I saw Philip Glass’s opera Orphée last Friday night. I had seen the Jean Cocteau film many years ago and being a former student of all things French, I knew what was coming from all directions except one: the music.
My friend Misty had said the night before she was a fan of Philip Glass and that she loved the music. My hopes, therefore, were high.
Opera music is generally BIG. In your face. You can’t miss opera music, usually. You can take a cat nap and still hear every note of the music. That’s how BIG it is.
Glass’s music was, to my taste, bland. I forgot it was there. I tore myself away from the story, tugging myself on the sleeve so that I would listen, but always, it was not much more than white noise. The “schrrrsch” of the radio onstage when it was not broadcasting. The sound a radio makes when it’s between stations or when a station has gone off the air.
I was ready for the mirrors, the illusion, the funny parts like the sentence saying poets are not writers. The motorcyclists of Death whose outfits I would like to wear for a day just for the thrill of being sexy and faceless.
I was not ready for zombie music. I don’t care that the five bloggers in the lobby that night liked the music. I don’t care that the reviewer for the newspaper loved the music. I don’t care that Glass probably scored the music to fit with the themes of the play. He should have known that when you take a film’s dialogue line by line and write music for it, there will be empty spots where nothing happens.
In the theatre, in opera especially, empty spots are boring. In a regular opera, someone is always singing. The only quiet moments are when someone is taking a breath in order to be able to sing again. The singing in this opera was about as interesting as those meaningless broadcasts on Death’s radio. The singers were vocally fabulous but what they had to sing was as much nothing as something.
Yes, the singers were fabulous, the set was fabulous, the Cocteau script was fabulous, but the music…was not. And this was an opera. A zombie opera. Oops.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
LIVING YOUR PASSION
The best thing about seeing Julie and Julia this weekend was being with my sister Susie, my brother Eric, and my sister-in-law, Julia. All of us laughing and crying together felt unifying and potent.
The next best thing about seeing Julie and Julia was watching a film about two women who lived their passion. We all should be so lucky to do the same. What is life about if it’s not finding your passion and living it?
Notice that to do so is not easy but even through all the work, one’s soul is satisfied, always.
Both chefs learned, cooked, wrote, and then published. They forged ahead despite life’s vagaries and disappointments. By the time they reached their destination, their journey meant something important.
One of my childhood acquaintances has decided like several other artists to complete a small painting every day. Every week I check his website for the treat I know will be there, often scenes of places I know in Eastern Oregon. Sometimes he paints onions and other vegetables, but those are my familiar friends too.
In 2006 I wrote a poem every day about whatever I saw before me no matter where I was.
What happened to me, besides my pride of accomplishment, of actually doing what I said I would, was that I fell in love with our natural world. Everywhere I looked, I saw beauty. Every day I awoke with joy anticipating what wonders I would witness if I just opened my eyes and looked. Looked with intention. Looked deeply and long.
Finding a poem every day wasn’t easy. Living where we normally have 200 days of rain per year, I strained to find different ways to describe rain, clouds, and wind. How many shades of gray are there, anyway? Traveling to Alaska, Hawaii, and Central Oregon that year I got a break from the bleak coastal weather from time to time, but all too soon, here I’d be again trying to describe what I saw.
Day after gray day seemed the same, so I was forced to search for the one thing that was different, unique, or awesome.
Summer was more fun because of my garden. One plant came up when another left so there was always something to talk about. A new insect here, a giant slug there.
That year of poems has given me my own weather and planting almanac. I can always check the dates on each poem to see if the peonies and dahlias are blooming at the same time. I know exactly how old the cherry tree is now. I can find out how long I have to wait for the first daffodils to appear. I know how much wind, rain, and snow we had and can compare each passing new year to 2006’s poetic calendar of events.
Some of the poems I have entered in contests and won awards. The garden-based poems I plan to assemble in a chapbook. My favorites of the year I will collect in a book entitled, En Plein Air.
