Dear Dominik

Well, that was different

My piano teacher has mono. I took the opportunity to sign up for group piano lessons at SIU Edwardsville, since the summer session is just starting. SIU is a lot more convenient for me in terms of location, and this is a teacher who is used to working with adults. (I often feel like Alec patronizes me as if I'm a child. Maybe because I act like one. But still.)

Here's a story about this class:
http://www.theintelligencer.com/local_news/article_53d3b490-bdf3-11e0-a8f2-001cc4c03286.html

So I showed up Wednesday night after several wrong turns trying to find the practice room. The room is full of upright electronic keyboards set back to back in four rows of three. The teacher's keyboard, of course, is set so he's facing us. We all have headphones to listen to our own playing, and he can flip a switch so we can all hear HIM playing.

Mr. Sawchak is joyous and enthusiastic, and has a long white beard. He reminded me of a math professor who used to refer gleefully to the proof of the Pythagorean theorem: "See?! MAGIC!" When I got there he was answering questions from a bald man about chord inversions. He wants us to think in terms of GROUPS of notes instead of individual notes, so we went straight into chord theory. After giving us A-C-E, C-E-G, E-G-B, etc., he asked each of us to play those chords in order until we got back to A, going up and then back down the keyboard.

I asked if we were staying on the white keys, so the A chord would be A minor, and he said yes. Proximity to a linguist has taught me that what I was doing was establishing myself as a smart ass. Did he SAY "A-C#-E"? (Which is exactly the question Alec would throw at me.) No, but he said "A chord," not "A minor chord." When he came to me I did it left-handed, because in my practice until now I've always started with left hand, then right hand. So the teacher assumed - incorrectly - that I'm left-handed. And I did it wrong, so that should cancel out my smart-assitude, right? (I was going to play A-C-E, B-D-F; he wanted A-C-E, C-E-G.)

He talked about root positions and inversions, and asked us to practice all of these for the next week (but all still on white keys). With both hands. Other things for us to practice: Five notes up and down with each hand, separately then together; trilling with two fingers, then with three, up and down the scale; stuff like that. This course is called Piano TECHNIQUE, and he is going to get us used to using our fingers in parallel and contrary motion.

This is the "wax on, wax off" stage of piano playing. I probably need it.

Alec, meanwhile, is supportive and says it will be good for me to get exposure to a different teaching style - and he hopes to have me back in the fall. I can say now that Alec has always had a higher opinion of my ability than I do, so he challenges me. I don't think this new class is going to challenge me, but it may give me some building blocks in terms of building finger muscles and reading vertically. We'll see. I feel like I was in college and have gone back to first grade ... with a strong suspicion that I shouldn't have skipped first grade the first time around.

 

One True Thing

My heart's out there
But I don't care
I'll throw it anywhere
~ Girlyman, "Joyful Sign"

Tylan Greenstein of Girlyman has gone solo. She held a Kickstarter campaign to put out her solo album, One True Thing, and now is touring. Imaginary Lisa and I traveled to Madison, Wisconsin where we picked up my college friend Barb for a night of soul baring.

I don't know how she does it. Tylan taps into her heart and lets everybody in - and it doesn't seem to faze her. We sit there stunned, shell-shocked, wiping tears, and then applaud ... and she says "Thank you" like it's no big deal. 

***

We had dined on State Street and were browsing the interesting little shops before heading to the venue, when Tylan passed us on the sidewalk. "That's Ty ... lan," I stuttered, and then couldn't think of anything else to say. She turned and said, "Hello! Are you coming to the show?" and we nodded and she said, "You're almost there!" So there was another of my tongue-tied brushes with stardom. I'm building up quite the storehouse of anecdotes that show me up as a complete idiot. (Dale would be so proud.)

But when we reached Redamte coffeehouse, the ticket taker asked us to sit at the front table. "Everyone's intimidated," he said. "Please sit there." So we did, and we were at the feet of the performers - who could hear every word we were saying. For example, Tylan and my friend Barb had a lengthy exchange about the Dalai Lama. (The Dalai Lama was scheduled to appear in Madison a couple of days later. It wasn't completely random.)

