My Visit to Lucca, Part Two

     29 June 1997.   Worked all morning on Figaro recits, then after a good lunch of spaghetti alle vongole (clams) and insalata verde (green salad), Vittorio drove me to Pisa. It really is a shock of the most pleasant kind to walk in through the gate and see suddenly before your eyes the You-Know-What. Some people are surprised at its smallness, but I was prepared, having done so much reading and watched so much Rick Steves. The whole piazza truly is a marvel. I went through the three buildings, then we went walking around the city. I was fortunate to see one of those parades (I forget what they're called) in which the locals dress up in costumes and throw banners around. We passed by Galileo's house, and also an outdoor bookstand loaded with literature, but I disciplined myself and just bought Northanger Abbey (in Italian).

     30 June 1997.   What the hell is wrong with having leftovers? At every meal here, Delia says, "We have to finish this, or we throw it away." I love leftovers! My mother has them all the time, with almost every meal she cooks. The potatoes that Delia made yesterday, for instance -- they were cubed and baked with rosemary and olive oil -- why couldn't she heat the remainder in a pan today for lunch? They would have been great that way! I just don't get it. And she makes me feel guilty if I don't finish everything. I can't! What does she want me to do, throw up???

     1 July 1997.   Well, at least I can go for long walks. And last night I took advantage of the stairs, climbing up and down, up and down.

     It rained on and off this morning, but by the afternoon it was glorious. I walked the route Dan and I discovered, up to the church and back to the main road, making the circle twice around. Tomorrow I'll do it 3 times. I just hope all this walking will burn off the food.

     Yesterday for dinner, Vittorio made a delicious vegetable frittata (I think that's where those leftover potatoes went). Today at lunch there was trout caught from a nearby stream, deep-fried in an egg batter; fresh, ripe tomatoes and cucumbers plus a plain green salad; at dinner there were light-as-air potato gnocchi wth pomodoro sauce, mortadella, cauliflower, and un pochino di tiramisu.

     My lessons are going pretty well, though we're still reviewing grammar that I already know. No harm in reviewing, but I need to push ahead. I feel as if my speking hasn't improved as much as it should. I get nervous. My oral reading, however, has gotten much better -- the phrasing, inflection, etc. -- and I understand what I'm reading. I still can't understand much of the news on TV because the language is too sophisticated and they speak so fast.

     2 July 1997.   Today was a full, tiring day. I got up at the usual time, had breakfast at about 9, then we had 2 hours of grammar (I should have asked to fare una pausa after the first hour; two straight hours is too tiring for my brain), then I went to the post office; back for pranzo at one, then a brisk walk along my usual route; did a bit of laundry, had another hour of grammar, practiced, had a relatively light dinner. It is now 9.20 and I'm exhausted.

     For grammar, we're using the book they use at the Universita' per Stranieri a Perugia. Each chapter begins with a dialogue which features whatever grammatical formula the chapter deals with. Today Delia made me recount the dialogue in my own words. But she keeps wanting to prompt me. Every time I pause to grope for a word or grammatical structure, she prompts me. I have to ask her not to do that. First of all, I have to think for myself even if I need 5 minutes to formulate a complicated sentence; secondly, most of the time she guesses wrongly what I want to say, then I get confused.

     4 July 1997.   Buon compleanno, Stati Uniti!

     Last night after dinner, we had coffee at -- I don't know their last name. Il Dottore (a. k. a. Aldo), his wife, and their daughter Elena (in Italian, the accent is on the first syllable, much prettier than our "E-lay-nuh").

     Elena is 17 and studies piano and something called canto leggero, which is technically "pop" singing, otherwise known as belting and whining. She invited me to go with her today to her voice lesson in town. Her teacher lives on the top floor of a palazzo. She's a real character. During the hour or so we were there, she must have answered the phone about five times, then finally she took it off the hook. Elena is a very nice girl, not unintelligent and not without some talent, though I worry about the unhealthy way she belts. The lesson took place in a very small, crowded room overlooking the steet. Part of her training is learning how to sing with a microphone, which she did, and it was extremely painful to my ears in that tiny room. She wants to show me around Lucca on Monday. Nice kid, very open.