Every week I sent seven poems to my family and friends if they wanted to see them and the most amazing thing happened. They also began to really see outside their own back doors in depth and I started receiving their poems. None of them are poets by vocation. They are engineers, teachers, escrow agents, housewives and students. They became poets by watching and sharing their images with me. Sometimes a second can be spectacular. Our everyday life is so filled with beauty they had to tell about it. My passion inspired a passion in them.
When I’m around others who live their passions, I can feel a humming excitement, a connection to my own soul. I think that force is love connecting us all.
Passion is crucial to living well. Living your passion means honoring a commitment to oneself, saying I believe I am important enough to follow this through to the end in order to find satisfaction.
Living your passion means loving yourself and in so doing, love discovers you. Even in the rain.
The next best thing about seeing Julie and Julia was watching a film about two women who lived their passion. We all should be so lucky to do the same. What is life about if it’s not finding your passion and living it?
Notice that to do so is not easy but even through all the work, one’s soul is satisfied, always.
Both chefs learned, cooked, wrote, and then published. They forged ahead despite life’s vagaries and disappointments. By the time they reached their destination, their journey meant something important.
One of my childhood acquaintances has decided like several other artists to complete a small painting every day. Every week I check his website for the treat I know will be there, often scenes of places I know in Eastern Oregon. Sometimes he paints onions and other vegetables, but those are my familiar friends too.
In 2006 I wrote a poem every day about whatever I saw before me no matter where I was.
What happened to me, besides my pride of accomplishment, of actually doing what I said I would, was that I fell in love with our natural world. Everywhere I looked, I saw beauty. Every day I awoke with joy anticipating what wonders I would witness if I just opened my eyes and looked. Looked with intention. Looked deeply and long.
Finding a poem every day wasn’t easy. Living where we normally have 200 days of rain per year, I strained to find different ways to describe rain, clouds, and wind. How many shades of gray are there, anyway? Traveling to Alaska, Hawaii, and Central Oregon that year I got a break from the bleak coastal weather from time to time, but all too soon, here I’d be again trying to describe what I saw.
Day after gray day seemed the same, so I was forced to search for the one thing that was different, unique, or awesome.
Summer was more fun because of my garden. One plant came up when another left so there was always something to talk about. A new insect here, a giant slug there.
That year of poems has given me my own weather and planting almanac. I can always check the dates on each poem to see if the peonies and dahlias are blooming at the same time. I know exactly how old the cherry tree is now. I can find out how long I have to wait for the first daffodils to appear. I know how much wind, rain, and snow we had and can compare each passing new year to 2006’s poetic calendar of events.
Some of the poems I have entered in contests and won awards. The garden-based poems I plan to assemble in a chapbook. My favorites of the year I will collect in a book entitled, En Plein Air.
Every week I sent seven poems to my family and friends if they wanted to see them and the most amazing thing happened. They also began to really see outside their own back doors in depth and I started receiving their poems. None of them are poets by vocation. They are engineers, teachers, escrow agents, housewives and students. They became poets by watching and sharing their images with me. Sometimes a second can be spectacular. Our everyday life is so filled with beauty they had to tell about it. My passion inspired a passion in them.
When I’m around others who live their passions, I can feel a humming excitement, a connection to my own soul. I think that force is love connecting us all.
Passion is crucial to living well. Living your passion means honoring a commitment to oneself, saying I believe I am important enough to follow this through to the end in order to find satisfaction.
Living your passion means loving yourself and in so doing, love discovers you. Even in the rain.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Effluvia
EFFLUVIA
One of my jobs after my mother-in-law had died was to prepare her clothing to take to St. Vincent de Paul. In all her pockets I found used Kleenexes. Sorting through pocket after pocket, I realized that even though we die, our snot stays.
Our skin cells still on the sheets, stay.
The scum on the shower door stays.
Out there in the septic tank our shit stays.
All our effluvia, the stuff that shoots out from us in our daily whirling like dervishes, stays.
Our recipes stay. Our to-do lists with things still not crossed off, stay. The depression our head made in our pillow, our body made in the bed, our butt made in our favorite chair, stays.
Our appointments on the calendar stay. Our plates with the knife and fork cuts across the top stay. Our basket full of vitamins and medication vials stays.