Lisa had experienced Girlyman with me and I had sent her a link to a single, "Already Fine," from the solo album, so she was prepared for the raw emotion of the evening. Barb was not. She spent the set in awe and tears: traveling back to a past when she and I went to coffeehouses to hear folk singers; living in the present with this voice of honesty pouring poetry straight into our hearts. 

Ingrid Elizabeth of Coyote Grace - the band that opened for Girlyman last time we saw them - accompanied Tylan with drum, string bass and vocal harmonies. She also introduced one Girlyman song by asking, "You know that one song you're just dying to hear, and they never do play it? Even if you request it, they're all, 'Oh, I don't know if I remember the words or the chords,' and you're disappointed? Well, I have a little pull with the songwriter, and I requested this one." Then Tylan told us about the song:

"Whenever I play this, people come up to me afterward and ask, 'Are you okay?' But it's not about me. It's about this couple I knew. I visited their house and I could just tell that it wasn't going to last. And I was right. It didn't last, and they're much happier now."

Lisa and I exchanged long glances on the word "house," because my favorite Girlyman song is  "House Song." And as the music announced that was indeed the song, I hissed, "YESSS." Ingrid replied, "You're welcome."

And this is what we wanted, a place to settle down
But nothing can prepare you for the gravity of ground
And our old foundation is so settled in its way
And I've got less, Baby, and less to say
And all the paint and rearranging never seem to stir the dust
Of our love, of our love, of our love

***

I came away from the concert wishing I knew my One True Thing, like Red Fraggle looking for her song, or anyone trying to find meaning in their life. Tylan tells us she has one true thing that eludes her when she looks for it directly, but shows up when her brain is elsewhere. I think she is testing wings away from Girlyman and in the process she's finding the place where that one true thing resides. I'm afraid you have to give up all the familiar, normal things to let that one true thing bowl you over. I hope it has done so for her. Hers is an integrity and beauty that I can only admire, not understand.

She mentioned, in a self-mocking way, that she hates public rest rooms; when you look like she does, you sometimes get told you're in the wrong place. So she got this idea of putting a little pink plastic bow barrette in her hair for those occasions - she demonstrated. We smiled, but this was a shocker to those of us who would never think of telling someone they're in the wrong rest room. Who do people think they are? I know the first time I saw Girlyman, I couldn't tell if she was a boy or a girl. But who cares?! Even for those of us who are familiar with her anthem, "Young James Dean," this little story put a hot, angry spotlight on the problems of gender identity (and ambiguity). It's horrible. 

I was a private in the Army
All the real girls with their backs turned
Called me crazy. ...
I was a young James Dean
With a way with the ladies
All the real boys in their black jeans
Called me crazy. 

Tylan's songs come from a place I don't know, but her lovely, straightforward voice and her honesty are transformative. I wonder if she's able to share these songs because they barely scratch the surface of her life, although to the listener they fall like blows. There was an opening act, Laura Cortese, about whom I'll write more at another time. I liked her very much. But as Lisa and Barb compared notes on what they loved about Laura Cortese, Tylan came onstage and began messing with sound settings. I jerked a thumb in her direction and said, "I ... love HER."

I hope she heard me.

Diamonds and Rust

I wanted to like Roberta Rust. She was the guest soloist on Beethoven Piano Concerto No. 5 ("Emperor") with the Knox-Galesburg Symphony. I liked her shimmery gold-and-purple brocade tunic; I liked her slightly befuddled demeanor as she squinted into the spotlight. And I was in a perfect position to admire her piano technique, pounding the parallel octaves, nodding with the conductor's downbeat, stomping (audibly) as she hit the keyboard with all the force in her body. I enjoyed her interpretation and tried to learn things from her.

But. She came out for three curtain calls, and never once acknowledged the orchestra. She didn't shake the concertmistress' hand. She didn't turn and smile at anyone in the orchestra, nor make a sweeping gesture as if to say, aren't these a great bunch of folks? 