     Her father, il Dottore, picked us up then took me back to their house so that I could practice on their very nice piano a coda (literally, a "tailed" piano, or a grand piano). I've been working on the Bach G Major French Suite, the Mozart K. 576 Sonata, the Chopin A-flat Ballade and his "Andante Spianato and Grande Polonaise." All of which are going amazingly well. Since these are all "old" pieces for me, I can judge very clearly how much my technique has improved. Everything is so much easier! Very gratifying -- especially in the Chopin. How well I remember struggling so hard with some of those sections. I'm a big girl now, with a big girl technique!

     I still play everything as if A. is listening; maybe that's why I've been playing so well.

     To be continued. . . .

In Honor of Puccini's Birthday: My Trip to Lucca, Part One

     In the summer of 1997, I went to Italy for the first time, to do a total immersion language program. Following the advice of the Italian conductor Roberto Abbado, I decided to go to Tuscany, which is the cradle of modern Italian and also where the accents are cleanest, and after much careful research I arranged to stay for three weeks with a teacher who lived just outside the lovely walled town of Lucca. One of the great things about these total immersion programs is getting to choose where you want to study; you're not enrolling in a specific school in a specific city. I chose Lucca because it isn't overrun with tourists, and my teacher lived in a small village where I could enjoy the rolling hills and rest from what had been a particularly grueling opera season. Also -- and very importantly -- Lucca is the birthplace of Giacomo Puccini, composer of such beloved operas as La Bohème, Madama Butterfly, and Tosca.
     In these programs, you live in your teacher's home (in my case, it was just my teacher Delia and her husband Vittorio, a retired couple on the far edge of middle age), they provide all your meals; you and they speak nothing but Italian (Delia and Vittorio had no English, anyway), you have 2-4 hours of lessons every weekday, and on weekends your hosts are obliged to show you around the area, and even take you on short trips.
     Here are some excerpts from my journal, written during my stay in Lucca:
    

     23 June 1997.   Well! My first day was very full The flight into Florence was about an hour late. I zipped through passport control and customs, and there were i signori Bartelloni at the front of the small crowd of greeters, holding up a sign with my name on it. It was searingly hot in Florence, and the car's air conditioner took nearly half and hour to cool up. Within an hour, we reached Lucca. There were the walls which I've seen so often in travel books -- not nearly as tall as I thought they'd be, and of course, I couldn't see much of the city, but the promenade on top of the walls looks so inviting; I can't wait to walk it.

     San Martino in Freddana is just a few minutes from the city. The Bartellonis have a pale pink villa (modern) with  vey nice garden all around, a terrazzo, and the house sits along a small private road which is shared by a couple of other houses, including the one owned by the padrone. The Bartelloni's garden is filled with roses -- pink, white, apricot -- and honeysuckle, and of course small plots of various vegetables and fruits. There are lovely raspberries lining one fence. The tiny village is surrouded by wooded hills. The sun is warm, but the breeze is cool -- very much like springtime in Texas. I have a lovely room with en suite bath. Everything is so spotlessly clean, it makes me a bit nervous, being the slob that I am. In the living room there is massive furniture made of California redwood, and an old Swiss upright piano in fine condition. After touring the house and garden, I met the neighbors, Piero and Piera, a nice young couple.

     I was, of course, fed straightaway -- a clear beef broth followed by a cold chicken breast stuffed with prosciutto, and whipped potatoes.
     I took a long nap after the afternoon meal and conversation (all in Italian), then their two nephews arrived -- Antonio and Gianluca -- to stop the night before going on to Florence for their final exams. Very nice young men, and nice looking. We had cena on the terrazzo: pasta asciutta, bollito (pork, chicken, and tongue), gelato with raspberries, and of course espresso. Then conversation in the living room, and I sang and played a bit for them. I was still very tired, so I retired early.
     This morning, after my espresso and pastry, I went with the Bartellonis to the supermercato, per fare un po' di spesa (to do a little shopping); then I had my first lesson, which was mostly to see at what level I am grammatically. Very easy for me, having learned all the moods and tenses already. Then I strolled round the neighborhood, found the bank, post office, and bus stop. For lunch, there were fresh radishes from the garden, arugula, prosciutto, and pasta with pesto. Delia told me, "La pasta fa bene la pelle." (Pasta is good for the skin.)
     (Later)  My brain is tired. So is my body. It's hard work, being a houseguest -- as nice as the Bartellonis are, I'm just not used to living in a stranger's home. I wonder if Dan feels the same. He's doing the same program in Pescia, which is practically next door. He'll be coming to visit on Friday.
     Delia and I worked on Figaro recits this afternoon. Pronunciation, phrasing, intent, everythng. Oy. But it's great -- I will know these recits backwards and forwards and upside down!
     Dinner this evening was pasta in brodo (pasta in broth), pomodori (tomatoes) e mozzarella, uova (eggs), e salame. Molto buono, ma non sono abituata a mangiare così tanto! (Very good, but I'm not used to eating so much!)
    
