Music Appreciation (for people who hate classical music)

How to Write a Musical

As a composer I was trained in Classical music. What does that mean? Form, counterpoint, strict harmony and rules, rules, rules. Because I'm a bit obsessive-compulsive and somewhat tight-assed about order and organization, I took to it like nobody's business. It was like being an architect, building from the foundation up and being careful to install the plumbing in a way that made sense while creating something of beauty. No one wants to see the plumbing, one only wants it to work.


Now that I'm working on a musical, I'm having to drop a lot of my training and it isn't easy. You see, my education succeeded in inserting a very large cork up my creative backside and I'm having to work very hard at dislodging it. I keep telling myself, "Be huge! Be bigger than life! Go over the top!" and other such things. What works in the concert hall will not work on the stage.


Traditionally, women composers (I can't believe we still say this; do we still say women doctors or women lawyers?) have been taught to lay low, to write "feminine" music, music that is not bombastic, bold, or in any way sounds like the music that men compose. It has gotten better, of course, but the attitude can still be felt; a lot of people think that women composers are messing around with something that belongs to men and that it's, well, just not as good or as interesting. The thing is, there have always been women who compose music. From Hildegard von Bingen in the 12th century to modern composers like Vivian Kubrick, we have been around, holding our own in a male dominated field, working twice as hard to receive half as much recognition. 
Music composition is one of the last bastions of male supremacy. Think about it. When was the last time you saw one of those little white composer busts that was of a woman? I only bring this up to illustrate how easy it was for me to sit quietly at my piano writing "polite" music. Now, however, I am being forced to shed my proverbial cocoon and come out dancing with top hat and cane, with huge gestures and a belting voice. It's a lot of fun. No wonder men have been doing this for so long. This having fun concept is proving to be the most important lesson I'm learning, in fact. What? Composition can be fun? It has always been rewarding for me, even addictive, but fun? Ummm...


As I'm writing this musical, I'm pulling all the stops as it were and rising above my training and education. I'm turning off my mentor's voice and going for the laughs and the applause. Opera is about bowing to the altar of music, while the musical is about bending it into all kinds of absurd shapes and having fun. Composing opera is all about beauty and tradition, about the music; composing a musical is all about entertainment and the audience.

Thanksgiving at Bookends Cottage

LAST NIGHT:

Nathan (who will be going to Le Cordon Bleu
next year) lends his hand at making pie crusts.

Lauren & Yours Truly doing what we do.

TODAY:

Gobble, gobble...

Till we wobble, wobble.

Raising Thanksgiving Consciousness

My predilection for living in all tenses, past, present, and future, comes from my dad. People in our family (especially my mother, who didn't understand him at all) thought that he lived in the past, but as I get older--and more like him--I know that this was a false notion.

Holidays like this one send my mind racing back to past Thanksgivings when I was a kid. I remember how much Dad loved the day and how Grandmother always made him his own chocolate cream pie because he didn't like pumpkin. I remember how nostalgic Dad was and I recognized the look he always got on his face when he thought no one was looking. He was looking back to his own childhood, as well as to future Thanksgivings when he would be gone. At the same time, he was completely enjoying the present as well.

I find myself doing this now that I've scaled the "over 50" fence. As I think back on those days at either Grandmother's house or my Aunt Pat and Uncle Don's, I can't help but wonder what our family will become when Nettl and I are gone. Will they get together around the the table, remembering our Thanksgivings as a family? Will they talk about Nettl's apple pies and my jokes that always make Heather nearly spew? Will one of them live in the Thanksgiving time warp that has been passed down?

I've never understood families that get together on these special days just to fuss and fight, and wait impatiently for it to be over. Nothing lasts forever, and one day we may be all alone, looking back on our past holidays. None of us know where we will be then: palace or alley, surrounded by family or in a nursing home with no family left. How do we wish to remember our Thanksgivings? Would we prefer to remember fighting, or savoring it for the blessing that it is?

We will be there one day: our kids will be middle-aged and new generations will take the center of the family stage. If we can remember to exercise a little past-present-future consciousness, we can make memories that will comfort us when we're old.

May you and your family make pleasant memories today that will be remembered with love.

The Blessing of a Blended Family

Once a year I feel totally justified in waxing sentimental. When I was younger I was part of a large extended family, and Thanksgiving was spent in much the same way that other Americans spent theirs: kids running around, moms, aunts and grandmoms in the kitchen cooking (and nipping on wine), dads, uncles and granddads playing cards, working on cars, BSing (and drinking beer). All that ended for me in 1974 when my grandmother died and our family began to slowly disintegrate. Finally, by 1993 it was all over with my dad's death, and between then and 2000 I don't even remember Thanksgiving without not-so-vague feelings of being a kind of orphan.

When, in 2000 Nettl and I joined our lives and our immediate families, I was given the greatest gift I've ever received: five kids (she has three and I have two). They're all grown now, ranging from 17 to 39. I cannot imagine where I'd be without my family, and when I try to, I cannot imagine being even remotely happy. Tomorrow, we'll all be together, the seven of us, and we'll be doing what many other American families will be doing: cooking, talking, making music, laughing, and eating. I'm relishing every minute; who knows when this will happen again? Soon enough it will be partners and children, and over-crowded schedules.

This year I'm thankful for my family and the way we enjoy each other, and pull together. I'm also thankful for the generosity of friends, who allow me the blessing of relaxing and enjoying the day without worries of where the food will come from. Bless you.

And bless all of you. Have a very happy Thanksgiving!

"I don't care how poor a man is; if he has family, he's rich."
M*A*S*H

"A family is a unit composed not only of children but of men,
women, an occasional animal, and the common cold."
Ogden Nash (Hope you feel better soon, Nathan)

"And thank you for a house full of people I love."
Ward Elliot Hour

Addios Firefox!

After three months of constant Firefox 3.5.5 issues, I've said good-bye. Sad, too, because I was a die hard fan for so long.

Tonight (last night to you), as I was doing some stuff online, all of the page graphics and images just disappeared. Kaput! No matter what I tried, nothing brought the pages back around to looking right. I went over to Internet Explorer, but IE8 doesn't show videos. They say it's an issue. Duh! Finally, I downloaded Chrome, but the jury is still out on whether I'll keep it or not, or if my Vista can even handle it.

Now, Blogger has this new image uploader that doesn't align the text  around an image correctly. If I backspace to get rid of the extra line, it deletes the image. To make it work, I have to go in and play with the code, and that's a pain.

I'll say one thing for Chrome: it's fast!

Have I Ever Told You...

How much I love Lou Rawls? I always wanted to meet him, but never under these circumstances!

Willow's Soft Ginger Cookies Are the Best!

