Passeggiata (pah-sed-JAH-tah - the "i" is not pronounced) is Italian for "stroll."
When I was in the monastery, I wrote a letter to The Distant Belovèd, asking if he'd like to go for an imaginary walk with me in the woods. I then proceeded to describe the scenery along our "walk" as if he were really there with me, as a way to tell him what the monastery was like inside the enclosure walls. In his reply letter, he thanked me for the "passeggiata" through the woods and fields. This inspired the first poem. The second was written some months later, when I was especially missing his company. The two were published together as one piece in the San Antonio Express-News, though they are intended to be two separate poems.
Both of these poems also appeared in the poetry e-zine La Stanza di Nightingale, where they were translated into Italian by poet and author Federica Galetto.
Passeggiata (I)
Walk with me.
The path beckons, winking in the dawn-light,
And the pines' drowsy whisperings call us
To quiet joy. The sun through the branches
Welcomes our like hearts with perceptive arms
Limpid with the memory of darkness.
Now is our moment of peace. We are led
On this narrow way through familiar lands
Defined in my mind, for I have mapped out
All my memories in these woods and fields;
Each blade and limb and stone has its country,
And all sing to me of God's sure blessing.
Could He begrudge me your dear company,
Poignant and wistful as the rain lily
I pressed among words of silent longing?
You are here, belovèd, bright in my heart,
Mine alone for this all-too-fleeting joy;
This, my moment of highest fulfillment,
My spirit and yours, walking together
Hand in hand. (October/07)
Passeggiata (II)
I wonder how the wind feels where you are,
How slowly move the clouds over the trees,
If raindrops have the same pattered footstep
That spots the path winding before me here.
What are the boughs that nod above your head?
Do they smell of past suns cleansed by heaven?
Do they weep slow tears on your opened palm,
Mourning your solitude, though you may not?
Listen to the wind; it perhaps can tell
What I cannot. See how loath are the clouds
To leave your presence; they know my longing.
Let the raindrops lead you to where I am,
Walking lonely among these weeping pines,
Wondering if you wonder as I do. (January/08)
Copyright Leticia Austria
Both poems first appeared in The San Antonio Express-News as one poem in two parts, under the title "Passeggiata"
29 April 2012
28 April 2012
Blogging A to Z: "O" is for October
In the autumn of 1993, HGO opened the season with a musically and theatrically stunning production of Elektra. It starred Hildegard Behrens, Josephine Barstow, Leonie Rysanek; Christoph Eschenbach conducted the Houston Symphony Orchestra (for many years, HGO used both their own orchestra and the HSO; now they use their own orchestra exclusively, and a very fine one they've become, too).
Here are some entries from my journal written during the rehearsal period. I'm afraid I devoted a lot of ink to recording my own personal experience in playing the score, but I never intended my journal to be just a record of backstage goings-on. Admittedly, I now rather regret not writing more about the artists and productions, as my memory is lately disappearing along with my hair.
1 October 1993 Barstow's first music rehearsal today. I was fine for the first scene, then I went steadily downhill from there. By the offstage chorus stuff, I was playing like your average pig. How embarrassing. I had worked on the stuff after the murder of Klytemnestra all this week except yesterday, which I devoted to Chrys' earlier scenes. It just goes to show, you can't skip a day on any of this.
Tomorrow, my "day off" (ha!), I'll spend practicing till 2pm when Barstow comes in to go over some music with Richard. I want to be solid for Behrens' rehearsal on Sunday. L said she saw Behrens in the library in New York just recently, wearing her full-length mink and tennis shoes.
What a wonderful place this is! [I wrote this in a place called Epicure, on West Gray, a very konditorei-like place run by a certified Konditormeister from Central Europe.] In the mid-afternoon, the bookish and artistic types come in and read, or in my case, write, with a pot of coffee. Just like Europe. A middle-aged couple just came in, obviously friends of the owner, speaking German. They always have good music playing over the speakers; Sunday mornings, it's usually Mozart. Breakfast with Wolfie.
As I get older, I find that I really have to warm up well before I play, so I've been doing about 15 minutes of Hanon before working. Today, I warmed up in one of the rehearsal rooms, and people kept poking their heads in with an expression that said, "Who the hell is doing Hanon, of all things?" But I've found it to be very beneficial--it exposes every flaw, it forces the fingers to be even, and it forces (if you will) you to relax, because one can't get through a section of Hanon being tense. When I was a kid, I could barely get through the first six exercises withot tiring and having to stop. Wimp. Now it doesn't bother me at all to play through the whole first two sections non-stop. Playing opera scores can be deadly for the technique, so one needs this solid foundation.
3 October 1993 Finished rehearsal a little while ago, so I felt I deserved a dessert and coffee. Behrens is in great form and is a very nice lady.
I played very well (what a relief!), especially Elektra's opening monologue. Maestro said "Thank you" twice to me, and before we went in the room to start, he actually gave my cheek a little fatherly rub! I was astonished.
There was only one moment where I screwed up rather royally, and that was the horrendous orchestral interlude right after Orest tells Elektra who he is. The first 8 bars were fine, then came the part where the violins jump up and down and up and down; I felt myself start to falter and I emitted an agonized yelp. Thank God Maestro laughed. I worked so damn hard on that passage. I can play it under tempo (big deal), but up to speed, I need three hands, or at least an extra pair of eyes. It's like flying blind, those leaps, and you have to keep the middle melody going too, switching it off from one hand to the other. It's a nightmare!
4 October 1993 Just finished staging rehearsal with Behrens and Barstow, their first two scenes. After playing the section Richard and I call "the Jaws music" (Klytemnestra's entrance), I got an emphatic "Very good!" from Behrens! Then, of course, in the euphoria of my success, I screwed up the scene after the Junger Diener's aria. But I redeemed myself with the "digging" interlude, which I thought I played very passably. It's scary--this score is just now starting to feel comfortable for me. I thought it would never happen.
5 October 1993 Behrens is a fascinating woman--small, slight, with that dramatic face. She comes to rehearsal in her little flat black shoes, long, filmy dancer's skirt over tights, and a rather frightful looking red chenille kimono-sleeved top that she's cut off at the bottom, leaving the ragged edge to curl and loose threads to hang about her waist. She wears her hair long, loose, and straight, so that from the back she could be taken for a bohemian teenager.
Barstow is a trim, compact figure in her cotton t-shirts and trousers, pattering about in clean white sneakers, her frizzy mass of red hair pulled back in a tail.
The two women are complete opposites in rehearsal. Barstow stops often, asks questions, discusses, and probes. Behrens is quieter, listening to the director with her great face in repose, sitting on the floor, or standing in a dancer's feet-apart stance, hands one over the other in front. Every once in a while, the face breaks into a smile, bones softening and shifting underneath the deep-set eyes. But for all her repose, you know she is constantly alert and thinking--you see it in the slight furrowing of her forehead or the set of her jaw.
Rysanek starts rehearsal soon. At 67, she is a true Grande Dame of the Theatre.
For me, the real opportunity is not seeing these legends perform on stage, but watching them work. It's one of the aspects of my job that I love most. Playing for Eschenbach is another. For such a small man, he radiates a presence and charisma both on and off the podium that is very daunting. The stern face with its watchful, penetrating eyes belies the gentle man inside; the heavily-accented voice is always soft, but somehow commands attention and respect.
7 October 1993 I have a session alone with Barstow today, to help her with memorization. She's not off book yet, and Maestro has complained to Gockley, who promptly replied, "All right, we'll fire her." Richard intervened, saying, "Let's wait a few days; we're giving her an hour every day with a pianist."
Barstow's last show here was Rosenkavalier; she had done the Marschallin before, but in English. So poor Jay Rozendaal had to prompt the show. He had never prompted before in his life, and the stress manifested itself in a horrendous backache. I hope I won't have to prompt this show. I would die, I would simply die.
Caught some of the Klytem./Elektra scene, which Richard played. Those two ladies are firebrands! Of course, everyone was paying court to Rysanek, it being her first day, but Richard told me that after I left the room, Behrens sang her end of the scene aria in full voice (she always marks in rehearsal) and absolutely nailed it, causing Miss Rysanek to burst into applause. Miss Behrens beamed in triumph.
31 October 1993 The street lights have just turned on. The sky is an iron gray, a strange transition from the brilliant blue it was an hour ago. West Gray is a fun street--all the buildings have been restored and painted stark white with black trim. The shops are all upscale, but not too; and of course, there is the inevitable Pier 1 Imports. Two kinds of bookstores: one large discount, the other small independent. Two kinds of movie theaters: one arthouse, the other multi-screen mainstream. The restaurants range from Black-Eyed Pea to Cafe Express to moderately priced Chinese and Italian. You can buy futons, antiques, house-roasted coffee beans, apple strudel, camping equipment, and evening gowns. Or, you can do as I do: hole up in Epicure 3 or 4 times a week with a book or a journal. Most of the street is lined on both sides with tall palm trees which are studded with small white lights at Christmas.
Here are some entries from my journal written during the rehearsal period. I'm afraid I devoted a lot of ink to recording my own personal experience in playing the score, but I never intended my journal to be just a record of backstage goings-on. Admittedly, I now rather regret not writing more about the artists and productions, as my memory is lately disappearing along with my hair.
1 October 1993 Barstow's first music rehearsal today. I was fine for the first scene, then I went steadily downhill from there. By the offstage chorus stuff, I was playing like your average pig. How embarrassing. I had worked on the stuff after the murder of Klytemnestra all this week except yesterday, which I devoted to Chrys' earlier scenes. It just goes to show, you can't skip a day on any of this.
Tomorrow, my "day off" (ha!), I'll spend practicing till 2pm when Barstow comes in to go over some music with Richard. I want to be solid for Behrens' rehearsal on Sunday. L said she saw Behrens in the library in New York just recently, wearing her full-length mink and tennis shoes.
What a wonderful place this is! [I wrote this in a place called Epicure, on West Gray, a very konditorei-like place run by a certified Konditormeister from Central Europe.] In the mid-afternoon, the bookish and artistic types come in and read, or in my case, write, with a pot of coffee. Just like Europe. A middle-aged couple just came in, obviously friends of the owner, speaking German. They always have good music playing over the speakers; Sunday mornings, it's usually Mozart. Breakfast with Wolfie.
As I get older, I find that I really have to warm up well before I play, so I've been doing about 15 minutes of Hanon before working. Today, I warmed up in one of the rehearsal rooms, and people kept poking their heads in with an expression that said, "Who the hell is doing Hanon, of all things?" But I've found it to be very beneficial--it exposes every flaw, it forces the fingers to be even, and it forces (if you will) you to relax, because one can't get through a section of Hanon being tense. When I was a kid, I could barely get through the first six exercises withot tiring and having to stop. Wimp. Now it doesn't bother me at all to play through the whole first two sections non-stop. Playing opera scores can be deadly for the technique, so one needs this solid foundation.
3 October 1993 Finished rehearsal a little while ago, so I felt I deserved a dessert and coffee. Behrens is in great form and is a very nice lady.
I played very well (what a relief!), especially Elektra's opening monologue. Maestro said "Thank you" twice to me, and before we went in the room to start, he actually gave my cheek a little fatherly rub! I was astonished.
There was only one moment where I screwed up rather royally, and that was the horrendous orchestral interlude right after Orest tells Elektra who he is. The first 8 bars were fine, then came the part where the violins jump up and down and up and down; I felt myself start to falter and I emitted an agonized yelp. Thank God Maestro laughed. I worked so damn hard on that passage. I can play it under tempo (big deal), but up to speed, I need three hands, or at least an extra pair of eyes. It's like flying blind, those leaps, and you have to keep the middle melody going too, switching it off from one hand to the other. It's a nightmare!
4 October 1993 Just finished staging rehearsal with Behrens and Barstow, their first two scenes. After playing the section Richard and I call "the Jaws music" (Klytemnestra's entrance), I got an emphatic "Very good!" from Behrens! Then, of course, in the euphoria of my success, I screwed up the scene after the Junger Diener's aria. But I redeemed myself with the "digging" interlude, which I thought I played very passably. It's scary--this score is just now starting to feel comfortable for me. I thought it would never happen.
5 October 1993 Behrens is a fascinating woman--small, slight, with that dramatic face. She comes to rehearsal in her little flat black shoes, long, filmy dancer's skirt over tights, and a rather frightful looking red chenille kimono-sleeved top that she's cut off at the bottom, leaving the ragged edge to curl and loose threads to hang about her waist. She wears her hair long, loose, and straight, so that from the back she could be taken for a bohemian teenager.
Barstow is a trim, compact figure in her cotton t-shirts and trousers, pattering about in clean white sneakers, her frizzy mass of red hair pulled back in a tail.
The two women are complete opposites in rehearsal. Barstow stops often, asks questions, discusses, and probes. Behrens is quieter, listening to the director with her great face in repose, sitting on the floor, or standing in a dancer's feet-apart stance, hands one over the other in front. Every once in a while, the face breaks into a smile, bones softening and shifting underneath the deep-set eyes. But for all her repose, you know she is constantly alert and thinking--you see it in the slight furrowing of her forehead or the set of her jaw.
Rysanek starts rehearsal soon. At 67, she is a true Grande Dame of the Theatre.
For me, the real opportunity is not seeing these legends perform on stage, but watching them work. It's one of the aspects of my job that I love most. Playing for Eschenbach is another. For such a small man, he radiates a presence and charisma both on and off the podium that is very daunting. The stern face with its watchful, penetrating eyes belies the gentle man inside; the heavily-accented voice is always soft, but somehow commands attention and respect.
