Lately I've Been ...

I swiped this meme from November's Autumn. It's appeared on a few other blogs as well.

 

Lately I've been ...

 

... writing revisions of my new poem, formerly titled "The Language of the Sea," now titled "Amphitrite." I'm still not happy with it, and honestly don't know if it'll work out at all. I might just chuck it into my rejects file and see if, in future, any portion of it can be culled for use in another poem. I've done that a few times, with successful results. Waste not, want not, even when it comes to poetry.

 

... reading In Defense of Sanity: The Best Essays of C. K. Chesterton.  I've not read any Chesterton till now and am loving these essays. What a fertile mind, what an engaging and lucid writer! He is indeed a master essayist, worthy to be placed in the same rank with Johnson, Hazlitt, Addison and Steele, and Lamb, all of whom were recommended by my great "kinsman of the shelf" Helene Hanff, through her book 84, Charing Cross Road.  However, nowhere does Helene mention Chesterton, and if indeed she never read him, she certainly missed out on a great writer. She'd have loved him, I think.

 

... listening quite a lot these days to Schubert's piano sonatas. I owned a score of them for years, contemplating every so often actually studying one or two of them; but for some reason his solo piano music didn't appeal to me. Besides which, much of it lay very awkwardly under my tiny hands. (I have, however, loved and played many of his lieder.) But I recently bought Stephen Hough's CD and upon listening to it, my opinion of Schubert changed completely. I suspect the change is also partly due to age—some music and certain composers are better appreciated, and indeed, better understood, from a more mature viewpoint. Of course, since I have quit the piano altogether, I still won't be playing any Schubert, but I now have the great satisfaction of listening to him. As Hough has written, while Beethoven is overtly passionate, Schubert is more reticent. His passions are glimpsed through a veil, through a partially opened curtain. And though what may be glimpsed is bleak, it is nonetheless intensely moving.

 

... watching—why, Dancing with the Stars,  of course! My mother and I are hooked. Well, she's been hooked a lot longer than I have; I am only a recent convert. I must admit, it's great fun and a nice change of pace from all the cooking shows, House Hunters, and House Hunters International.  Ever since I moved to Houston in 1989, I no longer watch current series, and I know even without sampling an episode that I would absolutely loathe reality shows such as—I don't know, that housewives thing, or whatever. But I genuinely enjoy DWTS.  I doubt, however, I could ever get into American Idol, America's Got Talent, and whatnot, simply because I can't stand most of what passes for singing these days. I am both a dinosaur and a cultural snob. Yep, I am. Call me Niles.

 

... looking pretty bad. Cannot tell a lie; my physical appearance has definitely seen better days.

 

... feeling under the weather. Which is probably why I've been looking bad. I'm just getting over a cold; still feel a bit 'snarfy' in the sinuses. Allergies don't help, either. I am grateful, though, that autumn is here. Summer in Texas is far too long and hot. You'd think I'd be used to that, but the sad truth is, you never  get used to it.

 

... anticipating receiving in the mail the Complete Schubert Sonatas played by Wilhelm Kempff. Yes, this dinosaur still listens to music on CDs, and sometimes even on vinyl. I had a hard time deciding between Kempff and Brendel, but ultimately went with Kempff. I'll probably get Brendel later on. The thing about classical music, including opera, is that you can't just listen to one artist performing any one piece. In order to appreciate a piece properly, you have to listen to as many interpreters of it as possible. Otherwise, you're not appreciating the piece of music itself; you're appreciating one person's interpretation.

 

... wishing oh, so many things! I wish I could go to Italy again. I wish I could go to England again. I wish I could write a poem without ripping my brain and the poem to shreds. I wish I could write a poem, period. I wish my hair would stop falling out onto the bathroom floor.

 

... loving being able to listen to piano music again without feeling that invisible knife twist in my gut. And in case you're thinking, "Well, why don't you write a poem about that?"—fact is, I already did.

 

The Power and Frailty of Concentration

     I recall a scene from The Mary Tyler Moore Show in which Mary is trying to write a fast-breaking news bulletin and get it on the air in the two minutes left of air time; but her boss, Mr. Grant, is hovering over her shoulder, paralyzing her concentration. Of course, the story doesn't make it onto the news.

 

(Here is the entire episode; the scene to which I refer is near the start.)