If you don't believe me, visit Willow's blog for the recipe, and try them yourself. They are, as Micah said, "Evilicious". These are the BEST ginger cookies I've ever eaten. Perfect for the holidays!

Photo by Willow.

Morning From the Other Side

Unable to keep my eyes open, I went to bed last night before 10:00. Usually, if I'm seeing six in the morning, it's because I'm still up, but today I awoke ready to get going on the day. The kids are coming home tomorrow after all, and I have a lot to do.

So here I am, sitting in bed, talking to Nettl who's getting ready for work and complaining at the cat. God, the cat... She was such a pain yesterday; hope she's in a better humor today. Having a two year-old in the house is easier than she is. My entire day is spent being both her personal valet and dominatrix. I like cats, but dogs are easier.

I may make another entry later, when I've been up a while and actually have something to write about. Have a great morning!

Crack Up-a-Doodle-Do!

I don't remember how it started, or what I was looking for, but around 2:00 this morning, after writing a little on my book, I came across a video on YouTube of the Steve Allen Show. It was taped, I'd guess, around 1968. The video was of Foster Brooks. What was funny was that the panel of guests didn't know who he was or that his drunk schtick was just that. I was laughing so hard that I was afraid I was going to wake Nettl. You can see it here. Pay special attention to the expression on the face of the woman next to him. Priceless.

I'd forgotten how much I liked Brooks' comedy, so I started watching other videos of him, most of which were of the Dean Martin roast shows. What a treasure trove of really good comedy! Don Rickles especially busted me up and I eventually succeeded to wake my poor, sleeping partner with my unsuccessfully suppressed laughter. We then started watching outtakes from The Carol Burnett Show, laughing like idiots at 4:30 in the morning. What a great way to start the day!

Afterward, we philosophized about laughter and the sad state of television comedy nowadays. Where is the spontaneous comedy that really makes us laugh until we nearly pee our pants? In the age of one-liner, canned laughter sitcoms and 24/7 "news", our funny bones aren't getting tickled like they used to.

The old chestnut, Laughter is the best medicine, is really true, and what made the Burnett show so hilarious wasn't the skits themselves, but watching the cast crack each other up. This is because we as human creatures are supposed to laugh and suppressing laughter only makes the body mechanism force the matter on us. Have you ever been in church, or a meeting, or some other place where laughing wasn't "appropriate" and tried not to laugh at something? Usually, these are things that wouldn't be funny at a party, or someplace where laughter is okay.

Laughter reduces the level of stress hormones like cortisol, epinephrine (adrenaline), dopamine and growth hormone. It also increases the level of health-enhancing hormones like endorphins and neurotransmitters. Laughter increases the number of antibody-producing cells and enhances the effectiveness of T-cells. All this means a stronger immune system, as well as fewer physical effects of stress. It also creates natural anti-depressants and pain-killers. Perhaps our ultimate boycott on the pharmaceutical and medical insurance companies should be to get back to side-splitting laughter. Watch some of these videos yourself and see if you don't feel better.

Of course, I don't expect everyone to find my kind of humor to their taste, but that's what makes life so rich. We each have our own brand, which only adds to the laughter soup. How about this, then?

Have a laughter-filled day!

This is What Too Much Scrabble Will Do to Your Brain

Lately, Nettl and I have spent our weekend evenings playing endless games of Scrabble.

Judge a Book By Its Cover

I don't usually do this. I've learned that during a creative project it's best to "sit on it" -- not reveal too much -- in order to keep the magic under the hood. It's about energy, you see, and if it gets released in little fit and starts, it loses its momentum or forward thrust.

All the same, between writing a number for my musical, writing a song, rewriting and formatting my first book, and working on my second this week, I think I have enough creative fire in there to share a little something with you and not dissipate the energy too much. I've created my book cover, and I want to share it with you.

I could allow you speculate on what the cover means, but I'd rather tell you. These are my two main characters, Katy and Gordon. While Katy is new on the scene of 1970s rock & roll, surrounded by kinetic and crazy energy, Gordon, has had enough of all that. After the split up of his famous band and the death of his equally famous wife, he has gained serenity via retirement to his estate in the English countryside. Until he decides to anonymously produce Katy's first album.

This is not a typical rock & roll rags-to-riches story. It is in fact a story about personal evolution and rising to meet the challenges that arise, or not, as the case may be. The blurb for the back cover reads,

The 1970s was a time of dynamic change in the world of rock and roll. The rawness of Punk was directly related to the bloodlessness of Disco, but there were recording artists who fell somewhere in between those two extremes. Katy Clarke and Gordon Hammond worked together under mysterious circumstances, and together they rocked the musical world.

The story has a lot of little sub-plots and a surprise ending. The cover may change a little in the next three months, but the symbolism will remain. I'm working toward a February 1st publication date. I'll keep you posted.

Some Things I Just Don't Get

Sometimes, the seemingly little things in life bog me down. Like:

1. Why my coffee cup always ends up in the back of the microwave when I open the door to take it out (yeah, I know Micah explained that one, but I'm pressing a point here, okay?),

2. why, when I click on my Gmail link, my name and password are sometimes stored and sometimes they're not--sometimes within minutes of each visit,

3. why my webhost was down for two hours last night,

4. why Blogger's image upload utility keeps changing,

5. why a laptop isn't designed to sit on your lap without overheating,

6. why capchas are so hard to read.

7. why Blogger, Facebook, Firefox, and Google keep fixing things that aren't broken, ultimately resulting in something being broken, and

8. why Windows released  a turdball like Vista.

Oh yeah, that last one has everyone screaming. Three or four blue screens a day is ridiculous, especially after your laptop is straight back from the repair center. It's like they're saying,

"Your computer issue has been fixed. Unfortunately, Vista still sucks." 

If I could afford to, I'd go get Windows 7 and install it, but this laptop isn't even six months old. I remember when I got Windows 98. What a turkey! But Vista is worse. If I could go back to XP, I would, but the geniuses at Microsoft have seen to it that that can't be done. It's like they were all sitting around in the conference room, drinking their Starbucks double lattes with Splenda and skim milk:

Bill Gates: "People, no one is buying new computers anymore. Not like in the good old days when we were releasing a new platform every nine months."

Guy with Bagel in Mouth: "XP Rules!"

Bill Gates: "Shut up, Walter. So what are we going to do? We're not turning over machines like we used to."

24 Year-Old Brown Noser in faux-Prada Suit: "We could put out a dog, Uncle Bill. Market the hell out of it and promise the consumer the best platform ever. We could have it installed on every new computer until XP is virtually extinct, and then render it obsolete, the same way we did back in 1995 with 3.1 -- and Windows 95. Man, That Win98 was a stinker!"