The quilt, the vase, the painting we loved, stay. Our earrings, bracelets, belts, stay. The handkerchiefs our grandma sent us every year for our birthday stay.
The books still bearing our fingerprints, our tears, our breadcrumbs, stay.
Our e-mail, our address book, our Christmas card list, stay.
The fruit we canned, the bench we built, the tree we planted, stay.
Our guitar, our mandolin, our banjo, stay. The music we wrote, the music we sang stays.
Those whose lives we touched, our friends, our family, our husbands, wives, lovers, children--all with their hearts broken, stay.
We go, but not entirely. We linger there just out of the picture right where the frame obscures us, part ethereal, part dust.
One of my jobs after my mother-in-law had died was to prepare her clothing to take to St. Vincent de Paul. In all her pockets I found used Kleenexes. Sorting through pocket after pocket, I realized that even though we die, our snot stays.
Our skin cells still on the sheets, stay.
The scum on the shower door stays.
Out there in the septic tank our shit stays.
All our effluvia, the stuff that shoots out from us in our daily whirling like dervishes, stays.
Our recipes stay. Our to-do lists with things still not crossed off, stay. The depression our head made in our pillow, our body made in the bed, our butt made in our favorite chair, stays.
Our appointments on the calendar stay. Our plates with the knife and fork cuts across the top stay. Our basket full of vitamins and medication vials stays.
The quilt, the vase, the painting we loved, stay. Our earrings, bracelets, belts, stay. The handkerchiefs our grandma sent us every year for our birthday stay.
The books still bearing our fingerprints, our tears, our breadcrumbs, stay.
Our e-mail, our address book, our Christmas card list, stay.
The fruit we canned, the bench we built, the tree we planted, stay.
Our guitar, our mandolin, our banjo, stay. The music we wrote, the music we sang stays.
Those whose lives we touched, our friends, our family, our husbands, wives, lovers, children--all with their hearts broken, stay.
We go, but not entirely. We linger there just out of the picture right where the frame obscures us, part ethereal, part dust.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Transformation
Part One:
Cabbage.
Sliced.
Sprayed across the upper kitchen cabinets.
Decorating the blender and the toaster.
Adorning the counter top.
Clinging to my knees, toes, arms, and hair.
Nesting in my cleavage.
Resting on the floor.
Soaking in salt water.
Crocked.
Sauerkraut-making day.
Part Two:
The fragrance of fermentation
Like when my father says,
“Pull my finger,”
Permeates the garage.
I cut short my errands past the crock,
Become a mouth breather.
Six weeks passes like eternity.
My father knew a family of 11
who lived in a one-room cabin
and ate sauerkraut all winter
from a Hogshead barrel.
Imagine.
Still, there’s a reason
My ancestors celebrated
The new year with pork roast,
Potatoes and sauerkraut.
I can taste the salty succulence now.
Cabbage.
Sliced.
Sprayed across the upper kitchen cabinets.
Decorating the blender and the toaster.
Adorning the counter top.
Clinging to my knees, toes, arms, and hair.
Nesting in my cleavage.
Resting on the floor.
Soaking in salt water.
Crocked.
Sauerkraut-making day.
Part Two:
The fragrance of fermentation
Like when my father says,
“Pull my finger,”
Permeates the garage.
I cut short my errands past the crock,
Become a mouth breather.
Six weeks passes like eternity.
My father knew a family of 11
who lived in a one-room cabin
and ate sauerkraut all winter
from a Hogshead barrel.
Imagine.
Still, there’s a reason
My ancestors celebrated
The new year with pork roast,
Potatoes and sauerkraut.
I can taste the salty succulence now.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Ditz
My husband wanted me to pick up 20 pre-stamped postcards as we needed them to mail off in some contest materials. If you send a self-addressed, pre-stamped postcard, the person at the other end will send it back which assures you that your entry got to where it needed to go.
At our local post office, there were no pre-stamped postcards to be had. The postal clerk said some guy came in and bought them out, over 100 cards. Come back next Monday.
I wonder why someone needs that many?