7 October 1993 I have a session alone with Barstow today, to help her with memorization. She's not off book yet, and Maestro has complained to Gockley, who promptly replied, "All right, we'll fire her." Richard intervened, saying, "Let's wait a few days; we're giving her an hour every day with a pianist."
Barstow's last show here was Rosenkavalier; she had done the Marschallin before, but in English. So poor Jay Rozendaal had to prompt the show. He had never prompted before in his life, and the stress manifested itself in a horrendous backache. I hope I won't have to prompt this show. I would die, I would simply die.
Caught some of the Klytem./Elektra scene, which Richard played. Those two ladies are firebrands! Of course, everyone was paying court to Rysanek, it being her first day, but Richard told me that after I left the room, Behrens sang her end of the scene aria in full voice (she always marks in rehearsal) and absolutely nailed it, causing Miss Rysanek to burst into applause. Miss Behrens beamed in triumph.
31 October 1993 The street lights have just turned on. The sky is an iron gray, a strange transition from the brilliant blue it was an hour ago. West Gray is a fun street--all the buildings have been restored and painted stark white with black trim. The shops are all upscale, but not too; and of course, there is the inevitable Pier 1 Imports. Two kinds of bookstores: one large discount, the other small independent. Two kinds of movie theaters: one arthouse, the other multi-screen mainstream. The restaurants range from Black-Eyed Pea to Cafe Express to moderately priced Chinese and Italian. You can buy futons, antiques, house-roasted coffee beans, apple strudel, camping equipment, and evening gowns. Or, you can do as I do: hole up in Epicure 3 or 4 times a week with a book or a journal. Most of the street is lined on both sides with tall palm trees which are studded with small white lights at Christmas.
27 April 2012
Blogging A to Z: "N" is for Numerous Things
New Year's Eve Like Valentine's Day, NYE is an event I generally ignore. Maybe it has something to do with it being the biggest party night of the year, and I hate parties. So, out of sheer orneriness, I eschew celebrating on NYE.
Night Having worked many years in the theater, I used to be a night owl, rarely going to bed before 1 a. m., and very often staying up as late as 3.00. I loved using that time to write, study, or to work on my Italian-to-English translations. This helped banish whatever music was running through my head from the day's rehearsals. Also, the apartment building was quietest during those hours, so I could concentrate and get my best work done. Of course, the monastic horarium cured me forever of the night owl habit, so now I keep "old lady hours."
Nails Finger nails, that is. Every once in a while, I wonder what it's like to have long nails. As a pianist, and now as an ersatz organist, I never had that option. Maybe someday I'll let them grow out. They'll probably drive me mad.
Nancy Drew Shh--I still read my Nancy Drews. Not sure that's something I want to say out loud at my age. Then again, why not? They're very well written, and Nancy is still the coolest female protagonist in juvenile serial fiction. I have two complete sets (well, "complete" up to The Phantom of Pine Hill, because those are the ones I grew up with): the hardcover blue "tweed," and the ones with the yellow spines. Why two sets? Because the texts, and even some of the storylines, changed over the decades. It's fun to compare.
Nasal spray Two words: Simply Saline. It's the bomb.
Neighbors (shudder) Let's just say my past experiences with neighbors have not been positive, at least during my apartment living years. The scariest was at my second place: a 30-something woman moved into the unit next to mine, and she played her stereo at a truly unbelievable high volume, at random times of the day. I was awakened one Sunday morning at about 8.00 by a sudden wall-shattering blast of rock-and-roll. In a stupor, I went and knocked on her door; she opened it, asked curtly, "Too loud?" "Uh, yes." Then without another word, she slammed the door. She did turn her stereo down--a bit. The following night--morning, rather; it was around 2.30 a. m.--I was awakened by an insistent knocking on my neighbor's door. I heard her open the door; however, I couldn't hear the short conversation that followed. A few hours later, I was again awakened, this time by the sound of glass shattering, which went on for some minutes. When I emerged from my apartment that morning, I saw that all my neighbor's windows had been broken, and also the sliding glass doors to her balcony. There was no sign of her or her rattletrap car. When I asked about this later at the manager's office, they told me there had been too many complaints, so the police had been summoned and she was asked to vacate. Her response was to break all the windows before leaving. And I had been stupid enough to knock on her door!
There were other neighbor confrontations at my third apartment. I came away from the whole apartment living experience wearing an invisible but very thick coat of armor.
New England I've only been to Connecticut; namely, the Abbey of Regina Laudis in Bethlehem. But New England is really the only area of the US, besides New York City and San Francisco, that I've dreamed of visiting. I always wanted to see the autumn colors and stay in a White Christmas-type inn. I love that part of the film Baby Boom when Diane Keaton moves from New York City to that lovely white elephant of a farm in Vermont and gets kissed by Sam Shepard on the hood of her SUV. I want to hear that accent I've only heard in movies. To paraphrase Rosie O'Donnell in Sleepless, "I don't want to go to New England; I want to go to New England in a movie."
Nineteenth Century Where I really belong.
Nocturne The musical equivalent of a Romantic sonnet. Short, introspective, sometimes angst-ridden, rife with emotion and elegance. Synonomous with Chopin, but certainly not all he was and is.
Noodles I love noodles. All kinds. I could eat noodles every day. They are what makes my world go round.
Normalcy, Normality I've no idea what it is. Does anyone?
Novels Where would we be without them? They "take us away" better than Calgon ever could. They delight, enthrall, shock; they leave us wistful, moved, bemused, sometimes depressed, and ultimately grateful. They inspire screen adaptations--some excellent, some terrible; either way, we novel enthusiasts welcome them as we would a newborn child, and we can't wait to see what they look like and who they really take after. Although one may walk into any bookstore and feel utterly overwelmed by the sheer number of novels to choose from, the truth is, there can never be too many of them. Long live the novel!
November Amy March: "November is the most disagreeable month!" Jo March: "That's the reason I was born in it!" I suppose that's why I was born in it, too.
Night Having worked many years in the theater, I used to be a night owl, rarely going to bed before 1 a. m., and very often staying up as late as 3.00. I loved using that time to write, study, or to work on my Italian-to-English translations. This helped banish whatever music was running through my head from the day's rehearsals. Also, the apartment building was quietest during those hours, so I could concentrate and get my best work done. Of course, the monastic horarium cured me forever of the night owl habit, so now I keep "old lady hours."
Nails Finger nails, that is. Every once in a while, I wonder what it's like to have long nails. As a pianist, and now as an ersatz organist, I never had that option. Maybe someday I'll let them grow out. They'll probably drive me mad.
Nancy Drew Shh--I still read my Nancy Drews. Not sure that's something I want to say out loud at my age. Then again, why not? They're very well written, and Nancy is still the coolest female protagonist in juvenile serial fiction. I have two complete sets (well, "complete" up to The Phantom of Pine Hill, because those are the ones I grew up with): the hardcover blue "tweed," and the ones with the yellow spines. Why two sets? Because the texts, and even some of the storylines, changed over the decades. It's fun to compare.
Nasal spray Two words: Simply Saline. It's the bomb.
Neighbors (shudder) Let's just say my past experiences with neighbors have not been positive, at least during my apartment living years. The scariest was at my second place: a 30-something woman moved into the unit next to mine, and she played her stereo at a truly unbelievable high volume, at random times of the day. I was awakened one Sunday morning at about 8.00 by a sudden wall-shattering blast of rock-and-roll. In a stupor, I went and knocked on her door; she opened it, asked curtly, "Too loud?" "Uh, yes." Then without another word, she slammed the door. She did turn her stereo down--a bit. The following night--morning, rather; it was around 2.30 a. m.--I was awakened by an insistent knocking on my neighbor's door. I heard her open the door; however, I couldn't hear the short conversation that followed. A few hours later, I was again awakened, this time by the sound of glass shattering, which went on for some minutes. When I emerged from my apartment that morning, I saw that all my neighbor's windows had been broken, and also the sliding glass doors to her balcony. There was no sign of her or her rattletrap car. When I asked about this later at the manager's office, they told me there had been too many complaints, so the police had been summoned and she was asked to vacate. Her response was to break all the windows before leaving. And I had been stupid enough to knock on her door!
There were other neighbor confrontations at my third apartment. I came away from the whole apartment living experience wearing an invisible but very thick coat of armor.
New England I've only been to Connecticut; namely, the Abbey of Regina Laudis in Bethlehem. But New England is really the only area of the US, besides New York City and San Francisco, that I've dreamed of visiting. I always wanted to see the autumn colors and stay in a White Christmas-type inn. I love that part of the film Baby Boom when Diane Keaton moves from New York City to that lovely white elephant of a farm in Vermont and gets kissed by Sam Shepard on the hood of her SUV. I want to hear that accent I've only heard in movies. To paraphrase Rosie O'Donnell in Sleepless, "I don't want to go to New England; I want to go to New England in a movie."
Nineteenth Century Where I really belong.
Nocturne The musical equivalent of a Romantic sonnet. Short, introspective, sometimes angst-ridden, rife with emotion and elegance. Synonomous with Chopin, but certainly not all he was and is.
Noodles I love noodles. All kinds. I could eat noodles every day. They are what makes my world go round.
Normalcy, Normality I've no idea what it is. Does anyone?
Novels Where would we be without them? They "take us away" better than Calgon ever could. They delight, enthrall, shock; they leave us wistful, moved, bemused, sometimes depressed, and ultimately grateful. They inspire screen adaptations--some excellent, some terrible; either way, we novel enthusiasts welcome them as we would a newborn child, and we can't wait to see what they look like and who they really take after. Although one may walk into any bookstore and feel utterly overwelmed by the sheer number of novels to choose from, the truth is, there can never be too many of them. Long live the novel!
November Amy March: "November is the most disagreeable month!" Jo March: "That's the reason I was born in it!" I suppose that's why I was born in it, too.
26 April 2012
Blogging A to Z: "M" is for March and May
A few memories of Marches and Mays at the Houston Grand Opera.
3 May 1993 Things are really jumping at the opera! The second cast of Aida is up and running; we fired Thomas Booth after the piano dress and hired Michael Sylvester. Then the tenor in Barbiere fell ill; Kip Wilborn was whisked in, he sang Sunday matinee from the pit; today we start staging him just in case he has to go on. Now it seems that Bartoli, God forbid, is getting the same bug. I hope she stays on because Tamara is in no shape to step in, vocally. Someday she may be a good Rosina, but not this week.
9 May 1993 I wish I had gone to Wednesday's performance of Barbiere. Apparently, it was a night to remember. Palacio had been ill for the past week or so, so we brought in Kip Wilborn to stand by. Anyway, Palacio was really sick by the Wednesday night performance and was removed by David Gockley after the first scene, and Kip finished the show. Then during the curtain calls, a piece of equipment that hangs on the DL wall fell and hit a dresser. He was rendered unconscious, suffered compound fractures in his leg for which he had to have surgery; furthermore, the accident triggered an epileptic seizure, of which he hadn't had one in ten years, and which caused temporary short-term memory loss. But he's on the mend now, thank God.
16 May 1993 I suppose Frida is going OK--the stagings are sometimes a zoo; the director, the choreographer, and the puppet master all doing different things at once, everyone's talking and putting in their two cents' worth, and who the hell is in charge? Even the music rehearsals--Ward had to command quiet more than once, which rarely happens in a music rehearsal, at least in the opera world. Things like ensemble and integrity of tone are apparently of no real value to anyone but the music staff; the actors don't seem to care. And that bitch-on-heels of a director is driving me nuts.
27 May 1993 I must say, Ward has been wonderfully patient during these Frida rehearsals. This cast is so unbelievably chatty! I guess in opera, we're used to a certain code of behavior; we're not used to everyone talking all the time, especially when the conductor is running the rehearsal. The other morning, we had a brief music rehearsal of the finale and Ward was making a change in a certain spot. As usual, as soon as they stopped singing, the cast broke into general discussion and murmurings; then one of them piped up to Ward, "Could you repeat what you just said, please?" Ward asked her in return, "Were you talking?" "Yes." "Then I won't repeat it." I nearly guffawed!
Then there's the girl who is habitually late, or meandering around the sixth floor without telling stage management where she is. I was supposed to have a coaching with the three calaveras, and she was the only one missing at the appointed time. When she sauntered nonchalantly into the room a good five minutes into the coaching, Shawn, the ASM, told her she was late, to which she replied, "I've been here the whole time." She doesn't get it. Merely being in the building doesn't constitute being on time for your call. Space cadet.
18 March 1994 First day of Traviata chorus stagings. Harry Silverstein is the ideal director to chase away the 10 a. m. drowzies. The man is nuts.
During break, a small group of us went out for a smoke by the stage door. A white stretch limo and a Wagoneer pulled up to the curb; from the second vehicle emerged Cecilia Bartoli, arrived to rehearse the recital she's giving tonight; from the limo emerged an obvious companion of hers--an absolutely gorgeous male speciman, tall, slender, broad-shouldered, dressed in shades of muted blue, hair slicked back into a ponytail. A walking advertisement for Drakkar Noir. I'm afraid I gaped a bit, and I might even have left a small pool of drool on the pavement.
15 May 1994 We closed Turandot last Tuesday. I finally, finally got the Act II procession right, banda-wise. John smiled at me on the monitor; I wished he could see me smile back and hear my "thank you." The banda players were very complimentary afterwards, shook my hand and told me I did great.