Nice playing, Ms. Rust. But it wasn't a recital. 

***

On the other hand, I was a little leery of seeing Tom Rush a second time. The first time I came away with the feeling that I had been to a comedy routine with incidental songs; and even though they were the songs I wanted (desperately) to hear, and even though I was starstruck and lost in nostalgia with the voice I'd loved for 40 years, it was still oddly disappointing. 

So this time I was afraid he'd make the same jokes and it would be contrived and meaningless. It wasn't.  He did tell some of the same anecdotes as before, but they belonged to the songs. For example, he told about debuting Joni Mitchell's music with "Circle Game," and added, "but that's not what I'm going to play now" - as his fingers picked out the intro to "Urge for Going." No objection there: it's a good story. 

But there were other stories that were laugh-aloud funny, and it was a blast! Maybe last time I was just so bowled over by the venue (the tiny Espenschied Chapel) and the proximity to a legend. This venue was maybe a little bigger, nowhere near full (alas), but I got even closer to the legend, who shook my hand and autographed my CD booklet and thanked me for coming. 

I bought his new CD, "What I Know," from which he played a few selections to start the show. He started off with "Hot Tonight," a fast dance song with a lot of fun rhymes:

Won't be frostin' up in Boston
Be a big flambe in old LA

And, because we were at the Wildey Theatre, he added, "Won't need a heater in the Wildey Theatre."  (Later he said his favorite rhyme was "Gonna be rockin' in Conshohocken.") I wonder what he would have done with the Espenschied Chapel ... 

He also performed "Fall Into the Night" by Eliza Gilkyson. It begins, "Baby take your blue jeans off and lay your body down" and is a tender, pensive ballad made for Tom Rush's easygoing style. After singing it, he said she had added a final stanza that he couldn't remember, full of spiritual meaning, shit like that, but he thought we should stay focused: get those blue jeans off!  

And it was not preprogrammed and contrived. When he came back out for an encore, some guy behind me hollered, "Child's Song!" I agreed, "Yeah!" Rush looked up from his guitar and said (with wonderful comedic timing), "... Okayyy." But instead of going straight into it, he told THAT story: 

This is a song about a kid leaving home - something that's close to my heart. [laughter] Funny thing. We rebelled and left home. Now kids rebel and STAY home! [noodles around with guitar] I have two sons from a previous administration [laughter] and now I have a 13-year-old daughter. I'm having my own grandchildren! Cut out the middleman.

And then the melancholy, bittersweet song - after which he announced, "I can't leave you with a sad song, so I'm gonna do another one," and started strumming fast for a medley of "Who Do You Love" and "Bo Diddley." Having earlier made the point that he was an English major, he did one chorus of "WHOM do you love."

And speaking of medleys, he introduced "No Regrets" with the line, "I'm going to do a medley of my hit" - another line I had heard before, that was somehow funnier this time.

His voice is creaky. He can barely hit the highs in "Ladies Love Outlaws." But when he drops down to the low notes and gives the musical line that little vocal hook he does, it's Tom Rush: stirring the old dreams and reacquainting me with that rebel who left home.

We both know what memories can bring - they bring diamonds and rust. ~ Joan Baez

 

Of art and artists

Most pleas for help from various worthy organizations mean "money," not help. But this time Art St. Louis was looking for volunteers to help move the gallery equipment to new quarters. Today we wrapped pedestals in cardboard to protect them from getting beat up and marred - it's a lot of work repainting those pedestals for gallery shows. (These are the white cubes that display sculptures and whatnot.) 

We had huge rolls of cardboard that are used to protect floors in another context. Two guys were already working together when I got there, and they had a method going - so John and I, the newcomers just pitched in. Unfortunately I'm not skilled with the tools - box cutter and those tape dispensers that have the cutting edge on them. But I did my best and didn't get in the way too much and maybe even contributed something by handing people tools. 