     27 June 1997.   Today Dan came to visit from Pescia. Delia and I did our lessons in the morning, then we went to CRAI to buy the ingredients for pizza and tiramisu, and to the post office so I could mail my postcards. I watched Delia make the tiramisu -- very simple, really; even I could make it! She said that some people use panna (cream) instead of marscapone, but it isn't as tasty. Then she made pizza margherita ("la vera pizza" she says, the true pizza). Dan arrived at around 2.30. We were both so happy to see a fellow American! At last, someone with whom to speak English! I know a total immersion program was what I wanted, but it really was such a relief to have a whole afternoon to talk without first having to think about vocabulary or grammar. Dan has done very well in his 4 weeks of study -- when he came to Italy, he knew far less than I did. Far less. Now he can form simple sentences with little problem; he's started to use verbi composti and l'imperfetto, and he can understand a good amount. But he told me that his first week was extremely demoralizing for him -- he would have nightmares in which he couldn't understand anything anybody said and he couldn't communicate.
     I showed him around the house, including the flat above, which Delia and Vittorio are making ready for lodgers. After eating our pizza and tiramisu, we went for a walk on some of the back roads. It's so beautiful here! There's too much traffic on the main street, so little room on the sides to walk without being terrified of oncoming cars, but the back roads are shady and narrow and quiet, with pretty villas and lovely little gardens. We found one of the many neighborhood churches and took a few pictures.

     Dan could only stay he afternoon, since his hosts were preparing a special dinner. It was so nice to hear my own language and see a familiar face. I lead a solitary life in general, but being alone in a strange country, staying with strangers, is altogether a different thing.

     28 June 1997.   Today they took me to Torre del Lago and Viareggio. Torre del Lago, famous for Puccini's house and its opera festival, has been commercialized greatly since Puccini's death; the lake no longer extends up to his villa, and the villa itself has been poorly maintained, but I didn't care. All I wanted was to see his piano and the few pages of manuscript that are kept there. The tour guide is an elderly, weatherbeaten man in a t-shirt, sneakers, and baseball cap. He seemed very much taken with a Brazilian woman in our group who spoke fluent Italian and seemed to know a bit about Puccini. She was vivacious and flirtatious, so he pretty much ignored the rest of us, except for one moment when he asked me, "Giapponese? Cinese? (Japanese? Chinese?)" To which I replied, "Americana." He lost interest.
     When we finished the tour, the three of us sat on one ofthe benches on the piazza in front of the villa. Delia kept talking on and on about the appalling condition of the house and grounds -- "Tutta abbandonata" --, how Italy just doen't seem to care about the arts, etc. On and on and on. Finally I said, "Vorrei sedere un po' da sola per riflettere." I had to be alone and quiet for a moment; I didn't want to listen or translate or struggle with anything -- I just needed quiet. So I went to another bench directly in front of the villa and just tried to imagine Puccini walking through the garden, smoking a cigarette. Some experiences are very personal; one doesn't want other people intruding, no matter how well-meaning their intentions are.

(The sign says "Do Not Trample." No, indeed.)

To be continued. . . .

A Blue Christmas

     For the first time ever, there are no Christmas decorations in our house. We have no tree. My brother-in-law did put a wreath and lights on our front door, but that's it. Somehow, I don't mind, since Christmas is in the heart and not in our surroundings, but mostly because I respect my mother's wishes. She misses my dad.
     The other day in the car, Mom and I were listening to her favorite easy listening station, and Johnny Mathis came on singing "I'll Have a Blue Christmas Without You." It was just white noise to me, until Mom said suddenly, "Oh, stop saying that!" -- then I realized how painful this time is for her, and quickly changed the station.
     Daddy is very much in our hearts this Christmas.