But oh, the agony I went through during rehearsals! The second orchestra staging was the worst. Understand, first of all, that I and the poor banda were situated in the catwalks, six floors above the pit. John kept picking on me incessantly over the monitor; he wanted every note perfectly in line with the orchestra, pick-pick-pick, I'm behind one bar and ahead the next, over-and-over-and-over, pick-pick-pick. Finally, it was intermission before Act III, and I went out to the loading dock for a much needed smoke. As soon as I sat down with my smoking buddies from the chorus, I burst into tears, babbling, "It's too hard, we're too far from the pit, it's never gonna be perfect, he's just got to accept that! I'm trying my damnedest, but it's never gonna be perfect!" They tried to console me, but I kept crying, non-stop, shaking all over. A nervous wreck. (However, you will recall, dear Journal, that this is the time of year when I usually have a meltdown. End of the season, and all that.) Top of Act III, I had to conduct chorus offstage left, which I did with the tears still spouting and the nose running. "Has Leticia got a cold?" "No, she's crying!" Back upstairs in the catwalk, I was still crying. The banda were very sympathetic. They knew what my problem was, since they could hear everything John said over the monitor. I took up my baton for our next entrance, my hand was shaking, and I could barely see the monitor through my tears. Somehow, I made it through, but I was still crying when I got home, and kept it up till the wee hours. I wanted to strangle John. He knows how hard it is; he conducted banda for Julius Rudel at NYCO in the early years; he knows what it's like to be constantly picked on. Now he's on the other side of the monitor, and he's doing it to me.
But when he smiled at me onscreen during that last performance, I felt our old good feeling was restored. He's given me a lot of grief during the past five years, but deep down we have a solid respect for each other.
Note: Over the years, John DeMain and I forged a wonderful working relationship. He could be tough sometimes, but I wouldn't have missed those productions for anything in the world.
3 May 1993 Things are really jumping at the opera! The second cast of Aida is up and running; we fired Thomas Booth after the piano dress and hired Michael Sylvester. Then the tenor in Barbiere fell ill; Kip Wilborn was whisked in, he sang Sunday matinee from the pit; today we start staging him just in case he has to go on. Now it seems that Bartoli, God forbid, is getting the same bug. I hope she stays on because Tamara is in no shape to step in, vocally. Someday she may be a good Rosina, but not this week.
9 May 1993 I wish I had gone to Wednesday's performance of Barbiere. Apparently, it was a night to remember. Palacio had been ill for the past week or so, so we brought in Kip Wilborn to stand by. Anyway, Palacio was really sick by the Wednesday night performance and was removed by David Gockley after the first scene, and Kip finished the show. Then during the curtain calls, a piece of equipment that hangs on the DL wall fell and hit a dresser. He was rendered unconscious, suffered compound fractures in his leg for which he had to have surgery; furthermore, the accident triggered an epileptic seizure, of which he hadn't had one in ten years, and which caused temporary short-term memory loss. But he's on the mend now, thank God.
16 May 1993 I suppose Frida is going OK--the stagings are sometimes a zoo; the director, the choreographer, and the puppet master all doing different things at once, everyone's talking and putting in their two cents' worth, and who the hell is in charge? Even the music rehearsals--Ward had to command quiet more than once, which rarely happens in a music rehearsal, at least in the opera world. Things like ensemble and integrity of tone are apparently of no real value to anyone but the music staff; the actors don't seem to care. And that bitch-on-heels of a director is driving me nuts.
27 May 1993 I must say, Ward has been wonderfully patient during these Frida rehearsals. This cast is so unbelievably chatty! I guess in opera, we're used to a certain code of behavior; we're not used to everyone talking all the time, especially when the conductor is running the rehearsal. The other morning, we had a brief music rehearsal of the finale and Ward was making a change in a certain spot. As usual, as soon as they stopped singing, the cast broke into general discussion and murmurings; then one of them piped up to Ward, "Could you repeat what you just said, please?" Ward asked her in return, "Were you talking?" "Yes." "Then I won't repeat it." I nearly guffawed!
Then there's the girl who is habitually late, or meandering around the sixth floor without telling stage management where she is. I was supposed to have a coaching with the three calaveras, and she was the only one missing at the appointed time. When she sauntered nonchalantly into the room a good five minutes into the coaching, Shawn, the ASM, told her she was late, to which she replied, "I've been here the whole time." She doesn't get it. Merely being in the building doesn't constitute being on time for your call. Space cadet.
18 March 1994 First day of Traviata chorus stagings. Harry Silverstein is the ideal director to chase away the 10 a. m. drowzies. The man is nuts.
During break, a small group of us went out for a smoke by the stage door. A white stretch limo and a Wagoneer pulled up to the curb; from the second vehicle emerged Cecilia Bartoli, arrived to rehearse the recital she's giving tonight; from the limo emerged an obvious companion of hers--an absolutely gorgeous male speciman, tall, slender, broad-shouldered, dressed in shades of muted blue, hair slicked back into a ponytail. A walking advertisement for Drakkar Noir. I'm afraid I gaped a bit, and I might even have left a small pool of drool on the pavement.
15 May 1994 We closed Turandot last Tuesday. I finally, finally got the Act II procession right, banda-wise. John smiled at me on the monitor; I wished he could see me smile back and hear my "thank you." The banda players were very complimentary afterwards, shook my hand and told me I did great.
But oh, the agony I went through during rehearsals! The second orchestra staging was the worst. Understand, first of all, that I and the poor banda were situated in the catwalks, six floors above the pit. John kept picking on me incessantly over the monitor; he wanted every note perfectly in line with the orchestra, pick-pick-pick, I'm behind one bar and ahead the next, over-and-over-and-over, pick-pick-pick. Finally, it was intermission before Act III, and I went out to the loading dock for a much needed smoke. As soon as I sat down with my smoking buddies from the chorus, I burst into tears, babbling, "It's too hard, we're too far from the pit, it's never gonna be perfect, he's just got to accept that! I'm trying my damnedest, but it's never gonna be perfect!" They tried to console me, but I kept crying, non-stop, shaking all over. A nervous wreck. (However, you will recall, dear Journal, that this is the time of year when I usually have a meltdown. End of the season, and all that.) Top of Act III, I had to conduct chorus offstage left, which I did with the tears still spouting and the nose running. "Has Leticia got a cold?" "No, she's crying!" Back upstairs in the catwalk, I was still crying. The banda were very sympathetic. They knew what my problem was, since they could hear everything John said over the monitor. I took up my baton for our next entrance, my hand was shaking, and I could barely see the monitor through my tears. Somehow, I made it through, but I was still crying when I got home, and kept it up till the wee hours. I wanted to strangle John. He knows how hard it is; he conducted banda for Julius Rudel at NYCO in the early years; he knows what it's like to be constantly picked on. Now he's on the other side of the monitor, and he's doing it to me.
But when he smiled at me onscreen during that last performance, I felt our old good feeling was restored. He's given me a lot of grief during the past five years, but deep down we have a solid respect for each other.
Note: Over the years, John DeMain and I forged a wonderful working relationship. He could be tough sometimes, but I wouldn't have missed those productions for anything in the world.
25 April 2012
Blogging A to Z: "L" is for Liturgy of the Hours
One day shortly after the renewal of my faith in 2002, I paid my twice-monthly visit to my favorite Houston antiquarian bookstore, Detering Book Gallery. They were having their big annual sale that weekend, 30% off all regular stock. Browsing in the Philosophy/Religion room, I espied four volumes, each a different color, perched atop a random pile on a table. They looked, at first glance, like Bibles, but looking closely at the spines, I saw the words "Liturgy of the Hours."
Until my return to the faith I had no idea what the Liturgy of the Hours was; I had been so long away from the Church, having "left" it while still a teenager, and even before then, I was ignorant of many things, including this beautiful and universal prayer, the official prayer of the Church. I finally became aware of the Liturgy of the Hours, or the Divine Office, as it is frequently called, when I began discerning a vocation to religious life. I learned that the primary apostolate of contemplative nuns was prayer, and the Divine Office was their most important work; indeed, they are bound by pain of sin to pray the Divine Office, in full, every single day of their lives, a duty which they share with the clergy. However, laity are also encouraged to pray the Office, or at least a part of it, every day, in addition to attending Mass faithfully. It is an extension of the Mass.
When I stumbled upon the four-volume Liturgy of the Hours at Detering that day, I felt it was more than mere coincidence. God was gently steering me toward a life of prayer; whether as a religious or as a lay person, he wanted me to pray the Office. And the fact that those usually costly volumes were priced 30% off an already "used book" price clinched the deal for me!
The problem I then faced was: how do I pray the Office? Looking through the books, called breviaries, I was completely mystified, even after I read the copious introductory material in the first volume, and the Ordinary, which is found in all four volumes. Finally, I went online and found a website that explained the Office very simply and clearly, step by complicated step. With a hardcopy of those instructions close by and my breviary in hand, I began what has now become one of the most important habits of my daily life.
By praying the Office, the liturgical year with all its glories unfolds day by day, not just Sunday by Sunday. Morning, midmorning, midday, midafternoon, evening, and night -- with each of these "hours" of the Office, I am not only sanctifying the day, but am sanctifying it with the whole Church in praise and through the contemplation of God's word. The reciting of the entire cycle of Psalms over a four week period, along with the other Scripture readings, provides a constant source of inspiration, strength, and revelation; more importantly, it serves to strengthen and unify God's Church on earth. When I open my breviary, I am aware that millions of Christians throughout the world are opening theirs, too, and together as one body, we are worshipping the God who created us.
Until my return to the faith I had no idea what the Liturgy of the Hours was; I had been so long away from the Church, having "left" it while still a teenager, and even before then, I was ignorant of many things, including this beautiful and universal prayer, the official prayer of the Church. I finally became aware of the Liturgy of the Hours, or the Divine Office, as it is frequently called, when I began discerning a vocation to religious life. I learned that the primary apostolate of contemplative nuns was prayer, and the Divine Office was their most important work; indeed, they are bound by pain of sin to pray the Divine Office, in full, every single day of their lives, a duty which they share with the clergy. However, laity are also encouraged to pray the Office, or at least a part of it, every day, in addition to attending Mass faithfully. It is an extension of the Mass.
When I stumbled upon the four-volume Liturgy of the Hours at Detering that day, I felt it was more than mere coincidence. God was gently steering me toward a life of prayer; whether as a religious or as a lay person, he wanted me to pray the Office. And the fact that those usually costly volumes were priced 30% off an already "used book" price clinched the deal for me!
The problem I then faced was: how do I pray the Office? Looking through the books, called breviaries, I was completely mystified, even after I read the copious introductory material in the first volume, and the Ordinary, which is found in all four volumes. Finally, I went online and found a website that explained the Office very simply and clearly, step by complicated step. With a hardcopy of those instructions close by and my breviary in hand, I began what has now become one of the most important habits of my daily life.
By praying the Office, the liturgical year with all its glories unfolds day by day, not just Sunday by Sunday. Morning, midmorning, midday, midafternoon, evening, and night -- with each of these "hours" of the Office, I am not only sanctifying the day, but am sanctifying it with the whole Church in praise and through the contemplation of God's word. The reciting of the entire cycle of Psalms over a four week period, along with the other Scripture readings, provides a constant source of inspiration, strength, and revelation; more importantly, it serves to strengthen and unify God's Church on earth. When I open my breviary, I am aware that millions of Christians throughout the world are opening theirs, too, and together as one body, we are worshipping the God who created us.
24 April 2012
Blogging A to Z: "K" is for Kate and Kevin
I have been wracking my brain, trying to think of a K topic that intrigues me enough to write a whole blogpost about it. One idea was "Knowledge"--but, nah, too abstract and lofty. And, too, how much do I know about knowledge? It might have been too demoralizing to find out. Another idea was "Keys," as in music, but so much has already been written about the characteristics of various musical keys (G major is bright and happy, D-flat is mellow and introspective, etc.) and, frankly, I'm a bit tired of the subject.
So I decided to turn to people>>>actors. Avoiding the obvious and, again, oft-written-about Katharine Hepburn, I thought of my two favorite living "K" actors: Kate Winslet and Kevin Kline. And rather than attempt to analyze their skills, or state the reasons I like them, which are probably the same as the reasons everyone else likes them, I'll just let their work speak for me.
So I decided to turn to people>>>actors. Avoiding the obvious and, again, oft-written-about Katharine Hepburn, I thought of my two favorite living "K" actors: Kate Winslet and Kevin Kline. And rather than attempt to analyze their skills, or state the reasons I like them, which are probably the same as the reasons everyone else likes them, I'll just let their work speak for me.
Kate as Ophelia, Hamlet
Kate as the young Iris Murdoch in Iris
Kate as another Iris in The Holiday
Kevin as Hamlet
Kevin as Hundert, a teacher of great integrity (The Emperor's Club)
And the pièce de résistance (because I just couldn't resist): Kevin as Otto (A Fish Called Wanda)
21 April 2012
Blogging A to Z: "J" is for January, June, & July
Okay, I can't come up with a satisfactory "J" topic either, so I'm posting more journal extracts about my experiences at the Houston Grand Opera--this time, from entries written in January, June, and July.
20 July 1991 Here I am, recording the events of the past few days!
Annie Get Your Gun going well; good reviews.
Lohengrin preparation going very slowly; late start.
Hoffmann preparation not going at all.
Jean Mallandaine officially ousted from her postition as Head of Music Staff--and from HGO altogether--replaced by Richard Bado.
John DeMain officially resigned, but will do some shows over the next 2 years. Smitten with his new daughter.
Shauna Bowman Unger brand new mother of brand new boy.
