As I've said more than once on my blog: I don't like Minnesota. I find the people dull and withdrawn, and truly conventional. Their accents grate in my ears, and most of them, including the women, are fat. The myth of "Minnesota Nice" is just that: a myth. They put on this facade to hide the anger, repression and their assorted twists of personality. Having been here a year, however, I have found, in the midst of all this commonness, a diamond, a bright facade throwing its light to all who will come around. That brightness is the Minnesota Orchestra. And this orchestra is not only a diamond, it's a world class gem of the highest magnitude.
On this Saturday night, my wife and I attended this week's performances: Mozart's Symphony #41, followed by a modern piece with which I was not familiar (with which I'm yet not familiar), and intermission, and the finale, Brahms' Syphony #2. One thing that can be said about Mozart is that he's come to us (from?) with that perfect combination of talent, desire, humour, love,and he's lived up to all the hype. Mozart's music can make a listener feel anything that a listener can possibly feel. No one else can do what he can.
Brahms too is an excellent musician, but there aren't many who occupy the pantheon, and I'm not sure Brahms does. He is great, and the Minnesota Orchestra's presentation of the fourth movement was simply kick-ass. I like Brahms's 3rd Symphony better, as it gives me more of those musical "lifts" that I'm constantly searching for. But there are exquisite parts of the 2nd Symphony. As for the "filler" piece, the modern piece, I just wasn't with it, but the grand music of the other two composers sufficiently made up for anything which was missing.
I've often said that music is as close to God as we're ever going to get in this life. And I've heard other "talking heads" assert that music has curative powers. I'm not a scientist, and I really don't know. But music does have an effect, though it can't be quantified. Some work along those lines has been done: however, the truest effect of music is a spitirual one. The way the human body receives and interprets musical sound waves is a truly complicated and profound process And I don't have to understand the scientific process to have a great time sitting in Orchestra Hall in downtown Minneapolis listening to plainly happy men and women give us the hand of an angel and take us on one of the few true spritual flights we get to take on earth.
And the beautiful thing is that you don't even have to be a "believer" to receive each and every one of the spiritual benefits of truly great music. Take note: In two weeks we'll enjoy an evening of Beethoven. Wow, if every facet of life in Minnesota was as fine as the Minnesota Orchestra, people would be fighting to get in instead of wondering how soon they can leave.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Friday, October 19, 2007
The Constant Shadow
I've finally admitted to myself that my depression is going to come and go no matter what I do. I'm just going to have to find a way to deal with it when I'm in the throes. Being so self-critical doesn't help, but that's probably part of the whole deal anyway. For the last three days I've been on the verge of and in tears for no discernible reason. Again, that's part of it. I've been on the same anti-depressant for about 10 years, and it may be time to try a new medication. I have a doctor's appointment for something else today, so I'll see about a referral.
I haven't been helping myself either with reviewing a number of terrible decisions I made in my life, decisions which kept me from having it quite a bit easier now. It's almost as if this dark thing feeds on itself, on every negative thing I can come up with about myself. It's akin to being eaten alive from the inside. This is not a matter of just complaining. This is just what is, and maybe writing about it will give me some little relief. I know that living one day at a time is the answer, but for now all the days seem to run together from past, present, and the awful projections I make for the future.
One thing I do know. Feeling this way is certainly not something I would've chosen, and if I knew how to rid myself of it all, I would certainly do so. For those of you who've never been clinically depressed, have patience with anyone you know who is.
I haven't been helping myself either with reviewing a number of terrible decisions I made in my life, decisions which kept me from having it quite a bit easier now. It's almost as if this dark thing feeds on itself, on every negative thing I can come up with about myself. It's akin to being eaten alive from the inside. This is not a matter of just complaining. This is just what is, and maybe writing about it will give me some little relief. I know that living one day at a time is the answer, but for now all the days seem to run together from past, present, and the awful projections I make for the future.
One thing I do know. Feeling this way is certainly not something I would've chosen, and if I knew how to rid myself of it all, I would certainly do so. For those of you who've never been clinically depressed, have patience with anyone you know who is.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
e. e. cummings
He was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in 1894. He took a bachelor's degree in 1914 and a master's degree in 1915. Cummings served as an military officer in World War I, and he was one of very few to serve in an Ally's stockade. In conversation, Cummings was overheard saying that he didn't hate the Germans, and it infuriated the French with whom he was serving. Attempts were made to no avail to have him state his hatred for the Germans. He would state only that he liked the French very much but did not hate the Germans. As a result, he was court-martialed, sentenced, and served time in a French stockade.