Bill Gates: "Yeah!  Then we'll release a better platform. New computers equals turnover! That's the spirit! 'Cause everyone knows I--we don't have enough money here at Microsoft."

Lowly Secretary With Cold: "Ah-choo!"

HR Lady: "You're fired. We can't afford your health insurance anymore..."

Bill Gates: "Just wait till they get a load of Windows 13..."

Yeah, some things I just don't get.

Ein Video für Badger, in der Freundschaft

Genießen Sie, mein Freund!



Visit Badger's blog.

The Online Sad Sack Parade

Lately, it seems I've met up with a number of people who can't, or won't, pick themselves up and improve their situations. I'm not talking about people with physical issues or actual depression (I've battled both of those over the last decade), I'm talking about lazy-assed sad sacks, like our friend here, Eeyore.

Case-in-point: I recently got back in touch with an old friend. I asked how she was, naturally, and told them what was going on with me. I didn't want to get into my financial situation because, well, we hadn't corresponded in a long time and I didn't want to be a downer from the get-go. The email I received from her began, "I'm stressed", and went downhill from there. Not even "Hi. Glad to hear from you."  Life hadn't turned out the way she'd planned, she didn't get to live where she wanted to live, etc., etc. Buy a freaking helmet! Face it, NO one's life has turned out the way we planned. That's called Life, m'dear.

I was so put out that I didn't even write back. Sod that. I fight on a daily basis to remain positive and I don't need deadwood like that pulling me back down into the muck. I seriously care about her, but at least start out your email with, "Well, things could be better, but..." or something! Sometimes, writing a letter is a good opportunity to make oneself feel a little better because politeness kind of demands that we put on the best face we can muster for a few minutes. Later, we can get into the crap, but let's at least drop the rain cloud when saying hello again.

Facebook can really be a tricky place because so many people feel that it's a good place to vent their frustration or angst. I'm okay with that. Once in a while I'll write a status message that voices a not-so-positive attitude, but some people think it's their personal dumping ground, or they use it as a veritable Calvary, staking their cross and mounting themselves on it in hope that their 156 friends will look up and feel sorry for them.

The thing is, sometimes life is about acting. It's about acting out something and then harvesting that something. If we act out defeat, we harvest more defeat. If we act out sadness, we harvest sadness. If we act out happiness, we harvest happiness.

I'm not placing myself above anyone here because sometimes I'm just as guilty as the people I'm writing about. It's hard work staying positive and when I'm able to, it's not because I've gained any spiritual insight or inner strength, it's only because I get damned tired of feeling down, so I stop feeling sorry for myself. I'm an artist after all, and a moody, self-indulgent one at that, but I've learned not to be helpless. And when I'm tempted to plop my ass back on the pity pot, I think of people whose lives are a lot harder than mine.

If I've learned anything about this, I've learned to look around. Those who are simply feeling sorry for themselves usually don't have it all that bad, but those who really do have a hard row to hoe are usually those who are upbeat and cheerful, plowing on ahead and helping others with a smile.

Show Off Your Firefoxiness

But first, have you noticed that since their latest update, Firefox 3 isn't crashing anymore? Between my Vista (Windows Titanic) issues and the issues with Firefox, I was ready to get me another browser, something I thought I'd never, ever do.

You might already know about the Firefox Skins plugin, but I discovered it only about a week ago. Click the screenshot and take a look at the sun/moon thingy in the upper right hand corner. That's just one skin that you can download--for free! I'm not plugging Firefox Skins, I'm just sharing something that I thought was fun.

Well, last night's NaDruBloMo was a complete success. It must have been, because I got the day wrong, not only in my introductory sentence, but in the title as well! Bravo! The only bad thing about it is that I awoke this morning, not with a hangover, but with this going through my head. Arg!

Well, back to writing!

NaDruBloMo Monday

(Okay, so it's technically Tuesday, but when I started drinking it was Monday, so bite me.)

My son bought me some wine tonight (isn't getting older wonderful!?) and I'm finally able to write my NaDruBloMo entry. Whew! I was worried that our current financial problems would keep me from taking part! It's not like me to miss something like this, but being broke is a bitch. As much as I like my wine, it's a non-issue when family need is an issue. (So bite me Wim, Suzi, and all of you who like to gossip about what an alcoholic I am. Plegh! My family will never do without because I like to imbibe in a legal substance once in a while. Besides, you're from Amsterdam and Germany... Like your countries aren't famous for drinking!)

Whatever...

Da Rulz
Please note that the rules that accompany the NaDruBloMo celebration is that you cannot go back and correct your bad handwroter... or compuwroter, or something like that. Therefore, I will not be backspacing over my words to make them perfect for you. Wait.There are norules like that. I just imposed them on myself. What a ass!

In the Cool Beans Category
Nettl got her book in the mail today! You can imagine how jealous I am. I've been trying to get Night Music published for, well, a lot of years (14, but who's counting...). Now, Lulu.com comes along and the love of my like has a book! But I designed the cover, added some content, and did a lot of editing, so good for me too! Tis is like a well-needed cattle prod, to tell the truth, and I'm now working extra-hard to get With A Bullet written and published so that I can have it on my nighttable like she has hers. (See how the soulmate thing works? Sandpaper, baby, gimme some sandpaper!) CongratswNettl! You've worked really, really hard for this and you deserve everything good! You've been an inspiration to me and I love you! And that's not drunken BS.


The Mundane & the (ahem) Sacred
Tonight I spent 1.5 hours in our freestanding antique tub, and it was wunderbar! I lit some candles, put on some music, made a carafe of wine available, and got lost. Ourtub stabnds in a huge bank of windows, and as I looked out at the black tree limbs against the cloudy sky, Istarted thinking about cliches. Well, not any cliche,buttheone aqbout how writers paint with words. I never took that very seriously befrore, but tonight I really experienced it. I looked outat the scene, and instead of seeing shades ofgrey, brish strokes, and all that, words came to me:

The mist hung in the air, clinging to the barren trees like a shroud.

I could never apint that, but I can write it, and let's face it, writing oit takes a lot less time! (And it's free--no pigments, canvases or brushes. Nowonder painters can't afford to drink and are always bumming wine off of writers!)

Issues
Sorry about my spacebar issues. A couple of months ago I cleaned my keyboard and a little flibbertygibbit under the space bar broke off. Usually, I futz with it si that you don;t know, but hell, it NaDruBloMo for me tonoght, so sod it.

TMI
Did I eveer tell you what a fan Iam of long,of soaks in a tub? Ilike bubbles and candles and all that. Givde me bubbles, baby!