28 May 1993 Frida is a mess and everyone who's seen a run of it says it's boring and too episodic. Ward is ready to kill both the accordian player and the guitarist. X, who plays a few of the smaller roles, has been a pain-in-the-ass diva. The production meetings have gone on till 1 or 1.30 in the morning. All in all, a pleasant and relaxing experience in the world of Musical Theater.
And tonight we do it in front of an audience, Lord help us.
The only really good thing that's come out of this is that my working relationship with Ward has gotten much easier and more comfortable. He really is a nice guy. He's incredibly tense and nervous about this show, which is perfectly understandable, and he's reached the point where Robert Rodriguez (the composer) seems more of a nag than a help to him.
There are definite advantages and disadvantages in having the composer in on the rehearsal process. One of the advantages is that he tells you how the piece should go. One of the disadvantages is that he tells you how the piece should go.
There have been several little scena's during this production period, one of which occurred between Richard and X (pain-in-the-ass diva). Richard is conducting all the off-stage singing. Now unless I'm wrong, and please correct me if I am, the off-stage singers are supposed to watch Richard, who is watching Ward on a monitor (the reasoning behind which is that a monitor can mysteriously go out, but a live backstage conductor can peek through he set if need be). X, however, chose not to watch Richard, and he, after conducting to the back of her head several times, told her, "If you continue not to look at me, I'll have the sound man turn off your vega (body mic)." He related this incident to me and Pat Houk and Jim Ireland. In the meeting following that rehearsal, Jim informed the director, "Please make it clear to X that regardless of what she's used to doing, as long as she's working in this house, she'll do as she's told. We'll replace her if we have to; that's never a problem." In that same rehearsal, X had bitched at one point about singing in the dark (the lighting was by no means set yet) and when we repeated the scene, she walked on stage holding a flashlight to her face.
18 June 1993 Production threw a party for Jim Ireland to celebrate his 50th birthday. I played for Ward and Richard; they sang a parody of "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling" ("When Irelands Eyes Are Flashing"), after which, I ate half of the available amount of guacamole, then left. I hate parties.
3 June 1996 I love coming here to Panini. I sit here eating my mezzo sei or mezz'otto or mezzo nove (those ae my favorites), and when I'm done, Ellie or Vittorio brings me my doppio macchiato, and they either yell to me from behind the counter, or if there are no more customers, they sit with me and chat. Facciamo quattro chiacchiere. Around 1.00 Ellie brings her soup to my table and eats, while Vittorio stays behind the counter. Or if he's not there she sits with me till a customer walks in, then she mutters under her breath, "Accidenti!" ("Damn!") and gets up to attend to him. When it's very busy, Ellie works the register and Vittorio takes the orders and hands out the sandwiches as they're ready, callng out in his sing-song Caprese accent, "Number twaynty-sayven! Oo ees number twaynty-sayven?"
30 July 1996, (in New York performing our production of Four Saints in Three Acts for the Lincoln Center Festival) In the morning, went strolling along the water with Sandy Campbell, Barbie Brandon, and Audrey Vallance. Then to Little Italy for lunch and browsing with them, plus Kathy Manley, Brett Scharf, John-the-Acrobat, Pat Houk, Kim Orr and Kimberly Lane. Afterward, Brett, Kathy, Sandy, K. Lane, John, Barbie, and I wandered around Greenwich Village. After an hour or so of very hot walking, Brett, Sandy, John, and I went on to Lincoln Center, stopping for a rest in the park before rehearsal. There was a woman on the next bench, must have been around 150 years old, with an unbelievable cartoon profile and a shock of white hair. Four or five dogs ran round her playing, their leashes trailing free behind them. Every two minutes or so, she would call out, "Donny!" and make this extremely penetrating whooping sound. "Has anyone seen a black dog on a leash?" she would call out at the top of her lungs to the park at large. We left her still calling for Donny, and went to rehearsal. On being released early, Nathan Wight, Kevin Moody, Mark Swindler, Susan Stone, and I went up the Empire State Building. Incredible--the lights of New York beneath a full moon.
Monday, cast free day. Went with Jonita to play for her Sarasota audition, took her to lunch at Sarabeth's, then to Patelson's. In the p. m. to dinner at Carmine's Bar (W44th) with Richard, Barbie, Mark S., Kevin, and Denise Thorson. Fabulous meal; the chicken cacciatore was top-notch. All of us but Richard went on to A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum with the extraordinary Nathan Lane. Wildly funny--at least, we thought so; but the family in front of us, obviously tourists from some podunk Bible Belt town, sat frozen as statues through the whole show; not one of them cracked a smile.
Tuesday--two sitzes, morning and afternoon, then with Eric Edlund and Derek Henry to some beer joint run by Trappist monks (or were E and D pulling my leg?); then tried to get tickets for Blue Man Group, waited for returns, but no luck; so down the street for a wonderful dinner at Time. A nice evening, despite the Blue Man disappointment.
1 August 1996 (still in New York) Very early dinner at Pasta d'Oro, then the opening of Four Saints, which was highly successful. Afterwards (the show only runs about an hour and a half), Nathan Wight and I went to see Cold Comfort Farm. We laughed and laughed and laughed.
28 January 2002 Another relatively light day at work. We had a Mice and Men notes session over which Cesca Zambello presided (the original director of this production, but she just came in for the final orchestra stagings). It is a well-known fact that Cesca hates prompters, and she tried her damndest to get rid of the prompter (me) in this production, but Patrick was adamant. So today, with her sitting but three feet away from me, I bellowed out cues in my most authoritative manner, revelling in the knowledge that I was annoying the crap out of her. I can be ornery. When the situation warrants it.
20 July 1991 Here I am, recording the events of the past few days!
Annie Get Your Gun going well; good reviews.
Lohengrin preparation going very slowly; late start.
Hoffmann preparation not going at all.
Jean Mallandaine officially ousted from her postition as Head of Music Staff--and from HGO altogether--replaced by Richard Bado.
John DeMain officially resigned, but will do some shows over the next 2 years. Smitten with his new daughter.
Shauna Bowman Unger brand new mother of brand new boy.
28 May 1993 Frida is a mess and everyone who's seen a run of it says it's boring and too episodic. Ward is ready to kill both the accordian player and the guitarist. X, who plays a few of the smaller roles, has been a pain-in-the-ass diva. The production meetings have gone on till 1 or 1.30 in the morning. All in all, a pleasant and relaxing experience in the world of Musical Theater.
And tonight we do it in front of an audience, Lord help us.
The only really good thing that's come out of this is that my working relationship with Ward has gotten much easier and more comfortable. He really is a nice guy. He's incredibly tense and nervous about this show, which is perfectly understandable, and he's reached the point where Robert Rodriguez (the composer) seems more of a nag than a help to him.
There are definite advantages and disadvantages in having the composer in on the rehearsal process. One of the advantages is that he tells you how the piece should go. One of the disadvantages is that he tells you how the piece should go.
There have been several little scena's during this production period, one of which occurred between Richard and X (pain-in-the-ass diva). Richard is conducting all the off-stage singing. Now unless I'm wrong, and please correct me if I am, the off-stage singers are supposed to watch Richard, who is watching Ward on a monitor (the reasoning behind which is that a monitor can mysteriously go out, but a live backstage conductor can peek through he set if need be). X, however, chose not to watch Richard, and he, after conducting to the back of her head several times, told her, "If you continue not to look at me, I'll have the sound man turn off your vega (body mic)." He related this incident to me and Pat Houk and Jim Ireland. In the meeting following that rehearsal, Jim informed the director, "Please make it clear to X that regardless of what she's used to doing, as long as she's working in this house, she'll do as she's told. We'll replace her if we have to; that's never a problem." In that same rehearsal, X had bitched at one point about singing in the dark (the lighting was by no means set yet) and when we repeated the scene, she walked on stage holding a flashlight to her face.
18 June 1993 Production threw a party for Jim Ireland to celebrate his 50th birthday. I played for Ward and Richard; they sang a parody of "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling" ("When Irelands Eyes Are Flashing"), after which, I ate half of the available amount of guacamole, then left. I hate parties.
3 June 1996 I love coming here to Panini. I sit here eating my mezzo sei or mezz'otto or mezzo nove (those ae my favorites), and when I'm done, Ellie or Vittorio brings me my doppio macchiato, and they either yell to me from behind the counter, or if there are no more customers, they sit with me and chat. Facciamo quattro chiacchiere. Around 1.00 Ellie brings her soup to my table and eats, while Vittorio stays behind the counter. Or if he's not there she sits with me till a customer walks in, then she mutters under her breath, "Accidenti!" ("Damn!") and gets up to attend to him. When it's very busy, Ellie works the register and Vittorio takes the orders and hands out the sandwiches as they're ready, callng out in his sing-song Caprese accent, "Number twaynty-sayven! Oo ees number twaynty-sayven?"
30 July 1996, (in New York performing our production of Four Saints in Three Acts for the Lincoln Center Festival) In the morning, went strolling along the water with Sandy Campbell, Barbie Brandon, and Audrey Vallance. Then to Little Italy for lunch and browsing with them, plus Kathy Manley, Brett Scharf, John-the-Acrobat, Pat Houk, Kim Orr and Kimberly Lane. Afterward, Brett, Kathy, Sandy, K. Lane, John, Barbie, and I wandered around Greenwich Village. After an hour or so of very hot walking, Brett, Sandy, John, and I went on to Lincoln Center, stopping for a rest in the park before rehearsal. There was a woman on the next bench, must have been around 150 years old, with an unbelievable cartoon profile and a shock of white hair. Four or five dogs ran round her playing, their leashes trailing free behind them. Every two minutes or so, she would call out, "Donny!" and make this extremely penetrating whooping sound. "Has anyone seen a black dog on a leash?" she would call out at the top of her lungs to the park at large. We left her still calling for Donny, and went to rehearsal. On being released early, Nathan Wight, Kevin Moody, Mark Swindler, Susan Stone, and I went up the Empire State Building. Incredible--the lights of New York beneath a full moon.
Monday, cast free day. Went with Jonita to play for her Sarasota audition, took her to lunch at Sarabeth's, then to Patelson's. In the p. m. to dinner at Carmine's Bar (W44th) with Richard, Barbie, Mark S., Kevin, and Denise Thorson. Fabulous meal; the chicken cacciatore was top-notch. All of us but Richard went on to A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum with the extraordinary Nathan Lane. Wildly funny--at least, we thought so; but the family in front of us, obviously tourists from some podunk Bible Belt town, sat frozen as statues through the whole show; not one of them cracked a smile.
Tuesday--two sitzes, morning and afternoon, then with Eric Edlund and Derek Henry to some beer joint run by Trappist monks (or were E and D pulling my leg?); then tried to get tickets for Blue Man Group, waited for returns, but no luck; so down the street for a wonderful dinner at Time. A nice evening, despite the Blue Man disappointment.
1 August 1996 (still in New York) Very early dinner at Pasta d'Oro, then the opening of Four Saints, which was highly successful. Afterwards (the show only runs about an hour and a half), Nathan Wight and I went to see Cold Comfort Farm. We laughed and laughed and laughed.
28 January 2002 Another relatively light day at work. We had a Mice and Men notes session over which Cesca Zambello presided (the original director of this production, but she just came in for the final orchestra stagings). It is a well-known fact that Cesca hates prompters, and she tried her damndest to get rid of the prompter (me) in this production, but Patrick was adamant. So today, with her sitting but three feet away from me, I bellowed out cues in my most authoritative manner, revelling in the knowledge that I was annoying the crap out of her. I can be ornery. When the situation warrants it.
20 April 2012
Blogging A to Z: "I' is for Intermission
No, I am not going to write about intermissions. This post itself is an intermission. I can't seem to choose a satisfactory "I" topic, including "Intermissions," so I'm taking an intermission from the alphabet challenge to do one of my journal retrospective posts, which is what I do when I can't think of anything else to write.
Here are some journal scribblings from some past Aprils when I worked at the opera:
7 April 1991 Cecilia Bartoli absolutely delightful! Couldn't be more than 5'2", girlish, vivacious, genuine, and funny. And adorable on stage. Doesn't have much English yet, but everyone in the cast is Italian and the director, though British, is fluent. I had forgotten that this is her American operatic debut. What a coup for HGO!
Last night at about a quarter to six, the power went out in the Wortham and we had to rehearse a couple of blocks away, on the the Music Hall stage. The balky upright piano was on the house floor, way in the corner off DL--that was the closest it could go. Ward was also on the house floor, conducting at the center of the apron; so, in order to see him, I had to turn my head all the way sideways. Plus, the singers were marking, and from that distance I couldn't hear a damn thing. It was not fun. So of course, when Ward yelled at me, "You're behind!" I could have punched him.
8 April 1991 Yesterday was probably the most bizarre day I've ever experienced at work. By the time I went in, which was about 1.00, not all the power had yet been restored. We had lights, etc. on the sixth floor, but no plumbing. One had to use the facilities in neighboring buildings. Which was easy enough to deal with, if we were a simple 9 to 5 workplace. But last night was final orchestra dress for Aida. So, due to insurance considerations (no lights in the lobby), the invited audience got uninvited; and, due to the absence of lights in the dressing rooms, we scrapped costumes and makeup. Bottled water and porta-potties were sent for. We had no lights onstage except work lights, no video or sound monitors, no intercom system. And conducting backstage without a video monitor was an adventure. It was like opera in the old days.
23 April 1995 For some stupid reason, I decided to dress up for the show today. I pulled out my straight black skirt and silk blazer, panty hose and spectator pumps. My feet hurt, my sleeves feel snug, I can't bend at the waist, but hey, I look good.
