Confessions of a Frasier Junkie

     My name is Leticia and I'm a Frasier-holic.
     I guess it all started last summer when I found myself watching DVDs of The Mary Tyler Moore Show over and over again, until I reached the point where I needed another fix, something new to satisfy my craving for well-written, intelligent comedy delivered by an ensemble of actors of the highest calibre.

(a scene from The Mary Tyler Moore Show Season 5, "Ted Baxter's Famous Broadcasting School")

     I stopped watching primetime network TV when I moved to Houston to work for the Houston Grand Opera. My erratic schedule, which of course involved a lot of nights, plus the fact that the recording function on my VCR wasn't working, for years rendered me virtually unable to watch primetime shows. I suppose I could have bought a new VCR, but I was too busy throwing away my money on frivolous things like food and rent. Consequently, I missed out on the whole Frasier phenomenon the first time around. By the time it ended its run on NBC, I was inside the monastery walls in Lufkin. Suffice to say, I really wasn't aware of Frasier, not even after I left the monastery and the show went into syndication. My first awareness of it was a few years ago, when one of my sisters and her husband referred to another sister and me as "the female Frasier and Niles." Of course, I had no idea what was implied by that comparison, and I didn't bother to ask at the time. When I finally did find out, I was frankly flattered to be likened to one of the greatest characters ever created for television, Niles Crane.
     Several months ago, at one of our Sunday family lunches, the subject of Frasier somehow came up.    
     "I've never seen it," I confessed.
     "What?!" exclaimed one of my sisters. "Oh, Let, you would love it. It's so consistently well-written, and there are lots of references to opera and classical music."
     Later that day, I posted on Facebook: "Can you believe, I've never seen Frasier." I received an onslaught of comments from my former opera colleagues: "OMG, you really need to watch it!" "They talk about opera all the time!" "I just LOVE that show," and so on.
     Okay. True to my nature, instead of tuning in to whatever channel airs Frasier reruns, I bought the first season DVD through Amazon. I wanted to watch it from the beginning and in order, because, like Niles, I'm an obsessive-compulsive. After watching the first few shows, I was hooked -- big time. At long last, a show I could really sink my teeth into, one with sophisticated writing, literate yet laugh-out-loud humor, superlative acting, and the most amusing pooch ever to grace the small screen. Of course, the love story of Niles and Daphne has become a television legend all its own, being by turns hilarious, heartbreaking, sweet, titillating, and downright frustrating -- and oh, sooooo gratifying when the two of them finally declare themselves to each other.
     For whatever reasons, I still don't watch primetime network TV. I'd rather spend those hours before bedtime watching a movie or reading a book. And frankly, Frasier has spoiled me for any other sitcom. I don't see myself ever tiring of its brilliance. But this is the kind of addiction I'm not ashamed to admit. I am a Frasier junkie -- and justifiably proud of it.

(a scene from Frasier Season 6, "I. Q.")

A Tribute to My Old Friend Wolfie

     It's Wolfie's birthday today—Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, that is—and I just wanted to take a moment to thank him for everything he's given me and done for me.
     Our friendship got off to a bit of a rocky start. Before Wolfie and I met, my best musical friend was Johann (Sebastian Bach). Johann and I hit it off from the very beginning. It seems my hands were made to play his music, and my sensibilities felt at home with it. Whenever I played or listened to him, I felt an almost visceral connection; something ancient and sacred stirred in the depths of my soul. Our friendship triggered my lifelong passion for early music.
     Maybe because I was so naturally in tune with Johann, I was initially uncomfortable with Wolfie. I can't remember what my first Mozart piece was—I suppose it was the Sonata in C, K. 545, the first Mozart sonata for most young pianists. However, I do remember that my first Mozart concerto happened to be one of his most difficult, the D Major No. 26 ("Coronation"). Why that particular one? Just because my teacher, Myrna von Nimitz, happened to have a score of it at hand when she decided I should try a Mozart concerto. I was 14 at the time.
     Now, Myrna had a slightly manipulative streak. While I struggled to make sense of Mozart—the subtlety of him, his humor, pathos, elegance, and exuberance—Myrna constantly reminded me that another of her students, who happened to be my age and (at that time) at the same pianistic level, was a natural whiz at Mozart. She never experienced anything like the struggle I was going through. Myrna never wasted an opportunity to compare my Mozart with hers, and always unfavorably. Maybe she was trying to light a fire under me; who knows?
     I don't know if it actually was Myrna's jibes, or something mysterious in my musical makeup, but somehow "things" fell into place between Wolfie and me, luckily before I began using his Concerto 26 in competitions (and earning prizes with it). All I do know is, once he and I finally meshed, we became the very best of friends. He, along with Johann, was my "calling card" composer, my specialty. Our friendship grew even stronger when I moved years later from solo pianist to opera coach and répétiteur; never was I so happy as when I was assigned to a Mozart opera. And when my technique and musical sensibilities needed to be purged of too much Puccini, Strauss, or Wagner, or one of the many harrowing new operas HGO was so fond of premiering, I would take out my well-worn score of Mozart sonatas and avail myself of their purifying elixir.
     I thank you, dearest Wolfie, not only for your genius, but for keeping me sane and musically grounded. You are a true friend and I will always love you.