It was surprisingly hard work, bending and taping and flipping the pedestals over. I worked up a sweat and a thirst, and took a break with a huge bearded guy in a sleeveless shirt and a pirate bandana. He had been hauling furniture while we were wrapping pedestals. He looked like a biker but is a blacksmith, currently apprenticed at Eureka Forge where he's making all kinds of wrought-iron artwork. He said they have a commission for the Olin House in Alton, which is being renovated to "Presidential quality." They specialize in spiral staircases, but I don't know if they're installing a staircase in Alton. He's headed to Carbondale in the fall to work on his master's degree in metalworking. He talked a lot

One of the other men asked me what kind of work I do. When I said "PR" he asked, "No, I mean what kind of artwork?" I shrugged and said, "I don't. I buy it." And then shut up while all the artists who were voluntering their time talked about their work, their kilns and techniques. It was very interesting and kind of comical; I have observed before how self-centered artists can be. 

I recognized the name of one of the artists, Tim Eberhardt. Here is some of his work. He did not talk about his work but I've seen it in shows. Unlike the others, he actually talked about my employer, wondering how the firm was doing. He'd been there once, scoping out our space for a possible display, and he said it was dead, empty, echoing. 

But when the sandwiches came, we all listened to Chandler talk about the new gallery space. It sounds wonderful. It's up by the newly renovated St. Louis Public Library, with parks and green space and sunlight, and they're planning a cafe within it. They want to make it a welcoming space, with free wi-fi and comfy sofas, where people may actually spend some time with the artwork. Chandler said that the current space is kind of stark and sterile, causing people to speak in hushed tones. On a recent visit some gallery patrons apologized for asking where the rest room was - as if breaking the silence were offensive - and Chandler thought this was a shame. 

I asked about piped-in music in the new cafe space, and he said they were still thinking that through. "You'd have to get it right," I warned, and he agreed. Instrumental - you don't want singers' voices disrupting the thoughts from the artwork. And not too loud, but loud enough to mask conversations between cafe patrons? "Maybe we'll have certain times when there is no music, and publicize that," he added. I think that's a good idea. I'd rather not have the music, but I imagine the cafe patrons could be a little weirded out by too much quiet.

Of course all this needs money, but he didn't ask us, his brave and dirty volunteers. He said he didn't expect to raise the money from the artists the gallery represents. There will eventually be a Kickstarter campaign, but nnot until they're down to the last $10,000 or so. 

 

Crabby old widow

There's this dog that yelps for hours at a time. I'll be sitting in my house, relaxing in the silence, and this dog starts yelping and doesn't quit. It's torture. I start channeling Dale: "I'm going to shoot that motherfucking dog."

Today I met that dog, sort of. It was riding around in a basket on the back of an ATV that a goateed gent was driving in a foot of snow. No, it was not a snowmobile, it was an ATV, and he had a lot of trouble on the hills. He had already put tire tracks through my yard and I was not sending good vibrations his way as I started on my fourth round of shoveling. I heard the pup begin to yelp when he stopped up by the fence yonder, so I know that was the yelping dog.

I've seen a woman driving this same ATV over the hills with the dog in the back - and wondered why - but I hate ATVs so much that I can't really get past that to any sympathetic understanding. There is an ATV making constant droning engine sounds back and forth in front of my house and I hate it. And then at night there's a dog yelping arrhythmically and I hate THAT.

So I'm thinking unkind thoughts about these people and their beagle when Goatee Man drives right up into my yard on his goddamn ATV and offers to help me shovel. "No, thanks, " I say curtly, lifting another scoop. "How about if I help you anyway?" he says. All I can do is repeat, "No, thank you. I'm fine." He assures me I shouldn't be out there doing that. I assure him I'm taking it easy. I turn my back and dig in with renewed vigor and not a little temper.

What else could I say? "Get your goddamn vehicle out of my yard"? Technically he was in the easement. "Thank you, but I really hate ATVs and have been thinking really evil thoughts about you"? "Oh, yes, thank you so much, scooping the snow off my driveway is the least you could do after demolishing my lawn, asshole"?