Issues, reprise
It just occurred to me that te younger geberation are not bad spellers... they simply have broken space bars.

Name-Dropping
Did I ever tell you about the time I met Jimi Hendrix? Yeah, I did. Did I ever tell you about the time I slept with Paul McCartney? No, because I didn't. Jesus, there's a whole universe between those two... Let me tell you about the time... well, no.

Good night!

What The Hell Is That!?

If you remember, I posted an entry a while ago that had a picture of something I couldn't explain. Here, for your amusement and conjecture, is another. Have fun speculating! (Click to enlargesse.)






Here it is, enlarged, although pretty pixelated:

The Road to Success

I've suddenly been hit over the head by my muse, who is demanding that I work not only on my book, but on my musical as well. This has caused a path to be worn in the carpet between where I sit in the living room and the piano in the dining room. It also means that while certain parts of my brain are shouting dialogue and turns of phrase at me, other parts are singing numbers like, "When My Pussy Comes Home", one of Mrs. Slocombe's numbers.

Oy.

Meantime, enjoy this allegorical map called, "The Road To Success" (it inhugifies if you click it).

Accepting Love

Whenever I find myself in a difficult situation or experience, I try to ask myself, “What is it about love that I’m not learning?” Sometimes the answer is a bit convoluted and I have to dig around a bit to find it and sometimes it’s looking me in the face.

It’s my belief that all we’re really here for is to learn love. The Beatles were right when they sang, “All You Need Is Love” because if you boil everything down—the so-called good and bad lessons—it’s only about love: love for others and love for ourselves. Love covers a multitude of sins and I know from my own experiences that when I apply the love lesson to any given situation, I’m prompted to act from the best part of myself rather than ego or fear. I’m no saint, so it’s not always easy. It’s never easy, in fact, because it’s so easy to act from fear.

We’ve been going through a financial crisis for so long now that I’ve almost come to accept it as our lot in life. Almost. Right behind that defeatist attitude, however, lies the knowledge that it’s only a test, a test that I intend to pass though. When someone offers help my first reaction is to feel small and embarrassed—a failure—but when I ask myself, “What is it about love that I’m not learning?”, I know that I’m supposed to learn to accept love, to turn off the negative voices and allow people the joy they receive from their selfless actions.

By accepting assistance from others I not only allow them the blessing that giving bestows, I also keep the flow moving so that when it’s my turn I’ll have what it requires to help others. It’s a continuum of energy that sets us up for an ever-expanding dance of giving and receiving. That’s what the adage, “Tis more blessed to give than to receive” means. And isn’t that what life is about anyway? All creatures on this planet benefit from working together for the good of all—it’s only human beings that have distorted that into the I, Me, Mine mentality that plagues and poisons our society; it comes from fear and is the opposite of love.

For those of us who believe in reincarnation and remember our past lives, the lesson is even more wide-spread because we are able to look into the relationships that have traveled with us in and out of lifetimes, find the karmic issues, resolve them, and move on. Perhaps we helped others in a past life and we are only just now receiving the energy, like ripples on a lake caused by a toss of the proverbial pebble, or maybe we’ve been wealthy in a past life and need to learn important lessons about pride. In this light it’s easy to understand how important giving and receiving is to our soul’s evolution.

How can we ever expect to be in a position to help others when we cannot receive or accept help ourselves? Today, accept not only the love that your friends send, send that love to them in return by not stopping the flow that they’ve set up and when you are able, pass that love on to the next person in need.

Sunday Pate

My new book, With A Bullet, is a story set in London in the 1970s. It's about four people in the world of popular music who are dealing with their individual issues, some having to do with acquiring fame and fortune and some with living with it.

The title comes from Billboard's Top 100 jargon. When a record goes "Number 40 with a bullet", for example, it means that it shot up out of nowhere and is predicted to go straight to the Top 10.

I actually wrote this book many years ago, but it was pretty godawful. The manuscript was one thing that I was glad went in The Great Dump of 2001. A few months ago the story started haunting me and I knew that I could rewrite it into something worth reading. The characters are so firmly etched upon my life that my brain actually missed them (see this entry, The House I Never Lived In, for an explanation). The book is no longer self-indulgently autobiographical; the characters have evolved their own identities quite apart from those they previously had. I've grown up, it seems, and I can create characters that have little to do with me. That's the gift that years of experience gives us writers.

Here's a little taste, from Chapter 4:

     The salmon pate was about the best thing Katy had eaten all day. In fact, it was all she’d eaten. She took a sip from her wine glass and looked at Shelly, who sat across the room talking about skiing in Colorado.
     Yet another party, this time in the Mayfair home of her lawyer, John Dunne, and his girlfriend Denise. It was an intimate get together though, which Katy appreciated. She was tired after a full week of promotional appearances on London’s television talk shows, and longed to go to bed.
     With help from the cozy warmth of the room and the soft conversation around her, Katy felt her eyes become heavy, and she stood to pay another visit to the buffet table, which was laid with a pleasant array of cocktail party fare. In the foyer the doorbell rang, but she paid no mind. The pate beckoned, and she slathered a fair amount onto a pita triangle and took a bite.
     Someone came into the room, making an entrance that caused Katy to turn and look. She knew the face, but for a fraction of a second she was at a loss at placing a name to it.
     “Of course,” she thought. “Jason Talmadge!”
     Jason had been a member of one of the most celebrated bands of the Sixties, and now he had a new band whose records were topping the charts every time one came out. He was tall, with coarse dark hair, expressive eyes, and boyish good looks that still made his fans quiver. It didn’t matter that he was married and had kids, every girl was sure that he would marry her, if only they she could somehow meet him.
     He put across an air of approachability although he was a very private person in reality, but then, Jason was the quintessential rock star, and knew how to butter his bread on all sides, while remaining untouched by the whirlwind around him. His was a charmed life, or so it seemed until recently. Word had started going around that his marriage was in trouble. The fans would of course welcome a divorce, but to Jason, it was catastrophic; he needed the solidarity of family life to balance his own legend.
     Not wanting to appear excited, Katy turned her attention back to the pate. Without warning, the hors d’ouevre was suddenly snatched from her hand and she turned to see Jason stuffing it into his mouth, a huge, playful smile on his face.
     “That’s just to let you know that I’m not giving you everything in this town,” he said, a piece of pate falling from his mouth and onto his tie. He roared with laughter, wiping it off with his finger and licking it.
     “Did you plan this?” she asked.
     “What? Meeting you? Yes.”
     “No, I mean your tie being the exact color as the salmon.”
     “Of course!” he said and paused to pour a glass of wine. “I suppose introductions would be completely redundant,” he said after a moment.
     “Maybe not,” she said blithely. “What’s your name again?” They both laughed.
     “Do you think you can get away with this then? I mean, knocking me out of first place on the Top Ten?” he asked.
     “Me knock you out? Right. Like that’s going to happen.”
     “Oh, you haven’t heard the news then.”
     “What news?” she asked cautiously.
     “You’re Number One, love. I just heard it on the way here.”
     Forgetting that they’d only just met, Katy placed both her palms against his chest as if seeking strength to remain standing.
     “You’re kidding…”
     “Nope!” He grabbed an olive and popped in into his attractive mouth. “I never joke about the charts.”
     “Wow! I mean, wow!” She bit her fist, then looked at him again, remembering who he was and realizing the importance of what he’d just told her. “Oh, Jason, I’m sorry. Here I am—and you’re—”
     “Don’t sweat it, kid. Welcome to the asylum.”