When I was trying to decide what to settle on a subject for my M. A. thesis in English, I first settled on Jonathan Swift. I love satire as much as I detest pompousness. But I soon discovered that I wouldn't be able to spend much time with Swift's dark moods. I asked for advice, and one of my professors suggested E. E. Cummings. I agreed and set about my business, beginning with the complete poems. The title of my thesis is Prosody as Meaning in the Poetry of E. E. Cummings. And if you know anything at all about Cummings and about poetry, you can see how such an approach just might work. Not only did it work, it was nearly ready-made. And one of my thesis readers, the former Chair of the English Department, called my house and left a messsage that it was one of the best he'd read in his 25 years in the department. It's one of my proudest accomplishments.
One surprise for me in my reading of and research about E. E. Cummings was how absolutely lovely some of his lyrical poetry is, as romantic as the best of them. His iconoclasm is also to my taste. It was a period of hard work but true satisfaction. And when I came up with my then tentative approach, I found out who the leading Cummings scholar was, and fortunately for me, he was still alive. So I telephoned him and asked him what he thought about my idea. He told me it sounded interesting and asked me to send him a copy when I finished it. I did, and he reviewed it positively in Spring: The Journal of the E. E. Cummings Society, of which I was invited to become a charter member, retroactively. The most pleasing thing that this wonderful scholar said about my thesis was that it is "heartfelt."
Years later, during a trip to Manhattan for my wife's company's Christmas party, I was able to visit with this man who had written the first book-length study of Cummings' poetry and who had known Cummings personally, both Harvard alums. I found it a comment on our society that such a world-class scholar couldn't later get a job at Harvard back then because he's Jewish, though he was pleased to announce that the school was actively pursuing his son, a philosopher. I had him autograph the three books he had written about Cummings and spent a very pleasant two hours or so with him. Later, I visited Cummings's long-time home at 14 Patchin Place. It was during the holiday season, and the city was decorated and festive, so lovely that afternoon of crystal sunshine, blue skies, and bare trees. And the memory shines
Happy Birthday Estlin!
When I was trying to decide what to settle on a subject for my M. A. thesis in English, I first settled on Jonathan Swift. I love satire as much as I detest pompousness. But I soon discovered that I wouldn't be able to spend much time with Swift's dark moods. I asked for advice, and one of my professors suggested E. E. Cummings. I agreed and set about my business, beginning with the complete poems. The title of my thesis is Prosody as Meaning in the Poetry of E. E. Cummings. And if you know anything at all about Cummings and about poetry, you can see how such an approach just might work. Not only did it work, it was nearly ready-made. And one of my thesis readers, the former Chair of the English Department, called my house and left a messsage that it was one of the best he'd read in his 25 years in the department. It's one of my proudest accomplishments.
One surprise for me in my reading of and research about E. E. Cummings was how absolutely lovely some of his lyrical poetry is, as romantic as the best of them. His iconoclasm is also to my taste. It was a period of hard work but true satisfaction. And when I came up with my then tentative approach, I found out who the leading Cummings scholar was, and fortunately for me, he was still alive. So I telephoned him and asked him what he thought about my idea. He told me it sounded interesting and asked me to send him a copy when I finished it. I did, and he reviewed it positively in Spring: The Journal of the E. E. Cummings Society, of which I was invited to become a charter member, retroactively. The most pleasing thing that this wonderful scholar said about my thesis was that it is "heartfelt."
Years later, during a trip to Manhattan for my wife's company's Christmas party, I was able to visit with this man who had written the first book-length study of Cummings' poetry and who had known Cummings personally, both Harvard alums. I found it a comment on our society that such a world-class scholar couldn't later get a job at Harvard back then because he's Jewish, though he was pleased to announce that the school was actively pursuing his son, a philosopher. I had him autograph the three books he had written about Cummings and spent a very pleasant two hours or so with him. Later, I visited Cummings's long-time home at 14 Patchin Place. It was during the holiday season, and the city was decorated and festive, so lovely that afternoon of crystal sunshine, blue skies, and bare trees. And the memory shines
Happy Birthday Estlin!