He was being kind. This doesn't make it any easier for me because I know I'm being a curmudgeon, which makes me even grumpier. In his world, ATVs are innocent sport or something. He doesn't know I'm standing there hating on him. At the same time, I don't know why they take that dog joyriding in an ATV. Maybe it's paralyzed and this is the only way it can get out on those country hills. Wouldn't I feel terrible if these people were giving a little joy to a puppy while I'm wishing them ill? (Blowout, overturned vehicle, engine failure, stuck in mud/snow, mayhem.)

So, okay, I was the crabby old widow who inexplicably refused help from a well-meaning neighbor. Next thing you know I'll be lecturing to an empty chair.

***

In Dick Francis' High Stakes, our protagonist is introduced to Bert, who reputedly wants a favor. Bert accepts some kind of lunch while treating his host rudely and insultingly. "He wants a favor from me?" asks the host. "How does he behave if he wants to kick me in the nuts?" The answer: "He wouldn't eat your food." Fair enough. I won't accept the offer of shoveling assistance from someone whose habits annoy me.

 

 

I bought a warranty

Well, you know, it started with a headlight. Did you know you can't just replace a light bulb when a headlight goes out in a Pontiac G6? You have to remove the entire light fixture - which means you have to pull the whole front grille off the car. "You" meaning "someone far more skilled and with better tools than I." In this case, the Chevy dealer. 

Actually I guess it started with a trip across the country a year ago, in my sister's Prius. It turns out all my siblings have hybrid vehicles, and sibling rivalry was burning bright. But I will only buy Detroit-built cars, for a lot of muddled reasons. Bob Seger and the Detroit economy have something to do with it. Loyalty to my firm's clients could be a factor but probably isn't. Mostly it's the very practical consideration of who's going to service the car when it needs, say, a headlight. My Little Town has a Chevy dealer with a service department, a Dodge dealer without a service department, and Bud.

I fed my hybrid envy with dreams of a Chevy Volt. I know they're expensive. That's not the point. The point is I want to make a grand gesture to show my support of Detroit's efforts to be more innovative. Or something.

So while the Boys in the Back were replacing my headlight, I talked to Wally the Salesman. "Talk to me about a Volt," I said. He winced and asked why I was interested in a Volt, but instead of waiting for an answer he kept talking. "You had that Taurus for 250,000 miles," he said. "You know you could drive a Volt that long and still not save enough money on gas to make up the price difference?" That's not the point. Money is NEVER the point. I care about the Earth. I want to make a stand for new technologies that don't rely on fossil fuels. 

"Okay," said Wally. "Let me bore you with the economics of a franchise." He explained that a license for him to carry a Volt in his store would be about $50,000 - plus another $50,000 in the tools and computers and training for his guys to work on them. And that would only allow him to carry ONE Volt. "And out here in shotguns-and-pickups territory, you were only going to sell one Volt," I guessed. (To me.) He nodded ruefully. "There's lots of dealers in the area who will sell you a Volt," he said. I finished his sentence: "But YOU can't service it!" 

So we talked about the Cruze, and I test drove a Cruze, and it was a cool little car. "It's got a turbo," Wally told me. "GM finally listened. We told 'em for years that they made good cars but they were underpowered. Now if you need that extra push to pass somebody on the highway, you've got it!" (Sibling rivalry whispered in my ear: "Better than a Prius!") He said the snow that was on the ground at the time would be in his favor, because "that little car is a snow muncher." So I drove it into somebody's unshoveled driveway and did a K-turn - with no hesitation, no problems.

Wally asked me, "Are you buying a car or a payment?" - meaning, did I want to stay with the same monthly amount I had been paying, or was there leeway? I waved my hand: whatever. "But you'll have to sell me on buying this car today," I said. "Because when I pulled into the lot after my test drive, I saw my G6 sitting there and I got all happy: that's my car! I get sentimentally attached to my cars."