World Beat Music

I'm not writing tonight. In fact, I'm going to go to bed as soon as this entry is posted. I wrote all afternoon and now I'm just plain old tired.

Meantime, enjoy this composition by James Plakovic, who is known for what he calls his "two dimensional sculptures of playable music". I'm not sure when this piece was composed, but the entire composition is scored for 37 instruments and contains a total of 32 measures. The total playing time is approximately 40 seconds. The link below will take you to a midi version of it. You can hear the fully orchestrated version on his website, but I couldn't get the sound clips to work. This piece, which is titled, World Beat Music, doesn't sound as unpleasant as I thought it was going to. Click the image to enlarge it, and Listen to it here.

See and hear more of Plakovic's music here.

Afraid of Death? Not Anymore!

Click to enable enhugination.

Speelchicker

I'm having a hard time tonight knowing where to take my story. There are a number of frustrating issues with my new book, you see, not the least of which is the fact that this was something I wrote way back when. I mean wa-a-ay back. The only good thing about it was the characters, so I've resurrected them. The story had potential, but it needed a lot of surgery. I'm working all that out as well, and I'm liking the results. The story hasn't changed all that much, but it has matured; I've added some twists that I wasn't able to invent when I was younger. I think it's going to be good.

Actually, I know where I'm taking the story, but tonight I'm stumped with how to get from point A to point C, because I haven't completely worked out point B. I shut down Word and played a game or two of Sudoku, then I looked over at the bookcase and saw that RW's book (which you should read, by the way) is neatly tucked between Mary Shelly and Dylan Thomas, and I realized that I must get firm with myself. Plus, Nettl's book is out, and here I sit playing Sudoku. It's not that I'm competitive, I just vaguely mind when someone completes something and I haven't.

Another problem is that I don't have the original manuscript; I'm reinventing it as I go. Actually, that's probably a good thing because I won't be tempted to take the lazy way out and use something I'll regret later. And there's so much of that crapola in the original.

Yet another thing is the damned spellchecker. It's a very good tool, but do I really need to have it on while I'm writing? Doesn't my constant stopping to correct something kind of break the creative flow? I think it might, so I've turned it off until I'm finished writing for the night. Then I'll turn it back on and make my corrections. We'll see if that helps anyway.

Now I must stop blogging so that I can get back to work. I refuse to think of blogging as one of my ways to avoid writing, however...

I Always Miss the Fun News

On January 10, 1992, twelve 40-foot containers holding 28,000 plastic bath toys were washed overboard off a cargo ship into the middle of the Pacific Ocean and broke open. The floating toys, which were on their way from Hong Kong to Tacoma, Washington, included yellow duckies, blue turtles, red beavers, and green frogs that have since been caught up in the world’s ocean currents and continue turning up on the most improbable shores. Curtis Ebbesmeyer, a retired oceanographer, saw from the beginning how valuable the toys could be in tracing ocean currents, and correctly predicted their trip through the Northwest Passage.

The "Friendly Floatees", as they became known, made their first landfall in mid-November of 1993, when the counter-clockwise Subpolar Gyre started dumping the toys on Alaskan shores. It took the ducks about three years to drift full circle on the Gyre. They turned up all over the Pacific: Japan, Hawaii, North America, and Australia.

As Ebbesmeyer predicted, some of the toys escaped the Gyre to flow North through the Bering Strait into the Arctic. Between 1995 and 2000 they slowly drifted eastward, frozen in the arctic ice, at a rate of 1 mile per day. Since 2000, the ducks started reaching the North Atlantic, being sighted from the shores of Maine to Massachusetts. In 2001, the Floatees reached the site where the Titanic sank. In 2003, the plastic toys reached the shores of the Hebrides, off the coast of Scotland.

If you spot one of these plastic toys on a beach--its colors probably faded, with the imprint "The Early Years" on it--then you’ve found one member of the rubber armada that set sail 17 years ago. At some point, the scientific team that tracked their progress offered $100 apiece for the toys, provided you could tell them when and where you’d found them. The offer was valid only from July through to December 2003, and only for Friendly Floatees found in New England, Canada, or Iceland. However, Friendly Floatees have become so famous that they can fetch up to $1,000 at auction.

Hat tip to Strange Maps and Wikipedia.

What's in a Name?

Life could have been so much easier for me if my parents had either 1) given me a name they intended to call me, or 2) called me by the name they actually gave me. My name has been a big frickin' deal my entire life.

I was christened Sheila Kathryn, but did they call me Sheila? No. When I was a baby, it was Sheila K, but all I remember is Kathy. At the age of 9 this was changed to Kaye, and until their deaths, my mom still called me Kathy while my dad called me Kaye. I preferred Kaye, and used it until 1999, when my pen name, Steph, took over by the use of online friends who never knew Kaye. But even that began as a masculine nom de plume, Stephan Karl, which is what my parents had planned to name me, until I emerged from the womb and my gender was plain for all to see. Still, all through my school years, the kids called me Kaye while the teachers called me Sheila, which, for some reason, gave the kids reason to make fun of me. WTF.

In there somewhere is Kate, which my English friends dubbed me in the late Seventies, and even that was split into Katy and Katesy by some of them. Various nicknames included Johnny, Wally, Jody, Kayeberger, Berg, and Wolfi. We won't even go into last names. I was widowed once and divorced once, so that gave me two of those, but I simplified that decades ago by sticking to my maiden name.

But nowhere in my moniker nightmare was the name Stephanie ever, ever used. So why do people insist on calling me that? I've had Nettl introduce me, "This is my partner, Steph," and the lame brain turns right around and says while they're shaking my hand, "Nice to meet you, Stephanie!"

GRRR! If someone tells me their name is Bob, I don't go and call them Robert, do I? I figure, like any polite, sane person would, that the name I am told is the name they prefer. Duh!