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Estlin
Tomorrow I will write about Edward Estlin Cummings. If you'v had even a modicum of education, you'd know that that is the poet who always used lower case letters when writing his poems: e. e. cummings. But I learned after I spent about a year with him, he used that style only in poems. In any other writing, he wrote just about like the rest of us. Can you imagine writing a check in lower case? I'll return tomorrow and write the actual Cummins's Birthday Blog. The little baloon man will surely be there. And so should you.
Giddocliff
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Giddocliff
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Sunday, October 7, 2007
Autumn Leaves
This has always been my favorite time of year. I grew up in the southern part of the U. S., an area thick with trees, and during the months of autumn, the colors blazed so brilliantly before the leaves fell, leaving the trees bare and lonely. It's also the season of football, a season almost as important in the South as life itself. Of course that's an exaggeration but not by much. But it's truly a season that begins with high hopes that this year will be our year.
When I was a child, I lived across the street from a man who had played football for the University of Alabama in the 1940s. I found his picture once in a locker room celebration the team was enjoying after a Crimson Tide (the nickname of Alabama's sports teams) victory in the Orange Bowl. He served his country during WW II, which ended his football days. After the war, he joined the Alabama Highway Patrol and rose to become a Captain, his rank at the time of his untimely death during James Meredith's integration of the University of Mississippi.
As many of you know, Meredith's entrance into Ole Miss (their nickname is Rebels) was violently opposed by many whites, and there were riots, even deaths, during the days surrounding his matriculation. Meredith did eventually enter school but at the point of a bayonet and the barrel of a gun. When the violence broke out, the Captain was ordered to the state line in case any problems spilled over, which is not far-fetched if you knew the atmosphere in the South at that time. On the way, he was in an auto accident, and he died in hospital a few days later. I attended his funeral, as did Frank Rose, President of the University of Alabama, Coach Paul "Bear" Bryant, and the entire Alabama football team, on which Joe Namath was a sophomore.
If you're old enough and a football fan, you might just have seen Capt. Tom on television. In Coach Bryant's 2nd year, 1958, the team earned a bid to the Liberty Bowl, at that time played in Philadelphia. And a Philadelphia newspaper reported on this physically imposing Alabama Highway Patrolman escorting the coach in full uniform and the traditional Smokey-the-Bear hat that many patrolmen and sheriffs wear now. Capt. Tom had become the official state escort of Paul "Bear" Bryant, a job he filled until his death. He was the first patrolman to serve in this capacity, though you see it a lot now. Imagine that! A coach who had played for Alabama in the 1930s and an official law enforcement escort who had played for Alabama in the 1940s. I can only imagine their conversations, which I'm sure they had.
During my childhood, the Captain's son and I played football together in the neighborhood. I remember one Christmas when each of us received a complete football outfit. His colors were blue and white, the colors of his favorite high school team. I can't even remember the colors of mine. But we spent that day kicking and passing to each other, even kicking field goals through a makeshift goalpost between two young pine trees. Of course we had dreams of future glory on the gridiron, but alas, we were never star athletes. We continued, however, as ardent fans of our favorite university, the Alabama Crimson Tide. And my friend's father had played for these giants of sport. Wow! Of course I was in awe of him, as any kid in Alabama would have been.
Football was a near religion in the South, and most young boys worshiped at the pigskin shrine. If a young boy was remotely capable of being an athlete, he was expected to go out for a football team, beginning long before high school. I played YMCA football, then later played as a freshman at a high school which had won several state championships in the sport. When I didn't return to the team in my sophomore year, the coaches refused to speak to me when we passed in the hallway. I shouldn't have been surprised. Football was truly that important then. To me, beer and cigarettes were more important
I continued as an ardent fan of the game, and my passion increased, if that were possible, when Paul "Bear" Bryant came to coach his alma mater in Tuscaloosa, our university. He began in 1957 to field teams which were not only respectable but which won 6 national championships during his tenure, which ended in 1982. He died 6 weeks after he retired from coaching. And at its best, the Alabama football team was championship calibre and even at less than its best, was always competitive with the top football programs in the nation.
While Bryant was coach, he could've easily become governor of the state. In fact, he was asked to run but refused. To the university's good fortune, he knew what he was good at. I remember vividly how emotionally involved I got in the fortunes of the football team. Even when I was attending college, working, and trying to bring up a family, I took the time every Sunday afternoon at 4:30 to watch "The Bear Bryant Show." I often left the University of Alabama at Birmingham (a separate institution) library in time to get home and watch Coach Bryant review Saturday's game film and charm all the mamas and daddies in the audience who might conceivably send their son to play for the coach.