Just for Fun: A Few of My Favorite Actors

Yeah, yeah, he's gorgeous. But he's also funny as hell. I love watching him most in comedies, when I can drool and laugh at the same time. My favorite Cary Grant films: Holiday, The Awful Truth, The Philadelphia Story, The Bishop's Wife

One of the finest, most versatile screen actors who ever lived. So clean and economical; not a wasted gesture to be found. My favorite Spencer Tracy films: Adam's Rib, Father of the Bride

I love this man's voice! It's the main reason I watch his films, though he's a competent actor as well. Such an unfettered, unaffected sound, with a beautiful sotto voce (examples: the last verse of "Surrey with a Fringe on Top" and the reprise of "If I Loved You"). Favorite Gordon Macrae films: Oklahoma!, West Point Story, Carousel

No, I have never seen Silence of the Lambs, nor will I ever. Not my kind of film. But you certainly don't need to see it in order to appreciate this actor fully. He gave, in my humble opinion, one of the finest performances on film, as a repressed butler -- subtle, incredibly nuanced, devastating. My favorite Anthony Hopkins films: Remains of the Day, Shadowlands, and 84, Charing Cross Road

Yeah, yeah, he's gorgeous. But he's also a fine actor. And he's gorgeous. My favorite Colin Firth films (feature films, not mini-series): The King's Speech, Bridget Jones' Diary, Love, Actually, Summer in Genoa

Of course, we now know him best from Downton Abbey, but I loved him from his very first big film, Notting Hill, when he was adorably pudgy and pathetic. I have since seen him in such a wide variety of things, I'm convinced he can do anything and everything at all, from Shakespeare to light romantic comedy to the darkest of psychological dramas. He's brilliant. My favorite Hugh Bonneville films: French Film, Notting Hill, Miss Austen Regrets

Again, the sheer versatility of this man astounds me. I certainly haven't seen everything he's done, but I've seen enough to know that he, like Bonneville, can do anything. My favorite Kevin Kline films: A Fish Called Wanda, The Emperor's Club, The Big Chill, Dave, French Kiss

For me, the mark of a comic genius is that he can not only make you laugh, but can also break your heart -- sometimes even simultaneously. One of the most gifted actors of our time, David Hyde Pierce is entirely capable of both titillating your funny bone and breaking your heart. How often have we seen him straddle the fine line between comedy and pathos as the iconic Niles Crane on Frasier? He is endowed with an impeccable sense of timing, precise diction and delivery, and a body that is an ideal instrument for physical comedy. Equally at home on the stage, he has done everything from the classics to musical theater, in which he displays a very pleasing baritone. As a supporting actor in films, he more than holds his own. And he demonstrated at last his strength as a charismatic leading man in the dark comedy/psychological thriller The Perfect Host. He is truly one of the most skilled actors working today.



My Favorite Family Christmas Memories

Midnight Mass at the Main Chapel at Ft. Sam Houston. When I was little, I remember my sisters and I always got brand new dresses to wear at Midnight Mass. We, my brother, and our parents somehow all fit into the old red and white Chevy station wagon, and we'd drive to the Main Chapel through the chilly dark, enjoying the colored lights which all the houses sported then. (Nowadays, outdoor lights seem to be the exception rather than the norm.) Our lights were always red and blue, very simple. One of my sisters recently reminded me of one particular year when a classmate of hers, one of Cole High School's finest students, sang "O Holy Night" and crashed and burned on the high note. It was one of those things that, being normal kids, we thought horrible and funny at the same time.

The Little Drummer Boy album. I'm referring, of course, to the old 1950's Harry Simeone Chorale album, not the later version. I learned all the important Christmas carols by listening to that album, and I also loved the brief narrative snippets, both spoken and sung, in between the carols. I particularly love the "Adeste Fideles" -- it starts out with just the men singing a cappella  except for a soft bell; they sing the Latin very softly and take no unison breaths throughout the entire verse. The effect is seamless and stunning, like ancient monks chanting as they process through a dark cloister. The soloists on this album are great, too -- that lovely soprano featured in "O Holy Night," "What Child Is This?", and "Silent Night"; also the resonant bass that sang "Go Tell It on the Mountain." We still have that album.

"Christmas with Ed Ames." The other Christmas album I grew up with. Ed Ames has one of the most beautiful natural instruments I've ever heard; I could listen to him all day. The orchestration of "Do You Hear What I Hear?" is absolutely perfect, and spoiled me for any other version of that classic.

Christmas Day family dinner. Filipino style, of course! We always had lechon (roast pork), covered with its crispy skin, and, for those who like it (not me), Mom's homemade liver sauce on top. Pancit bihon -- delicate rice noodles mixed with pork, shrimp, chicken, and veggies; the Filipino version of lo mein, but lighter and drier. Mom's justifiably famous lumpia (egg rolls). And for dessert, leche flan, the Filipino flan, which is much richer and heavier than other flans. For those who want something American, red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting.Yummmmm scrummmmm......!