Last week when I called the pizza place, I made an order to be delivered and the guy says, "So this is [insert address here]?" "Yes," I replied. "Okay, Stephanie, we'll have it there in 30 minutes!"

Hey, when did I ever tell you numbnutz that my name is Stephanie!?

Lately, I'm really missing being Kaye. I've always been happy that my parents didn't give me an "ie" name (not to insult all you Debbies and Suzies out there). Well, except for Kathy, and I hated being called that for other, more personal reasons. If I'd known that "Stephanie" was going to be such an issue, I would have stuck with Kaye in the first place. It's a strong name.

Frank was the only person ever to call me Sheila. Well, and the IRS. But this name business has always been a thorn in my flesh, especially where my trolls and stalkers are concerned. They seem to think that knowing my full name gives them power over me somehow, but that borders on the nefarious to me, like something out of a novel about witches knowing one's true name and using it to cast spells.

I like Steph a lot, but Stephanie will not be tolerated. It just doesn't fit.

"Who Am I?" #6

We are brother and sister though a lot of people wouldn't expect it. We have spent our lives in movies, but we've always worked separately. We've each won Academy Awards and we are known for being eccentric.

Who are we?

Happy Birthday Spotlight: My Son, Micah

I thought that for Micah's birthday today, I'd share with you some things that people have said about him. Micah is a brilliant, innovative musician, composer, producer, artist, craftsman -- need I go on? Let's make it simple. He's a true Renaissance Man in every sense of the word. Genius is a word that I don't use much because it's as overused as the standing ovation (also something I don't do unless I really feel the performer deserves it. Nowadays, everyone gets a standing ovation, rendering the gesture meaningless. But I'm rambling...). Micah is a genius, and I'd say that even if he wasn't my son. He masters everything that he sets himself to and he's a deeply spiritual man, fun-loving with a playfully self-deprecating sense of humor. But this is what I say. Here's what other people say:

"I've always loved listening to Micah's compositions because they're always so musically interesting. He has lots of content and his soloing is never overkill. He shows a lot of room for growth and potential and has direction in his approach." George Lynch (Dokken/Lynch Mob)

"I have been a fan of Micah's for some time now. Temple [Temple of Unmanifest Dreams, his CD] just sweeps you away to somewhere else. Most of what you're hearing is a guitar, too! I am in awe of Micah's musical genius on this CD. Having heard some demos of what is to come, I can say keep your eye on this guy. If anyone today is breaking new ground in guitar music it is Micah!" Marauder

His Bio:

Micah Atwell mixes nostalgic, brooding, ambient soundscapes with edgy, organic rock influence to define a new dimension of electronic guitar. His unique blend of emotive minimalist complexity is constantly making new impressions with listeners from all backgrounds and preferences.

Raised between bustling southern California and rural, spacious Kansas, Micah developed a dichotomous affinity for time and rhythm. At age 16, he began teaching himself guitar and spent his formative years writing blues-based hard rock instrumentals. Over time, he shifted his evolving sound and style towards the more experimental electronic and ambient genres. This has allowed him to tap into a much greater list of influences, technical experience, and creative freedom.

Micah produced and self-released his 2008 debut album, Temple of Unmanifest Dreams, an emotionally charged and meditative ambient/electronic guitar odyssey geared for audiences of such popular radio programs as the nationally syndicated Hearts of Space and similar regional broadcasts. This haunting, meditative compilation is an astounding testament to what a guitar can convey, and it continues to receive sweeping reviews at every turn.

He also has a growing interest in the production music industry and Internet music collaborations. Micah has scored music for video and animation and is active with artists in the US and UK, co-writing and co-producing some very eclectic compositions.

Micah Atwell has received numerous positive critiques from legendary guitarist George Lynch and in 2008 secured a Top 40 ranking in the industry-sponsored international Guitar Idol competition.

His Website
His Facebook Profile

Happy birthday, Micah. I love you and am very proud of you!

A Little of This, a Lot of That and Maybe Too Much of T'other

Man, am I glad that project's in the can! After months of helping Nettl by editing, formatting, and designing the cover as well as the promotional website, her book is finally published and up for sale. We've invested a lot of ourselves in this book, and I think it's worth it.

It's titled, So Faithful A Heart - The Love Story of Nancy Storace and Wolfgang Mozart, and is an historical fiction. Check it out!

Last night we were invited to our neighbor's house for a dinner party, and we had a great time. His wife and two sons were there, as well as another professor at the theater department and his wife, and a singer, Tyley Ross, who was in Tulsa, on tour. Matt had him over because he was to teach a workshop this morning at the university. He's a really nice guy and has a beautiful tenor--nearly counter-tenor--voice.

We were served three kinds of chicken: garlic, fennel, and rosemary, some rosemary garlic potatoes, bell peppers stuffed with tomato, mozzarella, and basil, and about a barrel of wine. Before dinner, we sat outside enjoying pate, cheese, and summer-like weather, sans mosquitoes! We all drank too much, but we were having such a nice time talking about the Arts and such.

Today, we spent all day trying to upload the cover of the book. It was way too frustrating, but we got it at last. Now we're experiencing the let down that always comes after a book is finished. Now to get busy on mine...

Armchair Circumnavigator: Sable Island

43°57'0"N, 59°54'57"W
(Click images to enlarge)

Sable Island is a narrow crescent-shaped sandbar located about 15.5 miles off the coast of Nova Scotia. It is approximately 16 miles long and less than a mile across at its widest point. Because it's basically a sand bar, its shape and size have shifted dramatically throughout its recorded history. It emerges from shoals and shallows on the continental shelf which, in tandem with the area's frequent fog and sudden strong storms--including hurricanes and "nor'easters"--have caused over 350 recorded shipwrecks. It is often referred to as the "Graveyard of the Atlantic". The nearest landfall is 100 miles to the northwest near Canso, Nova Scotia.

Since the time of the earliest European visitors to Nova Scotia, Sable Island has been the bane and saviour of sailors. Many of the sailors wrecked on the island's shoals survived by swimming or floating to shore to wait for rescue. The Sable Island Rescue Service existed for many years to help sailors caught in the treacherous waters.

The first recorded shipwreck off the Island occurred during a voyage in 1583 by Sir Humphrey Gilbert, whose expedition lost a ship and many lives when poor planning and lack of patience brought a small fleet to the island at night. This was to be repeated time and time again throughout history as sailors and ships ended their days on the sands and rocks around the island. (See shipwreck map.)

The island is home to 5 people--4 Environment Canada Station personnel and one resident researcher--but in the summer, seasonal contractors, research scientists, photographers, etc. come to the island. It is protected under the Canada Shipping Act, which means that permission must be obtained from the Canadian Coast Guard to visit the island.