To provide one last instance of Coach Bryant's popularity, he was once accused in a national magazine of "fixing" a football game with the coach of the University of Georgia. Alabama won handily, but it was alleged that points were somehow "shaved." When Paul "Bear" Bryant went on television in prime time to refute these scurrilous, false charges, nearly every television in the state was tuned in. Since Coach Bryant retired, the Alabama football program has won only 1 national championship and has turned out more mediocre teams than Bryant would've allowed. But I long ago realized that the fortunes of a group of young men playing a game truly had little true impact on my life. Oh, I'm still a fan, but nowhere close to the kind of "fanatic" that I used to be.
Still, when the Autumn leaves begin to fall, I still get twinges of nostalgia as I remember what fun it all was, especially when I watched a 'Bama" game on television, even more when I actually attended a game. I suppose that some of the good feelings I get as I reminisce come from the fact that we were all young and everything was ahead of us. And it was our team, representing our university, and our state.
When I was a child, I lived across the street from a man who had played football for the University of Alabama in the 1940s. I found his picture once in a locker room celebration the team was enjoying after a Crimson Tide (the nickname of Alabama's sports teams) victory in the Orange Bowl. He served his country during WW II, which ended his football days. After the war, he joined the Alabama Highway Patrol and rose to become a Captain, his rank at the time of his untimely death during James Meredith's integration of the University of Mississippi.
As many of you know, Meredith's entrance into Ole Miss (their nickname is Rebels) was violently opposed by many whites, and there were riots, even deaths, during the days surrounding his matriculation. Meredith did eventually enter school but at the point of a bayonet and the barrel of a gun. When the violence broke out, the Captain was ordered to the state line in case any problems spilled over, which is not far-fetched if you knew the atmosphere in the South at that time. On the way, he was in an auto accident, and he died in hospital a few days later. I attended his funeral, as did Frank Rose, President of the University of Alabama, Coach Paul "Bear" Bryant, and the entire Alabama football team, on which Joe Namath was a sophomore.
If you're old enough and a football fan, you might just have seen Capt. Tom on television. In Coach Bryant's 2nd year, 1958, the team earned a bid to the Liberty Bowl, at that time played in Philadelphia. And a Philadelphia newspaper reported on this physically imposing Alabama Highway Patrolman escorting the coach in full uniform and the traditional Smokey-the-Bear hat that many patrolmen and sheriffs wear now. Capt. Tom had become the official state escort of Paul "Bear" Bryant, a job he filled until his death. He was the first patrolman to serve in this capacity, though you see it a lot now. Imagine that! A coach who had played for Alabama in the 1930s and an official law enforcement escort who had played for Alabama in the 1940s. I can only imagine their conversations, which I'm sure they had.
During my childhood, the Captain's son and I played football together in the neighborhood. I remember one Christmas when each of us received a complete football outfit. His colors were blue and white, the colors of his favorite high school team. I can't even remember the colors of mine. But we spent that day kicking and passing to each other, even kicking field goals through a makeshift goalpost between two young pine trees. Of course we had dreams of future glory on the gridiron, but alas, we were never star athletes. We continued, however, as ardent fans of our favorite university, the Alabama Crimson Tide. And my friend's father had played for these giants of sport. Wow! Of course I was in awe of him, as any kid in Alabama would have been.
Football was a near religion in the South, and most young boys worshiped at the pigskin shrine. If a young boy was remotely capable of being an athlete, he was expected to go out for a football team, beginning long before high school. I played YMCA football, then later played as a freshman at a high school which had won several state championships in the sport. When I didn't return to the team in my sophomore year, the coaches refused to speak to me when we passed in the hallway. I shouldn't have been surprised. Football was truly that important then. To me, beer and cigarettes were more important
I continued as an ardent fan of the game, and my passion increased, if that were possible, when Paul "Bear" Bryant came to coach his alma mater in Tuscaloosa, our university. He began in 1957 to field teams which were not only respectable but which won 6 national championships during his tenure, which ended in 1982. He died 6 weeks after he retired from coaching. And at its best, the Alabama football team was championship calibre and even at less than its best, was always competitive with the top football programs in the nation.