What to Write About???

     Yesterday I checked out new posts on some of the blogs I follow. One blogger's latest post began with an apology for his recent, relatively lengthy silence, saying that he'd been having a hard time thinking of something to write about. Though I know his problem is not in the least uncommon, I nevertheless felt relief that someone else besides me suffered from it. After all, I don't lead the busiest, most exciting life (not anymore, anyway), and turning the ordinary into something extraordinary is a difficult thing for any writer. It's what separates the ordinary writer from the extraordinary one.
     I have pretty much exhausted the story of my time in the monastery (well, actually there are lots of things about that time which I haven't blogged about, but they are perhaps better left unblogged); and, while there are many stories I could, and probably will, tell about my experiences at the Houston Grand Opera, part of me rebels against writing too much about the past. Another part says, "Well, what does it say at the top of my blog, underneath the title? So, shouldn't I keep writing about the past, and what I've learned from it? And even if I haven't learned anything from a particular event, why shouldn't I write about it anyway?"
     The truth is, anything and everything I write, be it prose or verse, is informed by my past. I can't get away from it, nor do I want to. That isn't to say I don't look to the future; rather, I'm very much interested in the journey, all the odd little twists and turns that characterize my particular path, the mistakes I've made and the consequences that resulted from them; I'm interested in how all of that affects this moment and how I may use it to prepare for future moments. Perhaps I should have been a psychiatrist.
     Living in the past is a bad thing, yes, if one just stays there, inert. But examining and using it in a positive, educational way can only be helpful. Writing about it, even in a blog, helps me to do just that. If you come along for the ride, I hope my own life lessons can teach you something, too. And hopefully we'll have some fun along the way!

Desire, Determination, Discipline

     I have an obsessive personality. When something interests me I go for it whole-hog, give it my all, dive in head first -- all those clichés apply. I don't know, however, if this trait is inborn or if it was something I acquired somewhere along the road; I suspect it's the latter. Maybe it all started when my high school counselor, in her frustration at my constantly skipping class and flunking courses, told me I'd never amount to anything. Yes, it could very well be that she unknowingly sparked a different kind of rebellion in me than I had hitherto shown, a better kind of rebellion. Maybe, too, the few teachers who did see something in me underneath the slacker, and told me I could do anything I put my mind to, had something to do with it. Or perhaps part of me just got sick and tired of the pesky laziness that, I know very well, is an inborn trait.

     At any rate, I have come to the conclusion that I really, really, really have to have the desire to do something in order for my inborn laziness to be conquered by my non-inborn determination. Once those two things are up and running, I have very little problem summoning the discipline to do whatever it is I desire to do. You may be thinking that this is true of practically anyone who has any motivation at all; however, I have come across countless persons who can accomplish things through sheer discipline, but not necessarily desire. In other words, they are capable of doing something they don't really want to do, and doing it very well. I'm not one of those persons.

     Case in point: during my first few years as a vocal coach at the Houston Grand Opera, I had enough knowledge of Italian to "get by," i. e., enough to translate libretti (opera texts) and refine the singers' diction. However, I couldn't read more complicated texts at sight, nor could I follow spoken Italian very well, and I certainly couldn't respond at any length when spoken to. And I was perfectly content to stay at that level -- until I fell head over heels in love (albeit secretly) with an Italian singer who at that time had only a very modest command of English. I suddenly had the desire to know his language better, and in doing so, know him better. Love is one of the greatest motivators there is. It can move us to do both good things and stupid things. In my case, thank God, it moved me to do only good things.

     Determination kicked in a few months after I met him. I had asked my family for only bookstore gift cards that Christmas, in order to buy Italian books and tapes. The following New Year's Day I began my relentlessly disciplined daily routine: upon waking, I made and drank my coffee while listening to a tape. Whenever I got into my car, I would turn on a tape. I carried a book with me wherever I went, so that I could study every single spare moment during my day, including solitary meals in restaurants. At home, the television stood silent and cold, except when I rented an Italian movie, and I would study until two or three in the morning. I went to bed with my Walkman and headphones, and fell asleep listening to vocabulary tapes. As soon as I was able (which was after about two months of intense, non-stop study) I bought novels and newspapers in Italian, eschewing literally anything written in English for a full year -- well, with one tiny exception, a novelette, Kate Chopin's The Awakening.