Sable Island was named after its sand (Sable is French for "sand"). It is covered with grass and other low-growing vegetation. In 1901 the federal government planted over 80,000 trees on the island in an attempt to stabilize the soil; all died. Sable Island is believed to have formed from large quantities of sand and gravel deposited on the continental shelf near the end of the last ice age. The island is continually changing its shape with the effects of strong winds and violent ocean storms. It has several freshwater ponds on the south side between the station and west light, and a brackish lake (Lake Wallace) near its center. There are frequent heavy fogs in the area due to the contrasting effects of the cold Labrador Current and the warm Gulf Stream. During winter months, the moderating influence of the Gulf Stream can sometimes give Sable Island the warmest temperatures in Canada.

The island is home to over 300 free-roaming feral horses, protected by law from human interference. They are descended from horses confiscated from Acadians during the Great Expulsion in 1755 and left on the island by Thomas Hancock, Boston merchant and uncle of John Hancock. In the past, excess horses have been rounded up and shipped off the island for use in coal mines on Cape Breton Island, or to be sold, but the Government gave full protection to the horse population in 1960 and they have been left alone ever since. No human is allowed to interfere with any of the island's wildlife because it is a wildlife preserve and is protected by the Canadian government.

A life-saving station was established on Sable Island in 1801, and its crew became the first permanent inhabitants of the island. Two lighthouses, one on the eastern tip and one on the western tip were built in 1872. Until the advent of modern ship navigation, Sable Island's two light stations were home to permanent lighthouse keepers and their families, as well as the crew members of the life-saving station. In the early 20th century, the Marconi Company established a radio station on the island and the Canadian government similarly established a weather station.

The November of My Life

The other night as I sat here writing, I looked down at my hands and noticed that they've suddenly aged. I held them up and really looked at them, recognizing how much they look like my mother's hands. I've also noticed lately that my hair isn't as thick as it used to be and that I have two pads of extra skin on my jawline between my chin and the curve that leads up to the ear. My cheeks aren't as plump and my eyes seriously need to have some skin removed; the lids have gotten far too heavy, which makes them feel tired all of the time. I'm not into cosmetic surgery, but if I could, I'd have my jaw and eyes done a little--not much though--just enough to get rid of the tired look I've acquired.

I don't look in the mirror much, not because I dread what I might see, but because I'm just not one of those people who spend a lot of time there. I gave up the glam and the makeup nearly 20 years ago--a miraculous feat considering I used to be one of those who wouldn't even go to the mailbox unless I was perfectly turned out. Nowadays, if it's a really special occasion I'll use a couple of passes with a mineral powder, a little eyebrow pencil, and call it a done deal.

The plus for me is that regardless of having grown up in southern California during the surfing craze of the Sixties, I never spent much time trying to tan. I'm a natural redhead and no fool. Because of this my skin is in great shape. Plus, I've always been petite; I still have a great butt and, outside of a few extra pounds gained during the Hashimoto's debacle, my body hasn't changed all that much. I'm not gloating though, because I've never exercised or dieted--I'm far too lazy for that. This is genetics pure and simple: neither of my parents looked their ages as they grew older either.

Maybe it's because I've always appeared ten years younger than my actual age--and have a lot of youthful energy--but aging hasn't been that big a deal to me. Even now, people mistake me for being in my 40s instead of nearly 60. I never thought about aging until I was nearly 35 and liquor store clerks and bouncers quit carding me. I've always wondered how long I will be able to milk this.

Now I'm seeing very real signs that I'm about to enter the December of my life. Well, maybe the November. And you know what? After I passed 55 it was no big deal. Sure, I'm considering my mortality a bit more, but because I tend to be a spiritual sort, I'm able to look at it without dread or fear. I think of all the people whom I admire who have made it through the veil and I know that I'll make it too. I'm even kind of excited to find out what the fuss is all about; it's the ultimate adventure, don't you think? And if there's nothing after the final breath I won't know and all the time spent in angst would have been for nothing.

At this time of year especially, I see my life reflected in nature. Everything falls, everything fades, everything lets go. Fortunately, I have a personal belief system that gives me assurance that we, being part of nature and not separate from it, are no different than the oak tree out in the yard: we grow lush, we bear fruit, we fade, we go dormant, and it starts over again, over and over, season after season as the wheel turns ever on.

So what are wrinkles and sags but the marking of our adventures in the travel diary of our journey? Write on!

Chong and L'il Cheech

When I left Ventura to return to Denver in 1999, I had to leave (among many precious personal belongings) all of my house plants. I love houseplants, and I have two green thumbs; friends bring me their sick plants and I'm almost always able to revive them. Maybe it's the Hobbit in me, I don't know.

Anyway, while in Denver for those short seven months, I bought a Dragon Tree (Dracaena marginata) in a 4" plastic pot. You know, the little plants at Wal*Mart that cost, like, $1.49. When I moved to Stillwater in August of 2000, I brought it with me. A few months later, when Nettl's mother died, her dad gave me all of her plants. One of them was a tiny Dragon Tree, not taller than 4 or 5 inches. I immediately moved it in with my other Dragon Tree, which by then had grown to be about a foot tall. They were happy together for about five years, and because one was tall and the other short, and they looked like they had busy heads, I named them Cheech & Chong.

Sadly, Cheech died in 2006, leaving Chong all by himself. I almost lost him, too. The culprit? Our cat decided their pot (yuk yuk) would make an attractive litter box. I took Chong out of the pot (he was about 5 feet tall by then), shook all of the soil out of his roots, and gave him new soil, covering it with potting moss to keep the cat out of it. It worked, and he started getting well, and continued to grow.

After he'd spent last summer outdoors, I brought him in and noticed that a new Cheech had spouted, and right out of Chong's "neck"! They're now happily ensconced in a corner of the dining room, and growing; Chong is probably 7 feet tall now.

And that's my entry for Friday. Until tonight. Tonight, I plan on taking part in NaDruBloMo.

Lubricate That Blog

My pal Monty, over at The Daily Bitch, posted an entry that really challenged me. As always, she's on the cutting edge of something fun, or the slippery slope of something dangerous... Whatever.

I don't know if you're aware of it, but we're (meaning everyone in Blogsville) in the heat of NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). Yeah, I tried to join last year, but writing something just because someone fires a starting shot really doesn't appeal to me. It doesn't inspire me. What really inspires me is wine. I'm one of those writers that needs a little mental/spiritual lubrication when I sit down to write, and I almost always sip on two or three glasses of wine when I'm up all night writing. I think that NaNoWriMo is a fine idea--for some people (obviously, many people, judging from their numbers every November). I like the little word-count meter you get to put on your blog, but what's better, what's really up my alley is NaDruBloMo!