On the Conversion of St. Paul

    

     Today we celebrate the Feast of the Conversion of St. Paul. This feast is very meaningful to me, since the account of St. Paul's conversion in Acts was instrumental in bringing about my own conversion at age 14 -- rather, my first "reversion." I thought I'd share a journal entry I wrote on this day in 2005, when I was in the monastery.

     25 January 2005   As I took my meditation stroll in the woods this morning after breakfast, I stopped in the fork of the path and stood there for several minutes, gazing at the misty rays slicing through the pines and pouring their warmth on the night-chilled ground, and I was reminded of God's grace. It is always there, but never quite the same from moment to moment or even second to second. Like the sun, it shifts with the inevitable changes of weather, adapts to the turning of the earth. Sometimes its light is filtered through mist; sometimes it shines refulgent and almost unbearable in its generosity; and still other times it is completely hidden, but never extinguished, by clouds. And when the earth is turned away from the sun, plunged in darkness and obscurity, it is sometimes hard to remember or indeed believe that, somewhere on the other side of the darkness, the sun continues, and will always continue, to burn.
     It is equally fitting that these thoughts of the light of God's grace should come to me on this certain Feast of St. Paul, who was struck down, brought low, and raised up by the full force of God's blazing grace and mercy. So overwhelming was the light, that his eyes had to be closed before he could fully withstand its burning truth. He, like all of us, had to be made blind to everything that had stood between himself and that light, so that he could ask God in true humility, trust, and openness of heart, "Lord, what will you have me do?"
     At Mass this morning, I asked St. Paul to open my eyes that I might see the light of truth and that my faith might be emblazoned on my heart as it was on his.

The Comfort of Repetition

     There are certain films we never tire of watching. There are certain books that we read again and again. There are certain pieces of music that never grow old to our ears, especially if we listen to different artists perform them. The sheer repetition of enjoying these things serves as a kind of comforting anchor in what can often be a hectic, confusing, and stressful life. Each of these films, books, and musical compositions can bring us back to a happier moment, renewing old sensory reactions as well as producing new ones. Sometimes listening to a certain song from my adolescence can actually evoke the scent of that period of my life; the very air around me feels different, and I see things through a hazy, sepia scrim. Listening to a certain piece of music stirs feelings in me that are impossible to articulate and impossible to duplicate by any other means. In watching a film for the nth time, I take note of something in the scenery or cinematography, or perhaps catch a hitherto unnoticed nuance in an actor's facial expression or the delivery of a line. If it's a particularly fine piece of work, I'll always discover something new with each viewing.
     Here are SOME of the things that have carved a permanent place of honor in my life, things I will never tire of watching, reading, or listening to.