His partner overheard this and started telling me about an old couple who were going to trade in their Cadillac, but they were worried about what would happen to it, because of their sentimental attachment. "I told 'em it would probably be in a drive-by shooting in North St. Louis," he said. "And do you know, they sold that car to a neighbor because they didn't want to trade it to me?!" Yeah, it's a wonder you guys get ANY trade-ins. Wally's the fellow who said my old Taurus would have a family of Mexicans living in it within the week.

But he did finally come up with the ultimate selling point for the Cruze. "This car comes with a five-year, 50,000-mile warranty," he said. "Your G6 is five years old. You haven't had any problems with it yet. But you've got 100,000 miles on it and things are going to need to be replaced. You're going to start sinking money into it - and it's coming out of your pocket." 

Yeah. Much as I hate car repairs, I'd rather have one that's covered for a while. Here is my new Cruze:

Say hi to Betsy the Pickup in the background. 

After a month of driving it, I've found that I'm saving about the same amount in gasoline as I'm paying for the difference in car payments. So it's a zero-sum ... except that I have a warrenty. 

 

Loony Toons

My ceramics teacher in college said I had a problem with finishing things. He said I would take a project most of the way and then abandon it, when just a few finishing touches would take it from adequate to excellent. He suggested I would benefit from therapy. So I assigned myself the therapeutic project of throwing all my ceramics projects against the wall and then sweeping up the pieces.

So it is with piano lessons. I HATE the last page of Hungarian Rhapsody #2. It'ss the Daffy Duck bit:

 

It's just rinky-dink, not expressive. Franz Liszt showing off how fast he could play. (I can't play that fast.) I don't like it, and in fact Alec says nobody likes that last page. "But," he said, shaking his finger, "no Bach for you until you finish it." <snarls>

Tonight he asked, "How is practice going, my friend?" (His standard greeting.) I said, "Uninspired drudgery." He was shocked and didn't know how to react. I said, "I am not complaining. I know I have to do the drudgery to get anywhere." So he watched my technique and then said, "Okay. I'm not going to sugar-coat it. You just have to practice this."

Then he said the oddest thing, which made me realize how far apart we are in our communications. He said, "I wish I could tell you that you're doing something wrong, so we could correct it. But you're not. You just have to practice." 

See, I don't WANT him to tell me I'm doing anything wrong! He thought that would be a GOOD thing?! When I go to the dentist, he tells me, "Just keep on doing what you're doing. Everything is looking great." I think this is a good thing. So if the piano teacher tells me to keep doing what I'm doing (uninspired drudgery), shouldn't that be a good thing? 

Maybe he's just young and hasty. Wants to be a fixer and a problem-solver. But whatever made him imagine I want to be told I'm doing something wrong? 

I promised to floss more often. 

 

Dangerously fun

Imaginary Lisa and I took her 12-year-old daughter Alyssa to the St. Louis Symphony's family concert presentation of Benjamin Britten's "A Young Person's Guide to the Orchestra." DanceWorks Chicago provided visuals along with the music. 

But first, Alyssa wanted to eat at the Best Steak House, where one hollers one's order to the grill cooks while standing in a cafeteria line. The place was full of people who had evidently just left church: beautifully dressed women in hats and lace and furs and sequins, the men in pleated slacks and fine gold jewelry. Lisa's husband, who has an irrational fear of St. Louis, had asked us to eat before the 3:00 concert instead of sticking around Grand Avenue (the theater district) after dark. We decided we felt pretty safe among the church people, even though Alyssa had to deal with encroachment while she tried to save our table. It was benevolent encroachment.

Anyway, that was the dangerous part - along with the hordes of little girls in tutus and tights being escorted to Powell Hall by their grandparents. The concert itself was SO MUCH FUN!

***

Ward Stare, former resident conductor of the St. Louis Symphony, came out to talk to the audience. He said it was unusual for the conductor to come out first - ordinarily there would be an orchestra warming up and tuning up onstage - but he wanted to introduce the different sections of the orchestra to us first. So initially we'd be hearing a piece by the percussion section: "Paradigm for Percussion Ensemble" by Gary Fry. The percussionists took the stage in red tee shirts and black slacks. At the same time, on the other side of the stage, six young people in slacks, vests and suit jackets glided gracefully onto the apron.