Now that this season is nearing the end, I've been giving considerable thought to the advantages and disadvatages of my firendships with Jen, Ana, and Mary. They're all younger--about 8 to 10 years younger than I--and they still, especially Mary and Jen, have one foot in college. What a difference those ten years make! There have been many occasions when they went out after an evening rehearsal (around 10p) and asked me to go with them; but frankly, after a long day of rehearsals, there's nothing I'd rather do more than go home and crash. They do party a lot. It'll catch up to them. They'll learn. Mary would say to me, "We're going to a movie after this; you wanna go?"
I answer, "I have a 10 a. m. rehearsal tomorrow."
"So? So do I. Besides, you're always up late anyway."
I could say I'm too old to carouse every night and expect to have all my brain cells working during the day; I need to concentrate for these rehearsals; and there is a big difference between staying out late and staying up late. But I just smile and say no.
Well, let them enjoy their youth. The day will come soon enough when they'll have to muster all their discipline and sacrifice their nightly partying for their art. Ana is a bit more mature. She knows when to rest. Jen would rather be at the beach. Mary would finish off a bottle of wine one night and wonder why her voice sounds fuzzy the next day. But they have good hearts, all of them.
5 April 1996 Piano dress (Norma) last night was certainly an event for me. Carol (Vaness) didn't want to sing; she didn't even want to mark. So I sang the entire role for her from the pit while she walked it onstage. It was the MOST FUN I've had in a long time! I marked a couple of high notes, but most of it I sang full voice and was surprised at how un-tired I was afterward. Joe gave me a good technique!
I also had to conduct the banda, which plays between the cavatina and cabaletta of "Casta Diva"; so when it came time for them to play, I left the pit and ran backstage, still singing. My banda players realized then, with a shock, that I had been singing the role. It was very funny.
Afterward, Carol saw me backstage, grabbed me by the shoulders, and gave me a shake, saying, "Why the hell aren't you singing?"
I was too chicken to tell her that I felt safer being a coach.
18 April 2001 There have been quite a lot of goings-on with Don Carlo, but suffice it to say that this production has been a true and extreme example of Instant Opera. My job as prompter has never been so arduous; not even Resurrection was so nerve-wracking, because we had sufficient rehearsal time.
Here are some journal scribblings from some past Aprils when I worked at the opera:
7 April 1991 Cecilia Bartoli absolutely delightful! Couldn't be more than 5'2", girlish, vivacious, genuine, and funny. And adorable on stage. Doesn't have much English yet, but everyone in the cast is Italian and the director, though British, is fluent. I had forgotten that this is her American operatic debut. What a coup for HGO!
Last night at about a quarter to six, the power went out in the Wortham and we had to rehearse a couple of blocks away, on the the Music Hall stage. The balky upright piano was on the house floor, way in the corner off DL--that was the closest it could go. Ward was also on the house floor, conducting at the center of the apron; so, in order to see him, I had to turn my head all the way sideways. Plus, the singers were marking, and from that distance I couldn't hear a damn thing. It was not fun. So of course, when Ward yelled at me, "You're behind!" I could have punched him.
8 April 1991 Yesterday was probably the most bizarre day I've ever experienced at work. By the time I went in, which was about 1.00, not all the power had yet been restored. We had lights, etc. on the sixth floor, but no plumbing. One had to use the facilities in neighboring buildings. Which was easy enough to deal with, if we were a simple 9 to 5 workplace. But last night was final orchestra dress for Aida. So, due to insurance considerations (no lights in the lobby), the invited audience got uninvited; and, due to the absence of lights in the dressing rooms, we scrapped costumes and makeup. Bottled water and porta-potties were sent for. We had no lights onstage except work lights, no video or sound monitors, no intercom system. And conducting backstage without a video monitor was an adventure. It was like opera in the old days.
23 April 1995 For some stupid reason, I decided to dress up for the show today. I pulled out my straight black skirt and silk blazer, panty hose and spectator pumps. My feet hurt, my sleeves feel snug, I can't bend at the waist, but hey, I look good.
Now that this season is nearing the end, I've been giving considerable thought to the advantages and disadvatages of my firendships with Jen, Ana, and Mary. They're all younger--about 8 to 10 years younger than I--and they still, especially Mary and Jen, have one foot in college. What a difference those ten years make! There have been many occasions when they went out after an evening rehearsal (around 10p) and asked me to go with them; but frankly, after a long day of rehearsals, there's nothing I'd rather do more than go home and crash. They do party a lot. It'll catch up to them. They'll learn. Mary would say to me, "We're going to a movie after this; you wanna go?"
I answer, "I have a 10 a. m. rehearsal tomorrow."
"So? So do I. Besides, you're always up late anyway."
I could say I'm too old to carouse every night and expect to have all my brain cells working during the day; I need to concentrate for these rehearsals; and there is a big difference between staying out late and staying up late. But I just smile and say no.
Well, let them enjoy their youth. The day will come soon enough when they'll have to muster all their discipline and sacrifice their nightly partying for their art. Ana is a bit more mature. She knows when to rest. Jen would rather be at the beach. Mary would finish off a bottle of wine one night and wonder why her voice sounds fuzzy the next day. But they have good hearts, all of them.
5 April 1996 Piano dress (Norma) last night was certainly an event for me. Carol (Vaness) didn't want to sing; she didn't even want to mark. So I sang the entire role for her from the pit while she walked it onstage. It was the MOST FUN I've had in a long time! I marked a couple of high notes, but most of it I sang full voice and was surprised at how un-tired I was afterward. Joe gave me a good technique!
I also had to conduct the banda, which plays between the cavatina and cabaletta of "Casta Diva"; so when it came time for them to play, I left the pit and ran backstage, still singing. My banda players realized then, with a shock, that I had been singing the role. It was very funny.
Afterward, Carol saw me backstage, grabbed me by the shoulders, and gave me a shake, saying, "Why the hell aren't you singing?"
I was too chicken to tell her that I felt safer being a coach.
18 April 2001 There have been quite a lot of goings-on with Don Carlo, but suffice it to say that this production has been a true and extreme example of Instant Opera. My job as prompter has never been so arduous; not even Resurrection was so nerve-wracking, because we had sufficient rehearsal time.
18 April 2012
Blogging A to Z: "H" is for Handwriting
Every few months or so, I open our mailbox, sift through the small pile of charity appeals, catalogues, and bills, and spy something that brings a smile of unmitigated joy to my lips: the handwriting of a certain friend. Now this friend, who lives in Italy, is a self-proclaimed dinosaur and not at all ashamed to be so. A true remnant of the last century, he has made, at 59 years of age, but few concessions to the latest technological advances in communication; he uses a mobile phone, has a fax machine, and conducts some business via email. However, when it comes to personal relationships, he categorically refuses to email, and will not even consider opening a Twitter or Facebook account, because, apart from the aforesaid business emailing, he never touches a computer. As for the mobile phone, he does use it to call me, but only when he's in America. So be it. As recompense, I have his handwriting, that visible extension of his very personality. The mere glimpse of it instantly conjures up the image of his face. Opening the envelope is like opening my front door to let him in; unfolding the pages and reading his scrawl, typically Italianate and barely legible, is like hearing the lilt and rhythms of his voice; the peculiar loop to his g's is like the peculiar cluster of curls that stubbornly hangs over his forehead.
Every year or so, I open our mailbox, sift through the pile, and spy something that brings a half wistful, half rueful smile to my lips: the handwriting of my former novice directress at the Monastery of the Infant Jesus. It is precise as a school teacher's, carefully formed, no lavish loops, no over-long crosses to the t's. Her handwriting is indeed she. Reading her letter, I hear the voice, softly modulated, rather halting, always with a smile behind it, even when recounting sad news. It is the disciplined handwriting of a woman contentedly defined by the walls within which she lives, a woman who shapes each letter according to the rules she learned well and long ago, as a child. As I read, I see her seated across from me, knees together, one foot slightly in front of the other, the hands folded easily in her lap, unfolding every few minutes or so to smooth her scapular, which of course doesn't need smoothing. Her handwriting is as recognizable and pristine as the habit she wears.
When I write by hand, whether it be a letter or the draft of a poem, I have the sensation that my thought flows from my mind, through my arm, out the tip of the pen, and manifests itself on the page in characters that are as unique as the being that formed them. My handwriting has undergone many changes over the years; it bears little to no resemblance to the writing I had in high school or college or even ten years ago—and appropriately so. I myself have been through radical changes, especially over the past ten years. When I look through my journals or through drafts of early poems, I know exactly where I was emotionally and intellectually, by the state of my handwriting. It is the blueprint of my life.
I sincerely hope I may continue to visit with the people I love through their handwriting, not just through the cold, generic font on Twitter or Facebook or email. But I know too well that cursive is a dying art, now seldom taught in schools. What a shame to lose this unique expression of each utterly unique personality!
17 April 2012
Blogging A to Z: "G" is for The Ghost and Mrs. Muir
You might be wondering why I've chosen this as my "G" topic. No need to wonder, really, considering I am a hopeless (hopeful?) romantic, not to mention a sucker for sentiment, and the story of The Ghost and Mrs. Muir provides plenty of both romance and sentiment. It also has humor, fantasy, wonderful characters (including a particularly charismatic male lead), and an enduring theme.
The Ghost and Mrs. Muir had its first incarnation in the form of a novel, published in 1945, by R. A. Dick (a pseudonym for the Scottish writer Josephine Leslie). It is the story of 34-year-old Lucy Muir, who after the death of her husband decides to start a new life with her two small children in a seaside cottage. She knows the cottage is rumored to be haunted by the ghost of its former seafaring owner, Captain Gregg; nevertheless, she buys it, and very soon makes the ghost's acquaintance:
She removed the kettle from the Beatrice stove and put it down with a smack on the gas stove. Lighting another match, she turned on the gas, or attempted to, for though she turned the knob, it still refused to work.
"Why won't you light, why won't you, why won't you?" Lucy said aloud in exasperation.
"Because I don't choose that it should," said a deep voice.
Dropping the match-box that she was holding, Lucy stared around the room. Thre was no one there.
"I don't approve of gas," continued the voice. "I hate the damn stuff, blast it."
The voice was not really there either, she did not hear it with her ears. It seemed to come straight into her mind like thought, but how could it be her thought when she never swore even to herself? It must be Captain Gregg speaking to her, and suddenly she was angry, and anger driving out fear, she lashed out at him with fury.
In the novel, the ghost of Captain Gregg never actually materializes; rather, after his initial appearance in a dream Lucy has, it is only his voice that she hears, not with her ears, but with her mind.
And supposing, thought Lucy in alarm, supposing Captain Gregg were but a figment of her imagination. Women approaching middle age and living alone do sometimes go odd, she had read, and imagined the wildest situations; but after all she was scarcely stepping onto the threshold of middle age, and positively dancing into loneliness, and surely Captain Gregg was wilder than her mind, at the most odd, could invent.
After consulting a psychoanalyst, Lucy concludes that she couldn't possibly have created a character as salty and brash as the Captain. She's much too innocent and unwordly.
The novel is utterly enchanting--a bit expensive in its newest edition, which is hardbound, but I think well worth it, as it is a novel I'll be reading again and again. I don't want to give the whole story away here; just suffice it to say that it's one that stays in heart and memory. Every hopeless romantic should own it.
In 1947, a film version was made with Gene Tierney as Lucy and a very dashing Rex Harrison as the Captain (he does materialize in the film). Directed by Joseph L. Mankiewicz, with a screenplay by Philip Dunne and a stunningly evocative score by Bernard Herrmann, it is a jewel of a film that perfectly captures the essential plot and spirit (no pun intended) of R. A. Dick's novel. Here is a beautifully done montage of images from the film, set against the background of Herrmann's gorgeous music:
Then there was a TV series that ran 1968-1970, starring Hope Lange and the very handsome Edward Mulhare (Charles Nelson Reilly co-starred as well). The series updated the story to contemporary times, and though its run was short it remains a favorite with almost everyone who watched it, myself included. My favorite episode, and I think the favorite of many, is called "The Medicine Ball," very romantic, which may be viewed here in its entirety:
I do hope that, if you haven't already seen the 1947 film, you will do so soon! And many other episodes of the TV series can be seen on YouTube. But it's always better to start with the source, the delightful and romantic novel by R. A. Dick.
The Ghost and Mrs. Muir had its first incarnation in the form of a novel, published in 1945, by R. A. Dick (a pseudonym for the Scottish writer Josephine Leslie). It is the story of 34-year-old Lucy Muir, who after the death of her husband decides to start a new life with her two small children in a seaside cottage. She knows the cottage is rumored to be haunted by the ghost of its former seafaring owner, Captain Gregg; nevertheless, she buys it, and very soon makes the ghost's acquaintance:
She removed the kettle from the Beatrice stove and put it down with a smack on the gas stove. Lighting another match, she turned on the gas, or attempted to, for though she turned the knob, it still refused to work.
"Why won't you light, why won't you, why won't you?" Lucy said aloud in exasperation.
"Because I don't choose that it should," said a deep voice.
Dropping the match-box that she was holding, Lucy stared around the room. Thre was no one there.
"I don't approve of gas," continued the voice. "I hate the damn stuff, blast it."
The voice was not really there either, she did not hear it with her ears. It seemed to come straight into her mind like thought, but how could it be her thought when she never swore even to herself? It must be Captain Gregg speaking to her, and suddenly she was angry, and anger driving out fear, she lashed out at him with fury.
In the novel, the ghost of Captain Gregg never actually materializes; rather, after his initial appearance in a dream Lucy has, it is only his voice that she hears, not with her ears, but with her mind.