While Bryant was coach, he could've easily become governor of the state. In fact, he was asked to run but refused. To the university's good fortune, he knew what he was good at. I remember vividly how emotionally involved I got in the fortunes of the football team. Even when I was attending college, working, and trying to bring up a family, I took the time every Sunday afternoon at 4:30 to watch "The Bear Bryant Show." I often left the University of Alabama at Birmingham (a separate institution) library in time to get home and watch Coach Bryant review Saturday's game film and charm all the mamas and daddies in the audience who might conceivably send their son to play for the coach.
To provide one last instance of Coach Bryant's popularity, he was once accused in a national magazine of "fixing" a football game with the coach of the University of Georgia. Alabama won handily, but it was alleged that points were somehow "shaved." When Paul "Bear" Bryant went on television in prime time to refute these scurrilous, false charges, nearly every television in the state was tuned in. Since Coach Bryant retired, the Alabama football program has won only 1 national championship and has turned out more mediocre teams than Bryant would've allowed. But I long ago realized that the fortunes of a group of young men playing a game truly had little true impact on my life. Oh, I'm still a fan, but nowhere close to the kind of "fanatic" that I used to be.
Still, when the Autumn leaves begin to fall, I still get twinges of nostalgia as I remember what fun it all was, especially when I watched a 'Bama" game on television, even more when I actually attended a game. I suppose that some of the good feelings I get as I reminisce come from the fact that we were all young and everything was ahead of us. And it was our team, representing our university, and our state.
Monday, October 1, 2007
Beethoven Continued
An old friend reminded me that Leonard Bernstein conducted Beethoven's 9th Symphony at the Berlin Wall as it was coming down. I searched a bit and learned that he played it on both sides of the wall. How fitting.
I was awakened from a deep sleep on Saturday night by loud claps of thunder and saw the lightning flashing through the mini-blinds in my bedroom. On Sunday afternoon I heard the thunder and saw the lightning of the Minnesota Orchestra playing Beethoven's 9th Symphony. I don't know if I've even seen a conductor work as hard as did Osmo Vanska, the Finnish born Music Director of this world-class orchestra. And I saw some of the orchestra members obviously having an absolutely wonderful time. Even some of the Minnesotans in Orchestra Hall were enjoying the music.
I'm not a music critic, and I therefore don't know the jargon a professional would use in describing this experience. What I do know is that this was one of the most wonderful musical experiences I've ever had. As my joke suggested, the timpani were busy, and I love the distinct sound of that large drum being struck by that padded stick. The fourth movement almost wears everybody out, the conductor, the musicians, and the audience. I'll have to give the audience a little more credit, as they did have the conductor and principals return for 3 bows. And the bows were well earned. What a wonderful feeling: to be sitting in a large room of like-minded, probably intelligent people and enjoying the music of the ages. Wow!
For those of you who take note of such things, Maestro Vanska and his wife live in a loft overlooking the Mississippi River.
I was awakened from a deep sleep on Saturday night by loud claps of thunder and saw the lightning flashing through the mini-blinds in my bedroom. On Sunday afternoon I heard the thunder and saw the lightning of the Minnesota Orchestra playing Beethoven's 9th Symphony. I don't know if I've even seen a conductor work as hard as did Osmo Vanska, the Finnish born Music Director of this world-class orchestra. And I saw some of the orchestra members obviously having an absolutely wonderful time. Even some of the Minnesotans in Orchestra Hall were enjoying the music.
I'm not a music critic, and I therefore don't know the jargon a professional would use in describing this experience. What I do know is that this was one of the most wonderful musical experiences I've ever had. As my joke suggested, the timpani were busy, and I love the distinct sound of that large drum being struck by that padded stick. The fourth movement almost wears everybody out, the conductor, the musicians, and the audience. I'll have to give the audience a little more credit, as they did have the conductor and principals return for 3 bows. And the bows were well earned. What a wonderful feeling: to be sitting in a large room of like-minded, probably intelligent people and enjoying the music of the ages. Wow!
For those of you who take note of such things, Maestro Vanska and his wife live in a loft overlooking the Mississippi River.
The 9th Symphony
There's little I can say tonight except, "That mutha sho' could play dem drums!" I'm too tired, too filled with music, too satiated with food, too in awe of human talent to make the remotest sensible comments, if I could ever do that. There is one thing I can say with certainy, however. If you never hear it, you will be much the poorer. Till the sun awakens me!!!
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