I hissed, "Those are the dancers? They're not dressed like dancers!" Lisa suggested, "I bet they lose the clothes. They WALK like dancers."

Of course they were the dancers, and their costumes were not stiff tweed or worsted. The jackets and slacks whirled and flew with their wearers and were actually much less distracting than many costumes.

Here's how the dancing worked: when a stately drum sounded, the six of them marched, hands overhead, zombie-style. When a snare drum added its rat-a-tat, one dancer began to twirl, arms wrapped around herself; stopping when the drum stopped, starting again with the sound. She WAS the snare drum. Another dancer followed the wood block with leaps and bends. The xyolophone turned into ballet steps that barely touched the stage before lifting off again. During a crescendo, all six would whirl with their arms outstretched, then pull the arms in and slow the whirling as the sound diminshed. It was mesmerizing, and I think it helped that it was percussion and therefore even more abstract than a recognizable melody line.

The percussionists left and the woodwinds took the stage in green tee shirts, along with a French horn in yellow shirt because he really belonged to the brass. Stare explained this to the crowd as we craned our necks to see where the dancers would appear this time. Nielsen's "Menuetto from Wind Quintet" yielded to the Allegro from "Eine kleine Nachtmusik" to showcase the strings (in blue shirts) - memorable for the introduction of the viola. Lisa and I cracked up. Alyssa rolled her eyes.

The dance for one of those pieces was more of a storytelling dance. There was a boy, carrying a flower and a rug of Astroturf. He rolled out the turf and then danced with his flower. A girl wandered onstage and he offered her the flower; she demurred; he turned away; she demanded the flower; and a very whimsical duet began. As she would drop the flower, he was reaching between her legs to catch it. She would appear to have won the flower and then he would steal it back with acrobatic moves. At one point she curled up for a nap under the rug, holding the flower aloft, and I thought she was the spirit of Spring, pushing flowers up from the earth.

From the conversation around us I think that was the most popular dance among the small fry, probably because it seemed to tell a story. But I preferred the more abstract dancing that told the music.

For Britten's amazing variations, Stare conducted while narrating, and it was wonderful. Of course he knew just where to speak and what to emphasize, but there he was with baton in one hand and microphone in the other, making the piece accessible and exciting. He introduced the fugue - the climax - by explaining that we'd hear all the components of the orchestra playing a fugue of Britten's composition while Purcell's theme got tossed around from instrument to instrument. But even knowing the piece, and even with that introduction to set the scene, it took my breath away. Too much was happening! Dancers speaking their language, individual voices singing in the orchestra, and all taking part in a whirlwind fugue.

I cried. Lisa gushed. Alyssa rolled her eyes. (And talked of nothing else for the following week.)

It's cold; it feels like Independence Day

... and I can't break away from this parade.

Urgent email from our general manager at work right at 5:00: "We are gathering more information about a shooting incident that occurred in front of our building a few minutes ago." News coverage here. "Rolling gun battle." I like it, but not enough to stick around to hear all the variations on "I thought I heard something" around the office. A maroon car was said to be involved. "I drive a maroon car," I said. "They may not let me leave."

After a miserable piano lesson in which I was frustratingly unable to perform the exercises he demanded of me, I watched a state cop on the interstate tailgating an oblivious driver who was keeping a sedate pace in the left lane. As traffic piled up behind them, the cop finally flashed his red and blue lights a few times and the slowpoke moved over. I laughed, thinking about my own temptation of Fate.

***

Sunday morning, I was filling my gas tank, taking in the sunshine, mentally preparing for an outing. A woman came charging out of the quick shop/gas station hollering for my attention. "Ma'am! Ma'am! I happened to be looking out and I noticed your license sticker is WAY out of date!" I gave her my best bovine contemplative stare and said, "Yup. It's in my glove box." Having worked herself up into a state, she had to blow off steam, explaining to me how she happened to notice it and thought I ought to know. When she finally ran down, again I said, "Yup. It's in the glove box. I'm waiting to see how long it will take the cops to notice."