FILMS
     The Philadelphia Story
     All About Eve
     Brief Encounter (1945)
     Enchanted April (1992)
     Little Women (1994)
     84, Charing Cross Road
     Persuasion (1995)
     Sense and Sensibility (1995)
     Shadowlands (1993)

MINI-SERIES / TV FILMS
     Pride and Prejudice (1995)
     Anne of Green Gables (1985) / Anne of Avonlea (1987)
     Emma (1996)
     The Forsyte Saga (1967)
     The House of Elliott

BOOKS
     Little Women
     The Secret Garden
     Persuasion
     Pride and Prejudice
     Jane Eyre
     Sue Barton, Student Nurse

TV SERIES
     The Mary Tyler Moore Show
     Frasier

OPERAS
     Le Nozze di Figaro
     Don Giovanni
     Dido and Aeneas
     Ariodante
     La Boheme

OTHER VOCAL WORKS
     Messiah
     The Fairy Queen

PIANO WORKS
     Mozart Concerti
     Mozart Sonatas
     Anything by Bach
     Anything by Chopin

ORCHESTRAL / INSTRUMENTAL
     Anything by Corelli, Handel, or Bach

NON-CLASSICAL ALBUMS
     Sgt. Pepper
     Rubber Soul
     Ladies of the Canyon (Joni Mitchell)
     Wildflowers (Judy Collins)
     Recollections (Judy Collins)
     Oggetti Smarriti (Enrico Ruggeri)
     Teaser & the Firecat (Cat Stevens)
    

Being True to My Voice

     I've written before about poetic "voice" and how I've had to find my own. I've only been sending my poems out for publication since the summer of 2008, but in that short time I've struggled much over the dilemma of giving editors what they want, giving different types of readers what they want, and writing the kind of poetry I want to write. It's easy enough to say you have to stay true to your voice and not care about editors or readers, or, for that matter, certain academicians who think they have the divine right to deem what is worthy of reading and what is not. It's also easy to say, who cares whether or not you're published; just write what feels right to you, and sooner or later someone, somewhere, will want to publish it.
     The stark reality is that everyone who writes dreams of having their labors rewarded with publication and readership. Like it or not, publication is a game, like pretty much everything else, and you have to play by the rules if you want to succeed. Perhaps down the line, when you're solidly established, you can throw those rules out the window and play by your own, but until then you have to find that line and toe it. Of course, there is always the self-publication/vanity press route, or you may cast your poetic seeds on the winds of cyberspace and let them take root where they may. But there are still those old-fashioned diehards like myself who put the most stock in the traditional route. Though I have had pieces published in a couple of online journals, I find much more gratification in receiving a printed journal in the mail and seeing my words on an actual page—call me a dinosaur, but it makes me feel more like a real poet.
     What I find discouraging is that so many of the poems I've written that are my personal favorites, are of the kind most editors dismiss. I'm talking about love poems—yes, to use the term again, "old-fashioned" love poems, the kind of love poems the average non-poetry-reading person can not only relate to and understand, but actually like. What passes for a "love poem" today in loftier publications is likely to be veiled in literary language and devices that go over the heads of most people who possess more romance than scholarship. That is not to say these people are less intelligent or even less educated; it is to say that there is a huge readership outside the tight circle of literary criticism and academia, an intelligent readership that passes over poetry because, in their own words, they simply can't understand it. Don't give me "you don't have to understand, just feel it" or "whatever it means to you, that's fine." I don't think there's a poet in the world worth his salt who writes a poem without a specific meaning in mind, however multi-faceted and multi-layered that meaning may be. To do otherwise is pointless—in my humble opinion.
     I thought long and hard before deciding to have my own poetry blog. I know that once I post a poem on it, it's considered "published" and few editors will consider printing it in their own publications. So I decided to post poems that have already been in print, or poems that editors likely will not want to print. And it seems that what I've suspected all along is being verified: the poems my readers like the most are the "old-fashioned" love poems that are accessible and readily understood (they are also the poems that I think editors would reject and academicians would pooh-pooh as "sentimental"). I must say, I'm gratified by this verification. It encourages me to keep writing the kind of poetry that comes most fluently and easily to me, the kind that truly comes from my heart, my experience, my struggles, joys, and sorrows. It encourages me to be true to my voice. But I'm also slowly coming to accept that, if I still want publication in the traditional sense, I'll sometimes have to write a bit outside my natural comfort zone—which I have done, and know I can do well. I know I'm a good craftsman, and I know I'm capable, deep down, of producing a poem that has both craft and soul.
     Maybe someday everything will fuse together, and I'll write poetry that is truly popular and truly "literary." Then again, how many poets reach that rarified height? We can all dream, can't we?
  