     My friends were supportive of my obsession for about two weeks; after that, they were heartily sick of it and of me, and frankly I didn't blame them. One friend in particular was annoyed that I learned in two months what took her two years to learn. What could I say? Once desire, determination, and discipline fuel an obsession, you can accomplish more than you ever thought you could.

     I decided to follow up my private study with even more intense study in Italy, taking advantage of one of the many "total immersion" programs given out of private homes. In these programs, you live in your teacher's home, have 2-4 hours of formal lessons per day, and speak not one word of your native tongue, not even in your lessons; your teacher and any family members in the home will speak only Italian. I did this program twice, the first time for three weeks in Lucca, and the second for two weeks in Florence (the region of Tuscany is considered the best for language study, as it is after all the cradle of modern Italian, and the accents are cleanest). All I can say is, thank God for my obsessiveness, because when I arrived for my first stay, I found that I had almost no problem understanding my teacher, and while I was by no means fluent or even conversant, I could make myself understood with relative ease. However, I will say that I would have severe headaches by mid-afternoon, and by evening I was perfectly happy to keep both my mouth and my ears shut. The Houston Grand Opera, where I was working at the time, readily agreed to pay part of my expenses for both trips, and indeed it benefited them as much as it did me.

     Not content with becoming more conversant in modern Italian, I also wanted to learn about archaic Italian, the language of Dante, Petrarca, Tasso, etc. I began by translating old poetry, eventually working my way up to my own prose translation of a five-act pastoral play in blank verse, Aminta by Torquato Tasso, which was for me a gratifying (and exhausting) achievement. I have also translated seven modern plays, mostly by Italo Svevo. None of these translations are published, and probably never will be; I just did them for fun and for my own education.

     Desire, determination, and discipline also turned my obsession with opera into a full-fledged 25-year career, and an unrequited love (the same one that motivated me to learn Italian) into a full-fledged poetry collection. "The Three D's" has been my motto since college, and has served me very well indeed.

    

Compensations in the Life of a Spinster

     Somehow, I always knew that I'd never get married. I know, I know—"you never know." But I knew. And I know. I mean, come on, I've already passed the half-century mark. Not that my life has been lacking in romance, serious relationships, messy relationships, downright wrong relationships, joy, heartache, passion—any of that. And Lord knows I've had my fill of yearning from afar, otherwise known as "unrequited love," which fortunately became a very productive poetic inspiration, alla Dante and Petrarch.

     Ever since I can remember, my romantic nature has dominated my life, manifesting itself in crush after crush on boys who were more interested in my friends than in me. Metaphorically speaking, I was always the bridesmaid, never the bride. To my youthful reasoning, my being constantly passed over was due to my looks: olive skin, flat nose, full lips. Your basic Asian-American geek, with thick glasses to boot. Keep in mind, this was back in the '60s and early '70s, before "exotically ethnic" was a turn-on. Back then, we girls all wanted to look like Cheryl Tiegs. Of course, when I got to college, it was a whole different ballgame and I was actually grateful for my looks, but as a pre-teen and adolescent, I was too insecure and shackled by social anxiety disorder to rely on my personality; in my eyes, I had none. All I had was musical talent, which tended to intimidate boys rather than attract them to me.

     That same musical talent proved to be a boon in other ways, a compensation for many heartaches and ego bruises. It gave me my life and my living, to quote John Denver, and quite an exciting, rewarding life and living they were, too. Music boosted my self-confidence and eventually tamed (though not quite cured) my social anxiety disorder. The piano became my confidante and faithful companion, though, as in all intense relationships, we had our bitter battles and dark days of not speaking to each other. I admit, I was even abusive at times, beating my fists on its keys and screaming expletives, knowing damn well it couldn't fight or scream back. But the piano never deserted me. Ultimately, I had to desert it, having come to the realization that we could never live together in harmony.

     I exchanged that great, all-consuming relationship for a much easier, less demanding one—the organ. I don't call myself a real organist, mind you, though I did teach myself, with the aid of a good book, proper organ technique (very different from the piano), including pedals; and like a real organist, I wear bona fide organ shoes when I play. However, I have absolutely no interest in playing solo organ music; all I want is to play hymns and play them very well. My organ playing is purposely limited to Mass, and in the chapel where I play, it is not necessary to have a solo prelude and postlude; just the hymns and the sung parts of the Ordinary. In this way, I am able to avoid a lot of practicing, which through my thirty-seven years as a pianist has proved to be a major threat to my sanity and blood pressure.