And supposing, thought Lucy in alarm, supposing Captain Gregg were but a figment of her imagination. Women approaching middle age and living alone do sometimes go odd, she had read, and imagined the wildest situations; but after all she was scarcely stepping onto the threshold of middle age, and positively dancing into loneliness, and surely Captain Gregg was wilder than her mind, at the most odd, could invent.
After consulting a psychoanalyst, Lucy concludes that she couldn't possibly have created a character as salty and brash as the Captain. She's much too innocent and unwordly.
The novel is utterly enchanting--a bit expensive in its newest edition, which is hardbound, but I think well worth it, as it is a novel I'll be reading again and again. I don't want to give the whole story away here; just suffice it to say that it's one that stays in heart and memory. Every hopeless romantic should own it.
In 1947, a film version was made with Gene Tierney as Lucy and a very dashing Rex Harrison as the Captain (he does materialize in the film). Directed by Joseph L. Mankiewicz, with a screenplay by Philip Dunne and a stunningly evocative score by Bernard Herrmann, it is a jewel of a film that perfectly captures the essential plot and spirit (no pun intended) of R. A. Dick's novel. Here is a beautifully done montage of images from the film, set against the background of Herrmann's gorgeous music:
Then there was a TV series that ran 1968-1970, starring Hope Lange and the very handsome Edward Mulhare (Charles Nelson Reilly co-starred as well). The series updated the story to contemporary times, and though its run was short it remains a favorite with almost everyone who watched it, myself included. My favorite episode, and I think the favorite of many, is called "The Medicine Ball," very romantic, which may be viewed here in its entirety:
I do hope that, if you haven't already seen the 1947 film, you will do so soon! And many other episodes of the TV series can be seen on YouTube. But it's always better to start with the source, the delightful and romantic novel by R. A. Dick.
14 April 2012
Blogging A to Z: "F" is for Fourteen
If you could choose a single year of your life that was absolutely, positively, hands-down the most memorable, which would it be? For me, it was my fourteenth year. So many important things happened, including many "firsts," to make that year stand out in my memory more than any other. My big regret is I no longer have any of the journals I wrote before college. I threw them all out one day in a fit of frustrated depression, declaring them to be silly and not worth keeping. Sadly, in my middle age, I now understand that that adolescent "silly" state is common, and indeed crucial, to everyone's development.
The first thing that made age 14 memorable is that it was the one and only year, my freshman year, that I spent in a Catholic girls' school. Until then, I had not ever been around sisters (religious belonging to "active" orders—teachers, nurses, missionaries, etc.—are technically not "nuns," they are "sisters"), and I had no idea what to expect or even how to address them. Instinctively, I began by calling them "ma'am," but was quickly informed of the proper address by my homeroom sister, who shall remain nameless because she was, in all honesty, not the nicest religious I've ever met. In fact, she was a downright grump. All the other sisters at IWHS were jolly, funny, and easy to talk to; still, they didn't make a big enough impression on me to want to become a religious myself. In fact, I was still an agnostic when I began my freshman year, and it was Scripture, not the sisters, that prompted my conversion a few months later—and that's the second thing that made my fourteenth year memorable. I recounted in an earlier post that reading about St. Paul's conversion in Acts had a profound effect on me and opened my heart and reason to accept the gift of faith. It was the historical, factual aspect of that event that convinced me.
I'm not sure why my parents suddenly decided to send me to a Catholic school, but I'm positive of the reason they put me back in a public school the next year. IWHS used what is called a modular schedule, which is very similar to a schedule one would have in any college; so I would have, say, biology twice a week, English and algebra three times a week, etc., and in between classes were free periods to be used for study. The point was that a student could progress at her own rate; if she were particularly zealous, she could graduate early. Well ... you can probably guess that my free periods were used for anything but study. More often than not, my friends and I would hole up underneath the swimming pool or library to smoke cigarettes. At the end of the year I managed to complete only half of my courses. If I had stayed at IWHS, there was no way I could have graduated in fewer than four years. So back to public school with its traditional schedule! (Not that it made a difference for me....)
I also had my first big relationship at 14, and my first real kiss (I don't count the chaste little peck I received in junior high). Of course, this relationship had to be kept secret, since my parents did not allow their children to date till we were 18. Which is probably why all my sisters married in college.
That year, I entered my first big piano competitions and "placed" in all of them. Not actually winning the top prize didn't bother me; I was the youngest in every one of those competitions, so I was more than happy that I even placed.
That summer, I took my first airplane trip ever for my very first trip abroad. I was one of a group of young pianists and singers recruited and chaperoned by my piano teacher, Myrna von Nimitz, for a two-week tour of the continent, followed by a month in London taking courses at Goldsmiths College. I remember very little of that trip, which makes me regret even more my rash disposal of my early journals. My photographs, too, poor as they were (my first time using a camera), have also somehow been lost. I do remember attending my first and only rock concert during that trip. It was a day-long, outdoor event featuring Van Morrison, The Doobies, and The Allmans. My companions were college age and much more comfortable among the blankets and hashish smokers than little innocent me. The most adventurous I got was smoking a pipe (tobacco). How Niles Crane of me.
A year full of "firsts" and "only"s. Ah, yes, fourteen was memorable, indeed!
The first thing that made age 14 memorable is that it was the one and only year, my freshman year, that I spent in a Catholic girls' school. Until then, I had not ever been around sisters (religious belonging to "active" orders—teachers, nurses, missionaries, etc.—are technically not "nuns," they are "sisters"), and I had no idea what to expect or even how to address them. Instinctively, I began by calling them "ma'am," but was quickly informed of the proper address by my homeroom sister, who shall remain nameless because she was, in all honesty, not the nicest religious I've ever met. In fact, she was a downright grump. All the other sisters at IWHS were jolly, funny, and easy to talk to; still, they didn't make a big enough impression on me to want to become a religious myself. In fact, I was still an agnostic when I began my freshman year, and it was Scripture, not the sisters, that prompted my conversion a few months later—and that's the second thing that made my fourteenth year memorable. I recounted in an earlier post that reading about St. Paul's conversion in Acts had a profound effect on me and opened my heart and reason to accept the gift of faith. It was the historical, factual aspect of that event that convinced me.
I'm not sure why my parents suddenly decided to send me to a Catholic school, but I'm positive of the reason they put me back in a public school the next year. IWHS used what is called a modular schedule, which is very similar to a schedule one would have in any college; so I would have, say, biology twice a week, English and algebra three times a week, etc., and in between classes were free periods to be used for study. The point was that a student could progress at her own rate; if she were particularly zealous, she could graduate early. Well ... you can probably guess that my free periods were used for anything but study. More often than not, my friends and I would hole up underneath the swimming pool or library to smoke cigarettes. At the end of the year I managed to complete only half of my courses. If I had stayed at IWHS, there was no way I could have graduated in fewer than four years. So back to public school with its traditional schedule! (Not that it made a difference for me....)
I also had my first big relationship at 14, and my first real kiss (I don't count the chaste little peck I received in junior high). Of course, this relationship had to be kept secret, since my parents did not allow their children to date till we were 18. Which is probably why all my sisters married in college.
That year, I entered my first big piano competitions and "placed" in all of them. Not actually winning the top prize didn't bother me; I was the youngest in every one of those competitions, so I was more than happy that I even placed.
That summer, I took my first airplane trip ever for my very first trip abroad. I was one of a group of young pianists and singers recruited and chaperoned by my piano teacher, Myrna von Nimitz, for a two-week tour of the continent, followed by a month in London taking courses at Goldsmiths College. I remember very little of that trip, which makes me regret even more my rash disposal of my early journals. My photographs, too, poor as they were (my first time using a camera), have also somehow been lost. I do remember attending my first and only rock concert during that trip. It was a day-long, outdoor event featuring Van Morrison, The Doobies, and The Allmans. My companions were college age and much more comfortable among the blankets and hashish smokers than little innocent me. The most adventurous I got was smoking a pipe (tobacco). How Niles Crane of me.
A year full of "firsts" and "only"s. Ah, yes, fourteen was memorable, indeed!
13 April 2012
Blogging A to Z: "E" is for Essays (Eewww!)
According to Webster, an essay is "a short literary composition on a particular theme or subject, usu. in prose and generally analytic, speculative, or interpretive." Well, let's see ... these posts I write are indeed short; don't know if they're particuarly literary (what does that mean, anyway?); they do focus on a particular theme or subject; yes, they are prose, but--analytic? Meh. Speculative? Well, yes, insofar as the contemplation of the subject goes; but a conclusion, i. e., the speculation that results from the speculating, isn't always reached. Sometimes I simply ramble on and on without actually getting anywhere. Interpretive? Again, yes, insofar as I pursue my own personal, and sometimes autobiographical, take on the subject, ignoring everyone else's. In other words, I tend to "write what I know" without taking the trouble to find out about what I don't know. That's the diarist in me. In conclusion (ah!--a conclusion!), whether or not I write essays is in the eye of the reader.
In These Happy Golden Years Laura Ingalls returns to school after teaching her first term, and on her very first day back she discovers that the teacher, Mr. Owens, has asked the students to write an essay on ambition, and the assignment was due that very day. Laura panics because she has never written an essay before. So she decides to consult the dictionary, as I did for a formal definition of "essay," and ends up hastily writing a very short but excellent piece. Mr. Owens gave it a 100, in fact. I had a very similar experience myself (see, I'm pursuing my own autobiographical take) when I was a freshman at Incarnate Word High School. My English teacher, Sr. Agnes Imelda Lange, had us choose a Bible verse and write an essay on it. I can't remember the exact verse I chose, but it was a Proverb. Like Laura Ingalls, I was in a bit of a panic because I had never written an essay before, not even "What I Did Last Summer." But I did my best, and Sister gave me an A+ for my effort, telling me I should write for the school paper, which I never did, but I was grateful for the encouragement.
Years later, when I was at the Houston Grand Opera, I was asked to write an article for the company's magazine about what an opera coach does. Again, I panicked, but this time because I was daunted by the word "article." It sounded so--well, journalistic, and I certainly was no journalist. As I drafted the article, the words of Helene Hanff, one of my favorite writers, came back to me (and I paraphrase): "What were the essays of Addison and Steele, Hazlitt, and Lamb, but magazine articles?" I thought, well, there you go, I'm really writing an essay. A much nicer, more literary (whatever that means) term than "article." So I took a cue from Addison and Steele and discarded my inititial drier, more technical, draft and wrote another draft using my own speaking voice, as if I were actually talking face to face with my readers. I found this approach to be much easier and infinitely more sincere than the journalistic approach with which I had begun.
Oh, dear, I'm rambling again.
I suppose what I'm trying to say, in my vague and verbose manner, is that I love essays; rather, I've come to love them. Once I got past my academic notion of them and began reading essayists like Addison and Steele, Lamb, and my personal favorite, "Alpha of the Plough," I discovered that the essay can be a source of much pleasure, be they light or serious. If you think you don't like essays, keep in mind that every time you read an editorial you are in fact reading an essay. And bloggers like myself are, in effect, writing essays (albeit in a more informal, less literary--aack!-- way). Thank you, Laura Ingalls and Sr. Agnes Imelda Lange, for the inspiration and encouragement!
In These Happy Golden Years Laura Ingalls returns to school after teaching her first term, and on her very first day back she discovers that the teacher, Mr. Owens, has asked the students to write an essay on ambition, and the assignment was due that very day. Laura panics because she has never written an essay before. So she decides to consult the dictionary, as I did for a formal definition of "essay," and ends up hastily writing a very short but excellent piece. Mr. Owens gave it a 100, in fact. I had a very similar experience myself (see, I'm pursuing my own autobiographical take) when I was a freshman at Incarnate Word High School. My English teacher, Sr. Agnes Imelda Lange, had us choose a Bible verse and write an essay on it. I can't remember the exact verse I chose, but it was a Proverb. Like Laura Ingalls, I was in a bit of a panic because I had never written an essay before, not even "What I Did Last Summer." But I did my best, and Sister gave me an A+ for my effort, telling me I should write for the school paper, which I never did, but I was grateful for the encouragement.
Years later, when I was at the Houston Grand Opera, I was asked to write an article for the company's magazine about what an opera coach does. Again, I panicked, but this time because I was daunted by the word "article." It sounded so--well, journalistic, and I certainly was no journalist. As I drafted the article, the words of Helene Hanff, one of my favorite writers, came back to me (and I paraphrase): "What were the essays of Addison and Steele, Hazlitt, and Lamb, but magazine articles?" I thought, well, there you go, I'm really writing an essay. A much nicer, more literary (whatever that means) term than "article." So I took a cue from Addison and Steele and discarded my inititial drier, more technical, draft and wrote another draft using my own speaking voice, as if I were actually talking face to face with my readers. I found this approach to be much easier and infinitely more sincere than the journalistic approach with which I had begun.
Oh, dear, I'm rambling again.
I suppose what I'm trying to say, in my vague and verbose manner, is that I love essays; rather, I've come to love them. Once I got past my academic notion of them and began reading essayists like Addison and Steele, Lamb, and my personal favorite, "Alpha of the Plough," I discovered that the essay can be a source of much pleasure, be they light or serious. If you think you don't like essays, keep in mind that every time you read an editorial you are in fact reading an essay. And bloggers like myself are, in effect, writing essays (albeit in a more informal, less literary--aack!-- way). Thank you, Laura Ingalls and Sr. Agnes Imelda Lange, for the inspiration and encouragement!