Writing Tools: Picky, Picky, Picky!

     When I was a pianist, I, like every other serious pianist, was extremely sensitive to whatever instrument I was obliged to play. Aside from the piano he may have at home, a pianist is pretty much at the mercy of the piano at hand, whether at his place of work or at the place of a performance. He doesn't always have the luxury of choosing a piano for a recital and having it delivered for the event; he often has to use the piano that's there. Hopefully, it's a fine instrument that has been freshly tuned, voiced, and balanced, but sometimes it's better suited for firewood.

     As a diarist and poet, I'm every bit as sensitive about the tools I use, and from what I've heard and read, every other writer feels the same. When I first began keeping a journal in the eighth grade my tools were rudimentary, to say the least: loose pages in a ring binder and whatever pen or pencil was at hand. Then I found a large blank book my architect brother, who was then still in college, had left at home one summer, and I confiscated it for my journal. In later years, my preference was wire-bound notebooks—not spiral, but the kind with double wire rings down the length of the book (whatever those things are called, I don't know). Traditional spirals tend to bend, unravel, or otherwise get all misshapen and cockeyed. Also, the back had to be thick and sturdy enough to set on the knee, if a table or other suitable writing surface weren't available.

     For years, I avoided using the now ubiquitous hardbound blank book, simply because the cover couldn't be folded back so that the book fit better atop a crowded restaurant table (I love writing when dining out alone). If the book was smaller to begin with, it usually didn't lie flat when open, and its pages were too small to accommodate more than a few sentences.

     Then I discovered Moleskine hardcover notebooks with lined pages. They're ideal for journaling: just the right size for restaurant tables; the pages are sewn in signatures, not glued, so the books lie flat; the paper is nib-friendly (smooth, that is, so nibs don't get hung up) and takes high quality fountain pen ink well.

     Which brings us to pens. I won't even discuss pencils; they are useless to any serious diarist. Permanent ink is a must. My instrument of choice used to be the Uniball Vision micro point. It served me very well until I became enamored of the nib. I'd watch period films and wonder how those vintage dip pens felt to write with, and how on earth they held enough ink so the writer wouldn't have to dip every few words, as one had to do with feather quills. I bought my first dip pen in an antique store, bought a bottle of ink, and fell in love. This was not a calligraphy pen, mind you, this was a regular writing pen that was used in the late 1800's, before the fountain pen was invented. It was fitted with a good, sturdy nib that was flexible and held a good amount of ink with a single dip. The secret, of course, is capillary action and the curve of the nib's underside.

 

 

 

     The downside to using dip pens for journaling is that you can't carry an inkwell around wherever you go—well, I suppose you can, but it's inconvenient to say the least. There are such things as antique travel inkwells, but they can be costly. So for a while, I limited my writing to my time at home. Then I started giving a lot of thought to fountain pens. It happened that at that particular time, I was approaching my tenth anniversary working at the Houston Grand Opera. It is the company's tradition to give the employee a gift to mark the occasion, and they asked me if there was anything in particular I would like. So I asked for—you guessed it—a fountain pen. Luckily there was on our staff a person who knew a great deal about pens and even wrote for Pen World magazine. She personally chose my gift: a Sheaffer White Dot, a simple black beauty that I use to this day.

     As for drafting poetry, I'm much less particular about my tools. A rigid-backed wire-bound notebook and a good ballpoint with really intense ink does me just fine. My drafts aren't as crucial as my journal entries, though I do keep them for my records. I used to draft poems and journal in the same book, but no longer. Now I prefer to keep the two separate.

     Well, there you have it. Maybe someday I'll pontificate on the many virtues of manual typewriters. But you've probably already surmised that I love typewriters, haven't you?

Just What Exactly Goes on in That Prompter's Box?

     Prompting. That elusive, much maligned, misunderstood, extremely demanding skill. And the people who do it—ignored by some, feared by others, treasured by too few, downright despised by too many.