Not one to wait, I sat in my pickup and wrote out my contest submission checks, attached them to the various stories and poetry, and licked shut the envelopes. I drove to a neighboring city where it hit me that even if I got the postcards, it would do no good since I had LICKED SHUT THE ENVELOPES. Drat, dang, and crap!
So I thought, well, I drove all the way here and my husband wanted the postcards, so I'll get them and mail off the envelopes, which is what I did. I hope.
The clerk seemed spacy, off in woo-woo land. She didn't ask any of the 15 questions the clerks at the local post office do, like do you want express or priority or first class, etc. Is it hazardous, dangerous, or will it stink up the whole post office like a bad fart? She just weighed the envelopes and started sticking on stamps. On two of them. I asked for 20 pre-stamped postcards which have some lovely fish on them, by the way. I paid. I left.
At my pickup, I realized I needed verification for my taxes, so I went back in and asked for a receipt. She tore off what she'd done on the adding machine, stamped it with some official stamp, and gave it to me. But my other envelope sitting on her counter still had no stamps on it. As I left, she was looking at it as if it were an unrecognizable species from another planet.
"Hmmm. What do I do with this?" she seemed to be thinking. I swear I felt her woo-woo vibe clear out in my vehicle.
Now I'm worried. Especially with no pre-stamped postcard coming back to me saying my contest submissions were received. Did she actually put stamps on that last envelope and put the three packages in the "out" bag to be mailed?
Only time will tell. It does not pay to be a ditz. Or go to a post office where one is working.
At our local post office, there were no pre-stamped postcards to be had. The postal clerk said some guy came in and bought them out, over 100 cards. Come back next Monday.
I wonder why someone needs that many?
Not one to wait, I sat in my pickup and wrote out my contest submission checks, attached them to the various stories and poetry, and licked shut the envelopes. I drove to a neighboring city where it hit me that even if I got the postcards, it would do no good since I had LICKED SHUT THE ENVELOPES. Drat, dang, and crap!
So I thought, well, I drove all the way here and my husband wanted the postcards, so I'll get them and mail off the envelopes, which is what I did. I hope.
The clerk seemed spacy, off in woo-woo land. She didn't ask any of the 15 questions the clerks at the local post office do, like do you want express or priority or first class, etc. Is it hazardous, dangerous, or will it stink up the whole post office like a bad fart? She just weighed the envelopes and started sticking on stamps. On two of them. I asked for 20 pre-stamped postcards which have some lovely fish on them, by the way. I paid. I left.
At my pickup, I realized I needed verification for my taxes, so I went back in and asked for a receipt. She tore off what she'd done on the adding machine, stamped it with some official stamp, and gave it to me. But my other envelope sitting on her counter still had no stamps on it. As I left, she was looking at it as if it were an unrecognizable species from another planet.
"Hmmm. What do I do with this?" she seemed to be thinking. I swear I felt her woo-woo vibe clear out in my vehicle.
Now I'm worried. Especially with no pre-stamped postcard coming back to me saying my contest submissions were received. Did she actually put stamps on that last envelope and put the three packages in the "out" bag to be mailed?
Only time will tell. It does not pay to be a ditz. Or go to a post office where one is working.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Magnolia in Savannah
In May, I went to Georgia to visit my friend Martha West at her lovely Lake Hartwell home. After that wonderful experience, I joined my friend Roseann for an Elderhostel tour of Savannah. If you like learning when you travel, I can't recommend Elderhostel highly enough. It's the only way to go, for me.
This is a magnolia I saw during a Savannah stroll.
Cabbage
Cabbage.
Sliced.
Sprayed across the upper kitchen cabinets.
Decorating the blender and the toaster.
Adorning the counter top.
Clinging to my knees, toes, arms, and hair.
Nesting in my cleavage.
Resting on the floor.
Soaking in salt water.
Crocked.
Sauerkraut-making day.
Sliced.
Sprayed across the upper kitchen cabinets.
Decorating the blender and the toaster.
Adorning the counter top.
Clinging to my knees, toes, arms, and hair.
Nesting in my cleavage.
Resting on the floor.
Soaking in salt water.
Crocked.
Sauerkraut-making day.
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