     All in all, music has been a wonderfully satisfying compensation for a rocky and sometimes non-existent love life; even when the piano and I were on the outs, we always loved each other deep down.

     I mentioned earlier that an unrequited love may spawn poetic inspiration. In my case, it spawned The Distant Belovèd, an ongoing, ever-expanding collection of sonnets and lyrics. At this writing, it consists of over fifty pieces (and many rejects). I write other kinds of poetry as well, not just love poems, but I had to find a creative way to—now, the Italians have a particularly charming word for it—sfogarmi, vent myself. When I first began The Distant Belovèd, I had no intention of ever having it published, either in part or as a whole. It was purely personal, an extension of my journal. But my sister, after reading a few of the poems, convinced me to submit them, and I am happy that some have found a home in small poetry journals, along with several of my non-love poems. Who knows if I'll ever try to get the whole of The Distant Belovèd published? Editors today don't seem to go for love poems, especially of the formal variety (formal poetry is poetry that has meter and/or rhyme, as opposed to free verse, which has neither), and some of mine do, I suppose, border on what they would call "sentimental." But hey, it's hard not to be sentimental about love. And what exactly is "sentimental," anyway? If it brings a smile to the lips or a tear to the eye, is it such a literary crime? Does that make me a hack? The Nicholas Sparks of poets?

     So poetry has been another great compensation, though not exactly lucrative. . . .

     But the biggest compensation of all for being a spinster is being able to spend these past few years helping my parents. I will always be grateful to have been here for my father when he needed me and my mother most; now that he's gone, I can still be here for my beloved mother. Maybe deep down I always knew, as Beth March did in Little Women, that I was never destined to fly far from home, and that my true ministry lies right here with those I love most. I regret nothing, and have everything to be thankful for.

     And I care not one whit that I ended that sentence with a preposition.

OFFERING

You gave me a heart too large
for the tiny life I've led.
Hard-pressed have I been to know
what to do with the surplus,
the virgin flesh burgeoning
in the hollow of my breast.
What will You have me do, then?

Would You take it partly spent—
or give it, like the talent
that was buried in the field,
to one less fearful than I?
Or would You have me fill it
with as much unspoken love
as any one heart can hold?

How many times have I stood
in the marketplace, this heart
too large in my trembling hands,
this blushing eager maiden
of a heart; but no one came.

My heart will not go empty.
I will sow it with the years'
silent loves and silent wounds
and reap a harvest of prayer,
place it at Your gate, in hope
that its yield may be enough.


["Offering" was first published in Dreamcatcher]

A Poet's Voice

     When I first started writing poetry, I had absolutely no intention of getting it published. Poetry to me was simply a way of exercising my creative muscles, playing with words and forms. More importantly, it was another form of journaling, venting, purging -- and it still is, which is why all my poems are autobiographical. The difference between venting through prose (journaling) and venting through verse is that the discipline of writing verse gives me time to be a bit more detached about whatever it is I'm venting. Verse demands that I mull over the selection of words, the harmony of sounds, line breaks, punctuation, the arc of the poem; in doing so, I'm better able to examine objectively the particular emotion that I'm trying to convey, under the therapeutic microscope of poetic craft. When journaling, I simply pour out stuff without really thinking, without reasoning, without worrying about craft. Both of these purgative methods are beneficial, in different ways and for different reasons, yielding different results.
     If my primary motivation was to be published and read by a wide public, then, yes, I would attempt to turn outward for my subjects and not stay so much in my own head and heart. If I were really concerned about giving editors what they want today, i. e., "universal" poems rather than deeply personal, "confessional" ones, I would turn to nature, politics, or social issues for poetic inspiration. The truth is, I seem to belong to the confessional (albeit "formalist") school, but (I hope) without the extreme angst-ridden, suicidal overtones. If you really stop to think about it, though -- isn't all poetry "confessional"? Even when writing politically, how can one do so without delving into one's own personal politics? What is "universal," anyway? This universe, this society, this very world, are made up of individual people with individual opinions and feelings. Or should feelings come into play at all? How on earth can they not?
     At the encouragement of my sister, I did eventually decide to submit my poems for publication and am happy about my modest success so far. As long as there are those precious few publications whose editors welcome "personal" poetry, I will continue to send out my ventings in verse. According to the old maxim, I should write what I know. Well, what I know best is my own life, so that's what I write. And I think it's what I write best.