     I came to it late in my career. Until I did, the prompter was not a fixture at the Houston Grand Opera, as it is at the Met and other big houses. Only in the direst emergencies was the prompter's box set up—for instance, when a singer got fired just before opening and the replacement hadn't sung the role in years. Otherwise, the principals and chorus would rely solely on the conductor for tight ensemble with the pit, and their own fallible memories for the text.

     When Patrick Summers became Music Director of HGO in 1998, he persuaded General Director David Gockley to begin using prompters on a semi-regular basis, two or three productions per season. It was decided that I would be the guinea pig prompter, probably because I was longest on the coaching staff and also had some conducting experience. I had mixed feelings about it: my greatest joy, and my best skill, was playing. If I wasn't playing enough, I wasn't happy; prompting meant that I wouldn't be playing as much, which in turn meant that I probably wouldn't be happy. On the other hand, I'd be learning a new skill and helping the company. Also, I didn't have a choice.

     Prompting lessons were set up the summer before Patrick's first season, with Susan Webb at the San Francisco Opera, and also with Patrick himself, who at that time was SFO's Principle Guest Conductor. They were both wonderful teachers, and I eagerly soaked up everything they taught me about this fascinating and complex skill.

     I quickly learned that prompting involved much more than simply hurling out fragments of text; the prompter is the relay man, the liaison, between conductor and stage. It is the prompter that keeps the people on stage attentive and in the musical moment, thus relieving the conductor of some of his awesome responsibility, and allowing him to pay more attention to the orchestra. Inside the prompter's box (customarily situated downstage center) there are small video monitors whose cameras are trained on the conductor, and upon which the prompter keeps a constant eye, while his other eye is moving with the people onstage and his mind's eye is on the score in front of him. His brain is divided into three equal parts: one part stays exactly with the music, the second part stays always ahead of the music, and the third remains ever alert to prevent imminent disasters and to fix disasters already in progress. The best prompters keep an accurate beat going with one hand while cueing with the other, except in very busy ensembles when both hands are needed to cue. A good prompter must learn the best way to get a singer's attention if that singer loses aural track of the orchestra and gets "off," and he must know the best and fastest way to get that singer back "on." I was taught to kiss the air to get a singer's attention, a sound that can cut through the sound of the orchestra, yet cannot be heard by the audience because of the shelter of the prompter's box. The singers told me they felt like dogs being called by their master when I made that sound -- but hey, it worked! As soon as they heard that kissing sound, their heads automatically swivelled in my direction.

     Of course, everyone knows that a prompter does indeed hurl out fragments of text. But exactly how much text? Usually the first two or three words of every line. Exactly when (how far ahead)? That depends on the tempo and meter, but always as close to the actual singing of the line as possible: too far ahead, the singer might be tempted to come in early; too late, the singer may not hear it. As often as possible, I liked to say the cue in the rhythm it should be sung; that way, you ensure that the singer will sing both the correct text and the correct rhythm. This rhythmic cueing is especially helpful in complicated ensembles involving many singers, with or without chorus; a very good example is the gambling scene in Act III of La Traviata, which was the first opera I ever prompted. That gambling scene is indeed a trial by fire for any neophyte prompter!

     Aside from textual and musical cues, the prompter is often called upon to remind singers of their staging, use hand signals to tell them when they're sharp or flat, or even to make offstage sounds from the box (for instance, I made the whipping sounds during the flogging scene in Billy Budd ; and, in one production of Traviata, I had to emit a wild, drunken laugh during the offstage chorus singing in Act IV).

     For the most part, singers were very grateful for my presence in the box, once they got used to me and figured out how to use me. Some, however, told me right at the beginning of staging rehearsals that they hated prompters and didn't want my help; I'd only distract them. Of course, they were soon set straight by the administration—the prompter is a fact of life, and you the singer are under contract. In other words, be prompted or be fired.

     In the matter of musical hierarchy, the prompter is second only to the conductor in authority, must be present at every rehearsal, and takes the baton in the conductor's absence. He is the first authority in matters of language and diction, even before the principal coach, and must correct mistakes as soon as they're made. He has a lot of responsibility on his shoulders.