Note: my license sticker expired in April 2012.

I was amused. I would write about it on my blog, if I felt like it, even though that would be tempting Fate too far. I would really like to make it through the whole year without ever applying that sticker.

***

And then I got pulled over. Tonight. Not by the tailgating state cop on the interstate, but by a local town cop three miles from my home. I could only laugh. I wasn't doing anything illegal, and the sticker WAS in the glove box, so I pulled over and waited. Here came this kid with his long mag flashlight, to tell me that he pulled me over because I had a headlight out and I might not know it. In fact I DIDN'T know it, and I thanked him. He tried tapping on the glass to see if it would come back on, but it didn't; he asked me to test my brights, and they were fine. 

Then he said it. "I also noticed your license sticker is out of date." I smiled winsomely. "It's in the glove box." He asked for license and proof of insurance, and I had to dig through the glove box for the insurance. "See?" I said. "Sticker."  We both laughed.

 

John Q. Public

In front of me were four 40-ish people - two couples - who seemed to be speaking French, although for I know it could have been Romanian. We were awaiting Radu Lupu's performance of Beethoven's Piano Concerto No. 4, following a shimmering delivery of the Blue Danube. (In my late father's honor, I sang to myself, "The Danube ain't blue, it's green, it's green." Then I scolded him that the Danube is only blue when you're in love. It had to be done.)  

The man in front of me had managed to block my view of the conductor during the Strauss, so I moved over while the stage was being rearranged to accommodate Lupu's piano. This allowed me to eavesdrop on some good ol' Christians behind me. One man from farther forward had come back to assure them that So and So, playing such and such an instrument, "dearly loves the Lord." His friends were impressed (their eavesdropper was not). The other man in the group replied that "so many of the performers are gay." This led to a self-righteous discussion of how they don't really have anything against homosexuals, but do you know they're going to have a parade right down Market Street? But it is good to know that there are decent Christian people in the orchestra. Why, the concertmaster, he's a Christian. Course, he ain't here tonight. That's right, the concertmaster, David Halen, I think. Or Hayden? Good Christian man.

I moved back over and listened to the maybe-French, maybe-Romanian people. 

When Lupu started playing, one of the maybe-Romanian women took out a cellphone and started recording, which is strictly against the rules. And by golly, she got busted! A stern usher came  and stood in the aisle, pointing at her until she put it away. I was glad, but also wondered if she had some connection to Lupu. I mean, she's a furriner and HE's a furriner, and there she was recording his performance. 

But I soon gave up the fight and yielded to Beethoven. Christians and gays, Romanians and cellphones all vanieshed as joy started bubbling up. In front of me, the dark, fleshy man was finding it hard to keep still, exchanging glances with his maybe-wife, almost laughing aloud. I thought maybe they were sharing a private joke but now I think he was just delighted with the performance, as he followed the rhythms with head and shoulders and elbows and hands. 

The end of the first movement was so dramatic that we all applauded - even Maestro Robertson, who is on record as approving of applause between movements when one has been moved. The second movement was lovely and I was hopelessly torn between the piano and the bassoon, which was singing a soft lament throughout most of the movement. (No applause in the mournful peace of that transition.) But during the third and  final movement, my maybe-Romanian neighbor experienced every phrase physically - like the dancer at the Phish concert who translated every guitar riff through his spine - and I was enthralled. During the fourth curtain call, I tapped him on the shoulder and thanked him. "Forrrr what?!" he asked, reasonably. "Your enjoyment adds to my enjoyment!" I shouted over the applause. He grinned and turned to Cellphone Lady to relay the conversation.

I was so uplifted that I didn't feel like sticking around for the second half. I walked out into the clear cold air, my spirit dancing. Maybe there are gay people in the orchestra. Maybe there are Christians in the audience. Maybe there are rude, noisy, stupid and tiresome people wherever there are public gatherings. But there can also be moments of connection, when appreciation is enhanced by sharing.