NaDruBloMo (National Drunken Blogging Month) is holding its first annual event, beginning, well, last Sunday, and I intend to do my part to see that it's a success. I'm not sure what night I'll be posting my entry here, but you'll know. It runs all month, so there's time.

Feel free to join in the fun! Grab the badge, link back to Monty, and be sure to leave her a comment when you've post your entry.

My Britcom Musical

I've had it in mind for about two years to compose a musical based on the Britcom of the 1970s, Are You Being Served?. The music has been rolling around in my head, but not having any text, I didn't want to write it down. The problem I had was finding someone with the right sense of theater and humor to take on the job of writing the "book" (the libretto or script). I even have two of the parts cast in my imagination (Dr. Scott as Mr. Humphries and Lynette as Mrs. Slocombe). Both have a background in theater and opera and have said that they'd love to take on the roles.

Because AYBS was created around the older theater traditions of the English operetta (which Gilbert & Sullivan got from composer Stephen Storace, who brought it with him from Vienna in 1787 where he studied German Singspiel with Mozart), it has many of the elements of, say, The Marriage of Figaro:  An over-the-hill man who's bored with marriage and is always after the soubrette (Capt. Peacock/Count Almaviva and Miss Brahms/Susanna), the older lady who fancies herself a femme fatale (Mrs. Slocombe/Marcellina), a smart-as-a-whip but basically lazy young man who's also after the soubrette (Mr. Lucas/Figaro), two older men who are basically good for nothing except causing trouble (Mr. Grace/Don Bartolo and Mr. Grainger/Don Curzio), a romantic young man who's full of panache (Mr. Humphries/Cherubino), and the "blue collar" worker (Mr. Harman/Antonio). There is no Countess Almaviva role though, unless it's Mrs. Peacock, who shows up once in a while, but for the sake of a comedy she is easily left out. The tradition of the commedia dell'arte is obvious in this show, which makes it perfect for the stage.

A few weeks ago it dawned on me that I already had the perfect librettist, a young woman I know in Seattle who writes and produces off-the-wall shows for her group, Operadisiac. I approached her with the idea yesterday and she expressed a lot of interest.

She has the perfect sense of comedy for this project, and we've been nuts about each other for a number of years. If we end up doing this together, it'll be a lot of fun.

The hard part will be all the red tape with the BBC. There could be issues with using the characters. I'm writing them a letter today to find out about that. Wish us luck!

_________________________
UPDATE 12:25 pm:
As I wrote this entry, I was wondering about the role of Mr. Rumbold, and thanks to Ville's comment, I've deduced that both he and Mr. Grainger are Don Bartolo types. That leaves me wondering about Young Mr. Grace. Perhaps he's Don Curzio... Fun to analyze.

Black and White America

A few days ago, Deni posted a link to the following article in Facebook. The photography was so wonderful that I had to post one picture in hope that you'll go look at the rest. Why oh why were talents like this kept from white America? What did society, our civilization, gain? Aren't we supposed to be better than that? When we hide another's light under a bushel, we hurt not only them, but ourselves. As Shakespeare wrote, "All are punished." Sorry, but racism is something that just chaps my ass. I just don't understand it. We are one family on this planet, and we need to take pride in each others' gifts, helping each other along. Anyway, here's the article. Please go look at the photographs when you're finished reading. (This photo will enlarge if you click it.)

In the 1950s, photography was hardly considered art. If you wanted to be taken seriously as a photographer, you photographed mountains and models, not your neighbors. You also had to be white. But one man, Roy DeCarava, turned all of that on its head. He died this week at age 89.

DeCarava was born in Harlem in 1919 to a single Jamaican mother. He had plenty of odd jobs before he picked up a camera. He was a shoe shiner, a newspaper salesman and an ice hauler. But his natural artistic gifts eventually led him to art school, where he began as a painter. It wasn't long before the lens replaced the brush.

In 1952, DeCarava applied for the prestigious Guggenheim Fellowship. He was the first black photographer to receive the grant, and he used it to photograph Harlem. The photos from this period eventually became the contents of a book. The Sweet Flypaper Of Life was made in collaboration with Harlem Renaissance writer Langston Hughes. It showed Harlem as a mix of quiet ordinary moments, everyday struggles and tiny triumphs.

DeCarava continued to photograph throughout his life, most notably the New York jazz scene. He captured all the greats; the musical genre suited his improvisational style and democratic eye. But the most important thing to DeCarava was that the old woman next door deserved a photograph just as much as John Coltrane. The black man on the stoop merited a frame as much as the white supermodel.

According to Ron Carter, legendary jazz bassist, DeCarava had a sixth sense. "My impression of his photographs is that he sees the music," Carter said in an NPR interview. DeCarava saw the music in jazz performances -- but also in kids playing in the street, in a young woman staring out her window, in men on park benches. He saw the music and the beauty in black Harlem, and he showed that face to America.

Article by Claire O'Neill
Photo by Roy DeCarava

Click here to see the other photos.

In Praise of Naps

“Naps are nature's way of reminding you that life is nice - like a beautiful, softly swinging hammock strung between birth and infinity.” Peggy Noonan

Is there anything in life more precious than an afternoon nap? I’m not talking about the 10-minute power nap (at which I happen to be pro), I’m talking about that luxurious hour when the world outside ceases to matter and life goes on just fine without us. The Spanish have always had the right idea; they’ve always known about the benefits of the siesta. They know that there isn’t much in our workaday world that is so important that it can’t wait an hour.

There is a certain kind of light that can make me instantly ready to take a nap. I haven’t encountered it often, and I’ve spent a lot of money in the past trying to create it. I’ve used all kinds of window treatments and wall colors, but I finally discovered that the secret is simple, diffused light. I prefer ivory pull-down shades drawn a little over halfway and white or off-white sheers, or lace. This light reminds me of taking naps at my grandmother’s house when I was child, lying on her white bed with eider pillows and a champagne-colored quilted satin comforter. When I do encounter this special light and can indulge in a nap, I never sleep more soundly and blissfully.

The only thing better than taking an afternoon nap is taking one with someone you love. Naps are intimate somehow, and make you feel close to that person, whether they’re a lover, a friend, or your child. I used to love napping with my boys when they were little. I must also add that napping with a pet is nice, too. Cats are especially conducive to a great nap because they somehow give you permission to sleep as guiltlessly as they do.

Indulge in a nap this afternoon, and not the kind on the couch with the TV on. Set the light in your room, get on your bed, and take a one-hour vacation from the world. It's healthy physically, mentally, and spiritually.


Painting: La Siesta, by Frederick A. Bridgman