     As for me, I very much enjoyed this new part of my job—at first. But after a while, I began to squirm from not playing enough. Eventually, however, other members of the music staff learned this rarified skill of prompting and were able to share the responsibility. In hindsight, I'm very glad to have had the experience.

"Don't Call Me 'Shirley'!"

     There are few things in life more frustrating than going through said life with a name you dislike. Okay, hate—there, I said it.

     Well, let me be clearer. I love the name "Leticia." What I hate is the nickname "Letti." Or "Letty." Or "Lettie." Or all other variations thereof. (I spelled it the first way.) It wasn't my choice, mind you; my family pinned it on me. By the time I was old enough to protest, it had stuck for good and I doubt very much that if I did protest it would have been to any avail, as my voice and opinions never counted for much in my family anyway. That's what comes of having five assertive elder siblings. So I went through school and college and a good part of my professional life cringing whenever anyone said my name. Introducing myself to new people was, unfortunately, a frequent occurrence, working as I did in the opera biz where visiting artists constantly floated in and out of the theater and in and out of my life.

     "Hi, I'm Letti."

     "Sorry; Lennie?"

     "No, Letti. Rhymes with Betty."

     That little exchange occurred with almost every single introduction, usually with gritted teeth on my part.

     More than the struggle for correct pronunciation, I simply hated the sound of the name. There was something, I don't know, faintly ninny-ish about it, something that conjured up images of a little girl in ringlets and bows, which I most certainly wasn't and never was, even as a child.

     Somewhere in the mid-90's I decided to change my image at work. I shed my customary cotton trousers and shirts for a much more polished, haute-couture-by-way-of-consignment-shops look (remember, this was long before eBay). At that time, I still came off younger than I actually was; visiting artists tended to look at me askance because I lacked the appearance of an experienced, knowledgeable coach. Of course, once they began working with me, they relaxed with the realization that I did indeed know my stuff, and trusted me from then on. But I wanted them to trust me at first meeting. So, off with the casuals and on with the Christian Dior.

     Dior just didn't go with the name "Letti."

     So I asked my boss one day, "How difficult would it be for everyone to start calling me 'Leticia'?"

     "Not difficult at all," he assured me.

     He sent out a company-wide memo that day. Leticia—pronounced the British way, that is: Le-tish-a, with a short "i" as in "tissue." Not Le-teee-sha. Not Le-tee-cee-a. Not even Le-tiss-i-a. Let's get it right, from the very start.

     My boss was right; it wasn't difficult at all. For the rest of my Houston Grand Opera years, I was happily known as Leticia. During my postulancy at the Monastery of the Infant Jesus, until I received the habit and my name in religion, I was called Leticia. Bliss.

     Then I left the monastery and returned to the bosom of my family—who to this day call me Letti.

     They refuse categorically to call me Leticia, which I call myself still. Even when they introduce me to people, they introduce me as "Letti," and I always quickly amend, "Leticia." They just can't, or won't, comply with my wishes. Even though it's MY NAME.

     Oh, well. You can't teach an old dog to lead a horse to water.

 

     P. S.  I should add that my family also call me "Let," which I don't mind at all, and I wouldn't mind if my friends called me that, either. What I object to so vehemently is—to quote Elizabeth von Arnim—the "mean little twist, like a pig's tail" at the end of "Letti".

Long Ago on This Date, I Wrote . . .

1998:  Billy Budd rehearsals going well. I'm having more fun on this show that I thought I would. Being one of only three females on a production is rather a good thing!

     Literally every day someone tells me I look good and comments on how thin I've gotten. I am now as small, if not smaller, than I was in college. But -- as I sit here eating my chocolate chip cookies -- it's a light dinner for me tonight!

     I love to come here (Panini) when both Vittorio and Ellie are in a good mood. Their banter is very entertaining. Just now, Ellie was trying to tell Vitto, "These are cookies; those are biscotti." And he informed her, "In Italy, they are the same -- biscotti and biscotti" (pronouncing it alla Neopolitana: bish-cotti). I find his accent sort of charming.

2001:  Well, one positive thing about all this -- I'm playing really well. Curious, how that works. I don't know if I'll see him today; our schedules don't jive. But maybe he'll come in to the sitz for a while.