12 April 2012
Blogging A to Z: "D" is for Diaries
I must be a bit of a literary voyeur, because I love to read diaries. Only thing is, though, diaries written by literary figures, or famous people in general, can sometimes be suspect, as the writers likely have in the back of their minds the notion that their diary will someday be published and read, and so write accordingly. How honest can such diaries be, I find myself wondering. My favorite diaries are those written by unknown people whose writings have been published mainly because of the time in which they lived, be it a World War, or the Great Depression; or perhaps they were among the early pioneers, trying to forge an existence in a hitherto unexplored wilderness. Their seemingly ordinary lives are no less interesting than the lives of the famous; in fact, in many cases they can be even more interesting, because we can more readily identify with them.
One of my favorite diarists is a young woman called Emily Shore. The excerpts I read of her journal in The Faber Book of Diaries were so intriguing and moving, that I ordered the entire Journal of Emily Shore through Amazon. Emily was a young English woman who died in 1839 at the age of 19, from tuberculosis. She was brilliant, extraordinarily well-read and learned, curious of intellect, and only stopped studying and writing when her illness became so advanced that she could no longer hold a pen. Her zest for learning, her profound interest in the myriad miracles of nature, her purity of heart and thought, expressed so vividly in her writing, have all moved me so much that I find myself wishing I had known her and been her friend. As it is, my acquaintance with her through the written word is one of the greatest joys that reading has ever granted me.
Some years ago, I found a fascinating volume at Half-Price Books called Private Pages. Edited by Penelope Franklin, it is a compilation of long excerpts from diaries written by thirteen American women between the years 1832 to 1979. The youngest diarist was a 13-year-old school girl; the oldest was a Quaker woman in her seventies. In between are aspiring writers, housewives, and career women, none of them particularly well known except perhaps in their hometowns. Just as fascinating to me as the diary excerpts themselves, is the editor's search and collecting of them, which she recounts in her introduction. Imagine going from town to town, digging into archives and dusty library files, trying to decipher old-fashioned handwriting; having people approach you, once your mission has been made known, with their great-grandmother's diaries which have been stored in the attic for fifty years. It must have been an arduous task for Ms. Franklin, and I thank her for making it possible for me and many other readers to get to know these ordinary yet complex women.
I suppose I prefer reading women's diaries because I'm mostly interested in the interior landscape of a woman's life, the struggles and dilemmas common to our sex. I have no children, but I enjoy reading about the joys and trials of pregnancy and motherhood. Even though I've never had any difficulty in building my career, I enjoy reading about how our predecessors dealt with being a woman in a man's world, how they found and nurtured the resilience they needed to succeed in whatever career they chose to follow. I enjoy reading, though I'm single, about courtships and marriages. Maybe I want to experience by proxy things I have never experienced in reality. And along the way, I'm sure to meet women like Emily Shore and be forever grateful for their spirit, intellect, and heart.
One of my favorite diarists is a young woman called Emily Shore. The excerpts I read of her journal in The Faber Book of Diaries were so intriguing and moving, that I ordered the entire Journal of Emily Shore through Amazon. Emily was a young English woman who died in 1839 at the age of 19, from tuberculosis. She was brilliant, extraordinarily well-read and learned, curious of intellect, and only stopped studying and writing when her illness became so advanced that she could no longer hold a pen. Her zest for learning, her profound interest in the myriad miracles of nature, her purity of heart and thought, expressed so vividly in her writing, have all moved me so much that I find myself wishing I had known her and been her friend. As it is, my acquaintance with her through the written word is one of the greatest joys that reading has ever granted me.
Some years ago, I found a fascinating volume at Half-Price Books called Private Pages. Edited by Penelope Franklin, it is a compilation of long excerpts from diaries written by thirteen American women between the years 1832 to 1979. The youngest diarist was a 13-year-old school girl; the oldest was a Quaker woman in her seventies. In between are aspiring writers, housewives, and career women, none of them particularly well known except perhaps in their hometowns. Just as fascinating to me as the diary excerpts themselves, is the editor's search and collecting of them, which she recounts in her introduction. Imagine going from town to town, digging into archives and dusty library files, trying to decipher old-fashioned handwriting; having people approach you, once your mission has been made known, with their great-grandmother's diaries which have been stored in the attic for fifty years. It must have been an arduous task for Ms. Franklin, and I thank her for making it possible for me and many other readers to get to know these ordinary yet complex women.
I suppose I prefer reading women's diaries because I'm mostly interested in the interior landscape of a woman's life, the struggles and dilemmas common to our sex. I have no children, but I enjoy reading about the joys and trials of pregnancy and motherhood. Even though I've never had any difficulty in building my career, I enjoy reading about how our predecessors dealt with being a woman in a man's world, how they found and nurtured the resilience they needed to succeed in whatever career they chose to follow. I enjoy reading, though I'm single, about courtships and marriages. Maybe I want to experience by proxy things I have never experienced in reality. And along the way, I'm sure to meet women like Emily Shore and be forever grateful for their spirit, intellect, and heart.
11 April 2012
Blogging A to Z: "C" is for--you guessed it--Chocolate!
When I decided to do this alphabet challenge thingamabob, I swore to myself I wouldn't do the obvious topics--like chocolate. But then I told myself, Self--think of it as a challenge. A writing gauntlet, battered and oft worn, daring you to find something to say about chocolate that no one has ever said before. And Self said, I accept the challenge, though I may die in the attempt!
Nearly half a century ago, there was a little girl, then about four years old. Every morning upon waking, she would patter on her plump little feet into the kitchen, where she knew she'd find her indulgent mother stirring away at a steaming pot on the stove. The little girl would demand, in that flutey yet imperious tone that only four-year-olds possess, "I want my chockit milk!" Whereupon her mother poured milk into a saucepan, heating it to just past lukewarm (the mother had an instinct for the exact temperature). She then put a heaping spoonful of Nestle's Quik into a white ceramic mug in the shape of Santa Claus' head, added to it the heated milk, stirred briskly, and set the mug on the formica-and-steel kitchen table.
The little girl was so fond of just-past-lukewarm chocolate milk, she would gulp it all down greedily, not even coming up for air, until there was nothing but Nestle's Quik dregs at the bottom of the mug. The dregs were the best part. The little girl would scrape them out with a spoon and thrill to the intense pseudo-chocolatey/sugary taste on her tongue. When she was done, poor Santa Claus was left with a dribble of chocolate running down his snowy forehead.
Yes, that's right. That greedy little girl was Yours Truly. And that was the beginning of my love affair with chocolate. I have since outgrown Nestle's Quik and moved on to Ghirardelli Cocoa. Instead of hot chocolate, my mother bakes decadently moist (but not overly sweet) dark chocolate cakes, which the whole family enjoys. I allow myself two or three pieces of Dove dark or Ghirardelli 72% every day, because someone wise and wonderful discovered that it's actually beneficial for my health, bless him or her. I can even go as high as 85%, which many people find too bitter, to which I can only say, it's definitely an acquired taste. At any percentage, chocolate is a necessity. A staple. Chocolate is here to stay. It is what makes this world go round.
You may fill my dark chocolate with marzipan, or wrap it around a hazelnut and call it a "bacio," or roll it into spheres and call them "Mozart's balls." You may add milk to it, I'll take it. In almost any way, shape, or form, I'll take it. In a pinch, I'll even take a Hershey's Kiss. Well ... yeah, in a pinch.
What is my favorite form of chocolate? Ooh, that's tough to say; but if I really had to choose, I'd say it was Lindor's Truffles. I just love the way you bite into one and the creamy inside explodes in your mouth. Downright sinful, it is.
Very recently, I actually purchased a box of Nestle's Quik, just because I was feeling nostalgic. What a disappointment! I should have let the ghost rest, or whatever the vernacular is, and kept my precious childhood memory unsullied. You can't go home again, but you can move into a much better (and tastier) neighborhood.
Nearly half a century ago, there was a little girl, then about four years old. Every morning upon waking, she would patter on her plump little feet into the kitchen, where she knew she'd find her indulgent mother stirring away at a steaming pot on the stove. The little girl would demand, in that flutey yet imperious tone that only four-year-olds possess, "I want my chockit milk!" Whereupon her mother poured milk into a saucepan, heating it to just past lukewarm (the mother had an instinct for the exact temperature). She then put a heaping spoonful of Nestle's Quik into a white ceramic mug in the shape of Santa Claus' head, added to it the heated milk, stirred briskly, and set the mug on the formica-and-steel kitchen table.
The little girl was so fond of just-past-lukewarm chocolate milk, she would gulp it all down greedily, not even coming up for air, until there was nothing but Nestle's Quik dregs at the bottom of the mug. The dregs were the best part. The little girl would scrape them out with a spoon and thrill to the intense pseudo-chocolatey/sugary taste on her tongue. When she was done, poor Santa Claus was left with a dribble of chocolate running down his snowy forehead.
Yes, that's right. That greedy little girl was Yours Truly. And that was the beginning of my love affair with chocolate. I have since outgrown Nestle's Quik and moved on to Ghirardelli Cocoa. Instead of hot chocolate, my mother bakes decadently moist (but not overly sweet) dark chocolate cakes, which the whole family enjoys. I allow myself two or three pieces of Dove dark or Ghirardelli 72% every day, because someone wise and wonderful discovered that it's actually beneficial for my health, bless him or her. I can even go as high as 85%, which many people find too bitter, to which I can only say, it's definitely an acquired taste. At any percentage, chocolate is a necessity. A staple. Chocolate is here to stay. It is what makes this world go round.
You may fill my dark chocolate with marzipan, or wrap it around a hazelnut and call it a "bacio," or roll it into spheres and call them "Mozart's balls." You may add milk to it, I'll take it. In almost any way, shape, or form, I'll take it. In a pinch, I'll even take a Hershey's Kiss. Well ... yeah, in a pinch.
What is my favorite form of chocolate? Ooh, that's tough to say; but if I really had to choose, I'd say it was Lindor's Truffles. I just love the way you bite into one and the creamy inside explodes in your mouth. Downright sinful, it is.
Very recently, I actually purchased a box of Nestle's Quik, just because I was feeling nostalgic. What a disappointment! I should have let the ghost rest, or whatever the vernacular is, and kept my precious childhood memory unsullied. You can't go home again, but you can move into a much better (and tastier) neighborhood.
10 April 2012
Blogging A to Z: "B" is for Bread and Butter
Oh, my, we are getting alliterative, aren't we?
When I was growing up, bread to me was Butter Krust--white, square-shaped, generic, pretty much tasteless, and in those days in our part of the state, ubiquitous. There was a wonderful billboard near the Butter Krust bakery in San Antonio, which featured a loaf of bread with slices continuously falling out of the wrapper like a wheel, via a spinning mechanism behind the board. The bakery building itself, abandoned for decades now, still stands in all its beige brick blandness on Broadway (more alliteration, sorry), waiting to be renovated and used for something hopefully fabulous.
As a child I regarded bread only as a housing for baloney (this word, the dictionary tells me, is an accepted variant of "bologna"). I was not a peanut-butter-and-jelly kid, nor a tuna salad kid; I was strictly baloney. Plain, no mayo, no tomato or lettuce, no nothing, and of course the crusts had to be trimmed off. This was the sandwich my mother packed in my shiny red vinyl "go-go dancers" lunch box, the sandwich I usually took two or three bites of, then discarded in order to get to the really important lunch box items: the potato chips and Hostess Ding Dongs. At family meals, bread was never really a feature; being Filipino, white rice was our primary starch. On the occasional family outing to Luby's or Wyatt's, I always slid my tray right past the breads section with nary a glance.
Only in the past twenty years or so has bread captured my taste buds. When I lived in Houston, I frequently--who am I kidding--I usually ate out. Most of the restaurants I patronized served wonderful breads with their meals, so I came to know there was indeed bread beyond Butter Krust, flavorful, textural, complex. And with that newly acquired knowledge came a deep and abiding appreciation for bread's worthiest enhancer: butter.
So great is my fondness for butter, I will venture so far as to say that bread, no matter how flavorful, textural, and complex on its own, is ultimately a mere vehicle on which to slather the creamy wonderfulness that is butter. Were it not for my borderline cholesterol, I would slather daily and with abandon. Fortunately, there is always that healthier and equally wonderful alternative, olive oil--but even olive oil cannot, and shall never, banish butter from its rightful place on my palate. And since my sister introduced to me that ingenious device called a butter keeper, in which the butter remains velvety soft, smooth, and room temperature, I no longer suffer the annoyance of trying to spread refigerator-cold pats on my bread.
As I write, there is a keeper-full of delectable Irish butter waiting to be slathered on a piece or two of toasted oatnut bread. This evening I will put the kettle on for my decaf Earl Grey tea, butter my toast, and settle down contentedly to watch Dancing with the Stars. Ahhhhhh.
When I was growing up, bread to me was Butter Krust--white, square-shaped, generic, pretty much tasteless, and in those days in our part of the state, ubiquitous. There was a wonderful billboard near the Butter Krust bakery in San Antonio, which featured a loaf of bread with slices continuously falling out of the wrapper like a wheel, via a spinning mechanism behind the board. The bakery building itself, abandoned for decades now, still stands in all its beige brick blandness on Broadway (more alliteration, sorry), waiting to be renovated and used for something hopefully fabulous.