 



     I know how Mary felt. Though I'm not a journalist, I did have to face a looming deadline once, when I was working at Houston Grand Opera. Someone, who shall remain nameless, was asked to write a piece in the program for Lucia di Lammermoor and, having put it off till the day of the deadline, he asked me to write it instead. I had about an hour before galleys went to the printer. We were in the middle of a staging rehearsal for which I was playing, but they excused me; so I locked myself away in the conference room and dashed off what was, I thought, a pretty decent piece about the ornamentation in Lucia, with special emphasis on the extended flute cadenza in the mad scene. It's amazing how adrenaline (or white-knuckled fear) can heighten one's powers of concentration. I don't know if I could have written a better piece, were I given more time.

     One would think that writing a blogpost is a more relaxed endeavor, since if there are deadlines they are only self-imposed, e. g., my "Music Monday" or "Saturday at the Opera" series; but even so, one may play fast and loose with them, even skip them, as I sometimes have. I have no boss hovering over my shoulder, no printer waiting (a human printer, that is). Yet, when inspiration sparks and the juices are flowing, my mother's call to dinner is an unwelcome interruption, and I'm afraid I tend to snap my response at her with the terseness of a Thomas Carlyle without the genius. My poor mother.

     Speaking of Carlyle -- Helene Hanff, in her delightful book Q's Legacy, says that he could write nowhere but in his "inner sanctum," built at the tippy-top of his house to his exacting specifications, which included soundproofing. Since Carlyle was Carlyle and I most certainly am not, I don't wonder that I'm able to write my little posts at the computer, which is situated smack-dab next to the living room television. At the moment, the TV is off, but if it were on it would make me no never mind. I have no critics to worry about, and my readership is somewhat (ahem) smaller than his. So I just clickety-clack away while Alex Trebek reads out one clue after another.

     In another of Hanff's books, can't remember which, she says that Bernard Shaw could write virtually anywhere -- in trains, cafés, etc. That's comforting to know, in the sense that brilliance -- or, in the case of us lesser mortals, competence -- need not always be coddled like a frail flower in order to bloom. Heck, I've written drafts of poems in coffee shops, doctor's waiting rooms, even McDonald's, some of my best poems, that eventually saw print. Just think of what gems I could produce in an environment like Carlyle's inner sanctum ....

     More than likely, I'd spend most of the day staring out the window and emerge at dinnertime not having written a thing. Concentration does not a genius make. But I'd settle for mere competence.

My "Friendship" with Helene Hanff

     For the life of me, I can't remember if I first met Helene by reading her book 84, Charing Cross Road, or watching the film based on it starring Anne Bancroft and Anthony Hopkins. Whichever it was, we became instant "friends."
     Her little book, a cult classic, introduced me to an author whose writing made me feel as if she were sitting across from me, drinking coffee and chatting. It made me want to read all her books, which I have, many times, always with the homiest pleasure. In them all I could hear her, with a voice throaty from too many cigarettes and martinis, talking to me of her old apartment in a New York brownstone, her actress friend Maxine with the flaming red hair, and her 20-year epistolary friendship with a prim and proper London bookseller named Frank. I commiserated with her during those early years when she struggled to be a playwright; I laughed with her over all the escapades she shared with Maxine; I felt her joy every time she received another book and letter from Marks & Co, where Frank worked. And I made it a point to buy all the books she bought, because I trusted and shared her tastes -- except in novels. One thing Helene and I never agreed on was novels. She didn't care for them; she preferred real-life accounts by real-life people. I prefer to escape real life every once in a while.
     Helene taught me that I don't have to write about lofty things, or things outside myself, to be a good writer. Everything she wrote about could have happened to anyone. Her gift was in making those ordinary events extraordinary and immensely entertaining, with her humor, honesty, and self-effacement. She makes you feel as if she were speaking to you one-on-one, in plain, everyday language. This is the true reason I turn to her books again and again.
     If anyone wanted to start "chatting" with Helene, I would recommend they start with either 84 or the first book she wrote, Underfoot in Show Business (a very funny account of her early years as a struggling playwright); then definitely follow up with The Duchess of Bloomsbury Street and Q's Legacy (both sequels, if you will, of 84). I consider those four books to be her "canon." The others, Apple of My Eye and Letter to New York, are also delightful, especially for those who are planning a trip to New York, or just love the city.

My favorite of all Helene's books