     Couldn't sleep very well last night -- Così was running through my head and wouldn't stop.

     I'm sitting at the bar at the Angelika, which has become almost like a second home to me.

     I really should try to get more sleep -- I'm really stanca morta. But the Così rehearsals are always lively, and I do love to play. Especially Mozart. Patrick is a joy to play for, a real master with this rep, except I think some of his faster tempi aren't quite fast enough. But he's so damn musical and sensitive.

     My appetite has lessened, and that's always a bad sign -- a sign that I'm on an emotional rollercoaster again. When I fell in love with A_, I couldn't eat a damn thing and went from a size 12 to a 6 in record time.

     If anything ever developed between me and X, I wonder how the boss would take it? Not well, I bet. He'd see it as a potential distraction, a negative influence on our work. But you know, as long as I'm happy, I work better and play like a goddess. He remembers, though, all the sturm und drang I went through after A_ left the first time, and it did affect my work in a bad way for a while. Why am I so intense? Why does everything have to be life or death with me?

2002:  Another Sunday morning spent in bed, reading the paper (or rather, perusing the advertisements and the TV program), and a bit of Thoreau and Emerson. From Circuit City ads to Walden. Hmm. I'm not sure Henry David would approve!

     I'm much too harsh with myself sometimes. About the music thing. My capacity is still there. Maybe I just had an "off" day yesterday. And now I have Corelli playing on the stereo. What is it about Corelli I love so much? His music is, in a sense, undemanding; it reqires only your most basic and simple intellect -- the best and most reliable kind. Maybe that's why much of 20th century music doesn't appeal to me: it takes too much work; and art -- the sheer experience of it -- shouldn't, I think, be so complicated. It should rather bring forth the child in us -- unquestioning, accepting. Call me a simpleton if you will. But immediacy is valuable in such matters. It eliminates that "elitist" idea which alienates so many people from even bothering to try and experience art. Simplify, simplify, simplify! In art and in life. For the two are, or should be, interchangeable.

     My reading is going through one of those phases where I leisurely read bits and pieces from this and that: Thoreau and Emerson, Vera Brittain's diary, C. S. Lewis. Non-fiction is easy that way. Novels require an extended, uninterrupted concentration which I simply can't give right now. Summer is the best time for novels.

     Oh, how I love Vera Brittain! She and I and Emily Shore might have been great friends. Vera has convinced me that I must read The Story of an African Farm and Plato. So much of philosophic writing has thus far flown over my head, but I think I can comprehend it now. Of course, in the case of Plato, etc., much depends on the translation. A_ likes Plato. "Likes"? Well -- for want of a better word. "Ascribes to"?

     Will go and shower now, and try not to waste the rest of this day. Life is all too short.

     Think of me, my dearest A_. My letter should reach you soon.

 

2003:  I don't know if I told you that I had applied, through Vocations Placement, for a vocations test. Natalie called and told me of two Benedictine monasteries: St. Scholastica in Ft. Smith, Arkansas, and St. Benedict in Canyon, Texas. The latter is a small, conteplative order (St. Scholastica is an active branch and very large) that takes candidates up to age 60!

     If all goes well and according to God's plan, I will be going on a retreat in July to St. Benedict. But I also want to plan retreats to the Priory in Lacey, WA, and most especially to the Abbey of Regina Laudis in Connecticut, to which I feel very much drawn because they have retained all the old traditions, including the chant in Latin and the full habit. Now that I know the true meaning of the habit, I can't imagine wearing anything else! Why would any contemplative wan to wear ordinary clothes?

     If it is not God's will that I enter the cloister, then I hope to be an oblate.

A Beautiful Passage

     Ah those days . . . for many years afterward their happiness haunted me. Sometimes, listening to music, I drift back and nothing has changed. The long end of summer. Day after day of warm weather, voices calling as night came on and lighted windows pricked the darkness and, at day-break the murmur of corn and the warm smell of fields ripe for harvest. And being young.
     If I'd stayed there, would I always have been happy? No, I suppose not. People move away, grow older, die, and the bright belief that there will be another marvelous thing around each corner fades. It is now or never; we must snatch at happiness as it flies.