As a child I regarded bread only as a housing for baloney (this word, the dictionary tells me, is an accepted variant of "bologna"). I was not a peanut-butter-and-jelly kid, nor a tuna salad kid; I was strictly baloney. Plain, no mayo, no tomato or lettuce, no nothing, and of course the crusts had to be trimmed off. This was the sandwich my mother packed in my shiny red vinyl "go-go dancers" lunch box, the sandwich I usually took two or three bites of, then discarded in order to get to the really important lunch box items: the potato chips and Hostess Ding Dongs. At family meals, bread was never really a feature; being Filipino, white rice was our primary starch. On the occasional family outing to Luby's or Wyatt's, I always slid my tray right past the breads section with nary a glance.
Only in the past twenty years or so has bread captured my taste buds. When I lived in Houston, I frequently--who am I kidding--I usually ate out. Most of the restaurants I patronized served wonderful breads with their meals, so I came to know there was indeed bread beyond Butter Krust, flavorful, textural, complex. And with that newly acquired knowledge came a deep and abiding appreciation for bread's worthiest enhancer: butter.
So great is my fondness for butter, I will venture so far as to say that bread, no matter how flavorful, textural, and complex on its own, is ultimately a mere vehicle on which to slather the creamy wonderfulness that is butter. Were it not for my borderline cholesterol, I would slather daily and with abandon. Fortunately, there is always that healthier and equally wonderful alternative, olive oil--but even olive oil cannot, and shall never, banish butter from its rightful place on my palate. And since my sister introduced to me that ingenious device called a butter keeper, in which the butter remains velvety soft, smooth, and room temperature, I no longer suffer the annoyance of trying to spread refigerator-cold pats on my bread.
As I write, there is a keeper-full of delectable Irish butter waiting to be slathered on a piece or two of toasted oatnut bread. This evening I will put the kettle on for my decaf Earl Grey tea, butter my toast, and settle down contentedly to watch Dancing with the Stars. Ahhhhhh.
08 April 2012
Blogging A to Z: "A" is for Antiquing
Sorry. I'm one of those geeks who use the word "antique" as a verb. It also peeves me that spellcheck still does not consider "journaling" a legit word, nor does it consider "coachings" in the plural to be legit. Those of us who journal and go antiquing, and also those of us who give coachings to performing artists, demand that these words be recognized as part of our modern vocabulary!
That said, on to the subject at hand. I've seen that many of my fellow bloggers have made use of the "blogging from a to z" thing, though it isn't a new concept by any means. I'm sure essayists of old, those who regularly churned out erudite, amusing (and disgustingly well written) prose pieces for some local paper or broadsheet, made use of the alphabet to come up with topics. More recently (if you consider the mid-twentieth century to be recent -- it's all relative, after all), Rose Macauley produced a volume of "alphabetical essays" called Personal Pleasures. So here am I, following suit. I may poop out after a few letters, but I'll give it a shot, anyway.
The great thing about antiquing is that you can window shop, not spend a dime, and learn a great deal in the process. Not all forms of window shopping can boast as much. I love going to antique shops just to examine the furniture and objets d'arts, noting the characteristics of various styles and periods, learning to recognize at a glance a piece of Steuben glass or an Erté bronze. I may not be adding to my home decor (like I can afford Steuben and Erté!), but I'm feeding my brain and cultivating a very highbrow taste, à la Niles Crane.
Though I have on occasion picked up a book or two in an antique shop, such a place is really not the book collector's haven. The few books you see are usually over-priced, sometimes ridiculously so; but every once in a while I find something worth having that's reasonably priced. Most of the books, however, are sold purely for their looks -- those with gilt-tooled leather bindings, for instance. There are even dealers who sell such beautiful volumes by the foot to people who merely want to dress their shelves. Ugh. The day I use books solely as decorative objects is the day you may shoot me, please.
I do get into specific collecting phases, and this is where I can do serious damage to my pocketbook. Back in the early '90s, I had a thing for Bakelite. Okay, I'm not going into a long-winded spiel on what Bakelite is; that's what Google is for. Suffice it to say, it's an early plastic. I fell in love with Bakelite jewelry, its glossy, bright colors and whimsical designs. At that time, however, the Bakelite craze was just reaching an all-time high, so all I could really afford were the simplest bangle bracelets and pins. A blessing, really, knowing me.
Then it was art glass, even more costly than Bakelite jewelry. I had to resign myself to purchasing a few pieces of Westmore and just gawk at the four-figure-priced cameo glass vases and satin glass bowls. Not to mention the Steuben.
So I decided to stick to things I could actually use on a daily basis, like pens and manual typewriters. And I once came across a whole stash of vintage stationery in various designs, much of which has since gone out to friends, as I still write real letters and post them via snail-mail. (I don't lick the envelopes, though; I use water. I don't know, the idea of wiping my tongue on 70-year-old glue is just a bit off-putting.)
My sisters and I love to go antiquing. It really is an activity to be enjoyed in the company of like-minded geeks. We hit a couple of malls or a few smaller shops, then do lunch. Lately, though, gas prices have temporarily curtailed our outings, so I content myself with watching Antiques Roadshow -- that is, when Dancing with the Stars isn't on. Ooh! There's my "D" topic!
That said, on to the subject at hand. I've seen that many of my fellow bloggers have made use of the "blogging from a to z" thing, though it isn't a new concept by any means. I'm sure essayists of old, those who regularly churned out erudite, amusing (and disgustingly well written) prose pieces for some local paper or broadsheet, made use of the alphabet to come up with topics. More recently (if you consider the mid-twentieth century to be recent -- it's all relative, after all), Rose Macauley produced a volume of "alphabetical essays" called Personal Pleasures. So here am I, following suit. I may poop out after a few letters, but I'll give it a shot, anyway.
The great thing about antiquing is that you can window shop, not spend a dime, and learn a great deal in the process. Not all forms of window shopping can boast as much. I love going to antique shops just to examine the furniture and objets d'arts, noting the characteristics of various styles and periods, learning to recognize at a glance a piece of Steuben glass or an Erté bronze. I may not be adding to my home decor (like I can afford Steuben and Erté!), but I'm feeding my brain and cultivating a very highbrow taste, à la Niles Crane.
Though I have on occasion picked up a book or two in an antique shop, such a place is really not the book collector's haven. The few books you see are usually over-priced, sometimes ridiculously so; but every once in a while I find something worth having that's reasonably priced. Most of the books, however, are sold purely for their looks -- those with gilt-tooled leather bindings, for instance. There are even dealers who sell such beautiful volumes by the foot to people who merely want to dress their shelves. Ugh. The day I use books solely as decorative objects is the day you may shoot me, please.
I do get into specific collecting phases, and this is where I can do serious damage to my pocketbook. Back in the early '90s, I had a thing for Bakelite. Okay, I'm not going into a long-winded spiel on what Bakelite is; that's what Google is for. Suffice it to say, it's an early plastic. I fell in love with Bakelite jewelry, its glossy, bright colors and whimsical designs. At that time, however, the Bakelite craze was just reaching an all-time high, so all I could really afford were the simplest bangle bracelets and pins. A blessing, really, knowing me.
Then it was art glass, even more costly than Bakelite jewelry. I had to resign myself to purchasing a few pieces of Westmore and just gawk at the four-figure-priced cameo glass vases and satin glass bowls. Not to mention the Steuben.
So I decided to stick to things I could actually use on a daily basis, like pens and manual typewriters. And I once came across a whole stash of vintage stationery in various designs, much of which has since gone out to friends, as I still write real letters and post them via snail-mail. (I don't lick the envelopes, though; I use water. I don't know, the idea of wiping my tongue on 70-year-old glue is just a bit off-putting.)
My sisters and I love to go antiquing. It really is an activity to be enjoyed in the company of like-minded geeks. We hit a couple of malls or a few smaller shops, then do lunch. Lately, though, gas prices have temporarily curtailed our outings, so I content myself with watching Antiques Roadshow -- that is, when Dancing with the Stars isn't on. Ooh! There's my "D" topic!
06 April 2012
A Passion Prayer
I wrote this prayer when I was a postulant. It's meant to be prayed with the Sorrowful Mysteries of the Rosary, one paragraph to each mystery, recited between the Our Father and the first Hail Mary of each decade. However, it can be prayed as a whole on its own, without the recitation of the Rosary.
By Thy sorrowful agony in the garden, O my Jesus, grant me true compunction for every offence I have made and shall ever make against Thy most Sacred Heart.
With each lash of Thy scourging, O my Jesus, strip away everything in me that is displeasing to Thee.
With Thy crown of thorns, O my Jesus, impress upon my every thought Thy great suffering and infinite love.
By the cruel bruises inflicted upon Thy weary shoulder from the weight of my sin, O my Jesus, teach me to bear my own cross with burning love for Thee.
In the shadow of Thy Holy Cross, O my Jesus, may I learn to love Thee with every breath I take and with every fibre of my being; may I carry always in my heart Thy bitter Passion which Thou hast so willingly endured for me; and may I never forget the boundless love and mercy Thou bearest for me, unworthy and sinful as I am. Open my heart by the merits of the Holy Wound which broke Thy own, and cleanse my soul with the Precious Blood which Thou hast shed for my sake, O loving and merciful Saviour.
By Thy sorrowful agony in the garden, O my Jesus, grant me true compunction for every offence I have made and shall ever make against Thy most Sacred Heart.
With each lash of Thy scourging, O my Jesus, strip away everything in me that is displeasing to Thee.
With Thy crown of thorns, O my Jesus, impress upon my every thought Thy great suffering and infinite love.
By the cruel bruises inflicted upon Thy weary shoulder from the weight of my sin, O my Jesus, teach me to bear my own cross with burning love for Thee.
In the shadow of Thy Holy Cross, O my Jesus, may I learn to love Thee with every breath I take and with every fibre of my being; may I carry always in my heart Thy bitter Passion which Thou hast so willingly endured for me; and may I never forget the boundless love and mercy Thou bearest for me, unworthy and sinful as I am. Open my heart by the merits of the Holy Wound which broke Thy own, and cleanse my soul with the Precious Blood which Thou hast shed for my sake, O loving and merciful Saviour.
02 April 2012
David Hyde Pierce: Celebrating His First 53 Years
One of my sisters has a huge crush on David Cook. Another sister has a huge crush on Gerard Butler. I, ever the unconventional, have one on David Hyde Pierce. Yes, I know he's gay; but I'm partial to witty bookish types with enormous talent and a passion for classical music—not to mention a jawline that's any sculptor's dream.
A few highlights of his first 53 years . . .
A Midsummer Night's Dream, Guthrie Theatre
The Seagull, Guthrie Theatre
Tartuffe, Guthrie Theatre
Cyrano, Guthrie Theatre
Holiday, Long Wharf Theatre
Camille, Long Wharf Theatre
Broadway debut in Beyond Therapy, 1982
Hamlet, New York Shakespeare Festival
Much Ado about Nothing, New York Shakespeare Festival
The Heidi Chronicles, Broadway
The Cherry Orchard, New York, Leningrad, Moscow, Tokyo
He also created roles Off-Broadway in:
The Maderati
The Author's Voice
Elliot Loves
Zero Positive
That's It, Folks!
Small roles in films such as:
The Fisher King
Little Man Tate
Wolf
Crossing Delancey
Sleepless in Seattle
. . . and others . . .
A few highlights of his first 53 years . . .
A Midsummer Night's Dream, Guthrie Theatre
The Seagull, Guthrie Theatre
Tartuffe, Guthrie Theatre
Cyrano, Guthrie Theatre
Holiday, Long Wharf Theatre
Camille, Long Wharf Theatre
Hamlet, New York Shakespeare Festival
Much Ado about Nothing, New York Shakespeare Festival
The Heidi Chronicles, Broadway
The Cherry Orchard, New York, Leningrad, Moscow, Tokyo
He also created roles Off-Broadway in:
The Maderati
The Author's Voice
Elliot Loves
Zero Positive
That's It, Folks!
Small roles in films such as:
The Fisher King
Little Man Tate
Wolf
Crossing Delancey
Sleepless in Seattle
. . . and others . . .
The suicidal congressman Theodore Van Horne in Norman Lear's short-lived political sitcom The Powers That Be (1992-1993)
Down With Love
A Bug's Life
Wet Hot American Summer
Isn't She Great
Osmosis Jones
Treasure Planet
. . . and still other films . . .
Brave Sir Robin in Monty Python's Spamalot, original Broadway cast (2005-2006)
His Tony Award-winning Lt. Frank Cioffi in Kander and Ebb's Curtains, Broadway (2007-2008) (seen here with Jill Paice)
Steven Gaye in Accent on Youth, Manhattan Theatre Club (2009)
Elomire in La Bête, London and Broadway (2010)
The psychopathic Warwick Wilson in the 2010 indie film The Perfect Host
Paul in Close Up Space, Manhattan Theatre Club (2011-2012)
Next up: The Landing (new John Kander musical), Vineyard Theatre, May-June 2012
National Board Honorary Chairman of the Alzheimer's Association. Short clip of an interview with Larry King. The last 90 seconds of this video are especially moving.
Receiving the 2010 Isabelle Stevenson Award for his untiring work in the fight against Alzheimer's
Once an aspiring concert pianist; today, music remains his sustaining passion.
As we'll always think of him: Dr. Niles Crane, one of the greatest sitcom characters ever created (1993-2004 and beyond), and for which he won four Emmys®. This is the famous fencing scene from Frasier, season 2, "An Affair to Forget"
Soon to come, David's first two shows as director: this summer, The Importance of Being Earnest for the Williamstown Theatre Festival; and the new musical, It Shoulda Been You, heading to Broadway later this year or early next year
On June 4, David will be given the Lifetime Leadership Award at the Alzheimer's Association New York Chapter gala
MANY MORE YEARS TO COME!!!
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