          Autobiography

          I only write that which I know;
          I only know that which I live,
          And life will seldom lie.
          But then, I cannot always know
          The secrets of the life I live,
          So I myself can lie.

          This much I promise: I will tell
          The truth as it appears to me;
          And if I tell it slant,
          Then truth is only time's to tell.
          But even time may not tell me,
          So truth, to me, is slant.

     Well, maybe that isn't my best, but you get my drift.
   

On Making Books for Christmas

     It's no secret to any of my family or close friends. They know they'll get books from me at Christmas -- hand-sewn, hand-bound, and, in most cases, printed at home by yours truly. Usually the book contains the poems I have written that year. However, last year my poetic output wasn't enough for even a decent chapbook (a small, pamphlet-like book, usually of poetry, and usually 18-40 pages); so instead, I typed out an account, originally written by Ron Fellows, of my father's experiences during World War II, bound it as a hardbound, cloth-covered chapbook, and gave that to my parents and siblings for Christmas.

     I love making each book unique, choosing papers and fabrics according to each recipient's taste. That way, each knows that his or her book is absolutely personal. I suppose I could simply have them done by a professional printer, or through one of those websites that specialize in things like wedding books, but I prefer to make them even more personal and special by making them myself. Of course, this takes time. People often ask me how long it takes me to make a book, and that's a question impossible to answer, because I like to take my time, doing one or two steps a day, sometimes skipping days if I feel like it.

     The first step, of course, is choosing the texts. Fortunately, most of my poems are short and can fit on one half of a letter-size page (that is, when you choose the "landscape" orientation rather than "portrait"). This makes it much easier to plan the order of the pages, front and back. You have to count the total number of pages, including the title page, publishing credits, table of contents, etc., and even blank pages. That number should be divisible by four (again, this is if you choose to do it in "landscape" and fold the pages to form a book). If it isn't divisible by four, simply add more blank pages until it is, keeping in mind that the first page of text (usually the title page) should be on the right side, or "recto." When you divide the total number by four, you'll know how many sheets of paper ("leaves" in the book trade) to use for each book. For instance, thirty-six pages of text and blanks combined, require nine leaves. It helps to make a list of all the pages:

     Using this list, the next step is to make a sample book out of scrap paper, making sure to include the page numbers. The sample book is invaluable -- in fact, necessary -- when you finally go to the computer to type and create the document. All that done, it's ready to print! I prefer using 24 lb. 100% cotton paper, but if the book has more than 10 leaves, such thick paper is hard to fold and the book won't stay shut properly.

     After printing, fold all the leaves at once into one "signature," pressing the crease firm with the help of a bone folder or the side of a pen. Never fold the leaves one at a time and put them together afterward; you'll wind up with tiny gaps in the fold between leaves, causing the final product to be less sturdy at the spine. The folding done, the fore edge (the long edge, opposite the spine) should be trimmed with an exacto knife to even it up, and I like to trim the upper and lower edges as well so that I end up with the size of book I want, keeping the pages' side margins wide enough to be pleasing to the eye.

     For the past few years, I've chosen to make my poetry gift books softbound, using beautiful, heavy art paper for the covers and lighter-weight art paper for the endpapers. (Most people wouldn't bother putting endpapers in a softbound book, but I think it's really nice.) Usually I choose a solid color for the cover, because I like to surprise the reader when he/she opens the cover and sees endpapers with a striking pattern. Sometimes, though, I'll keep the endpapers simple and use a paper in a solid color that complements but contrasts with the cover. The cover and endpapers are trimmed to size and folded with a soft crease, not pressed, so that it molds to the spine with no gap.

     Next, I use a fine awl (a push pin works, too) to make the holes in the crease for stitching the leaves, endpapers, and cover all together. If I had the book made at a printer, they would saddle staple the pages. Hand-stitching looks so much better! Most bookbinders would probably do a basic 3-hole pamphlet stitch, which holds the leaves together with two long stitches; but I prefer for this size book to use five holes, which results in four shorter stitches -- I think it makes the spine sturdier. Linen thread is best, as it is stronger than other threads. Embroidery needles have blunt points that won't poke unwanted extra holes in the paper if you should miss one of the pre-punched holes when sewing. Here is one of my first softbound chapbooks and the contrasting endpaper:

     The papers I've chosen for this year's Christmas chapbooks are absolutely beautiful, and I'm proud of the poems I've written these past couple of years -- so I'm hoping the resulting products will be my best yet!