From A Month in the Country by J. L. Carr

On This Day, I Wrote in My Journal . . . .

It's sort of interesting to look back and see what you wrote on a particular date in different years, different stages of your life. Here are a few entries I wrote on past January 3rds.


1995:  Another example of the cruel but necessary happened today. "J" played a staging rehearsal this morning for Porgy, and, as Richard summed it up to me afterward, "it was a disaster." Apparently, she couldn't keep a tempo, and distracted John so much that he couldn't concentrate on what the principals were doing. Richard told me she will not be playing any more stagings after today. He'll speak to her this afternoon. The sad part is, she doesn't seem to have a clue. At the end of this disastrous rehearsal, she said to Richard, "I didn't think it went that badly, huh?" I feel for her, particularly since she and I have become friends, but if she hinders the rehearsal process then she has to go. It's a fact of opera. A good pianist, one that can not only play the score, but one that has a solid sense of rhythm, can follow a conductor well, and can play orchestrally, is so crucial. Most people don't realize how difficult it is, being a répétiteur -- even a lot of pianists don't realize. It's a skill - a multi-faceted, highly disciplined skill.

1998:  Sometimes I think I have too many ambitions. I didn't used to be this way; my life seemed much narrower and easier, albeit somewhat paler in many ways, when I was younger. Now, looking at the stacks of books I've been meaning to read, and contemplating all the subjects I've been meaning to learn about, I'm overcome by the uneasy feeling that I'll never be able to get around to it all; there's not enough time. And on top of all that, I unfortunately do not have the kind of mind that can retain vast amounts of information. I've read many books, but I can't remember the plots of most of them. I only remember whether I liked them or loved them, or was devastated by them. I remember if a book made me cry, but I don't remember why. Sad thing.

2001:  I don't quite know what I'm doing or where I am. Off balance. I hate being off balance. What do I need to be doing this for; I'm 41 years old, damn it, I can't be mooning around like some kid. Comes a time when you have to face up to the fact that you've -- to use a dull cliché -- given the best years of your life to a man who ultimately couldn't make it up to you. And you have to face up to the fact that you're alone and you're likely to stay alone. It's as if I started digging myself into a hole 21 years ago and it's taken me this long to realize just how deep it's gotten. I don't know how to get out. And now what? Just keep plugging away, doing my work, trying not to care that my heart is shriveling up?

2003:  Scotti, my therapist, said something interesting about that dream I had Christmas morning, about Carol and the gunman. She pointed out two sexual references -- the man in the blue shirt, and the gun -- and that Carol was really myself, the newly religious part of me, defending myself from the sexual part of me because of my thoughts about monastic life.
     Went to dinner and the movies with Peter, Susan, and Kay. Patrick joined us for dinner, but had rehearsal afterward. So the four of us went on to see Chicago, which was fabulous.

The Beginning and the End

     I wrote in another post how my poems are an extension of my journal, a true chronicle of my inner life. Here is the first poem I wrote in 2011:


OPTIMISM

Be captivated by the light,
the hidden colors in its whitest ray,
the gleanings gathered in the bright of day,
and take them with you into night.

Seek out the modest gleam of dusk,
the varied values of its subtle hues,
the finished golds beneath the muddled blues,
and spread them out upon the dust.


And here is the last of 2011:


AWAITING DAWN

I dwell in Possibility. ~ Emily Dickinson

I find this shifting space
a questionable habitation. Hope
remains a nocturne scarcely audible;
I scratch the notes into my book of songs
with feathers sharpened by a bitter blade.
What prayers are wrought inside this cage of night
become a liquor brewed from sorrow's rain,
libation for the hosts that crowd my bed,
that carol with the confidence of those
who've passed the night of possibility
and woke to tell the tale. Theirs are the songs
my pen stays poised above the page to write.
However many feathers used and tossed,
I know the dawn will never come until
these songs are done.


     Of course, I wrote this poem shortly after my father died. Here's hoping that 2012 will see more poems like "Optimism" issue from my pen!

["Optimism" first appeared in the online journal The Road Not Taken: A Journal of Formal Poetry]