Jelisava

The tune in my head

Sketching while they played Angeline and I can't get the tune out of my "head" ;) / Oct. 2011

...the way I always loved her beats all you've ever seen...

~ lyrics from a version of Angelina Baker

Most poetical

The guitar keeps the rhythm / Aug. 2008

“The Irish Folk Song, probably the most human, most varied, most poetical, and most imaginative in the world, is just being discovered—a richer collection of folk melodies does not belong to any country than to the Emerald Isle.”

~ from School music, Volumes 9-10, published by the Music Education Dept. of the National Education Association of the United States in 1908

They fall from the clouds

Be like the rabbits and tiger lilies -- keep on moving / March 2010

“But who wrote these lovely songs?” asked Elizabeth. . . . 
Reinhardt said: “They are not made at all; they grow, they fall from the clouds, they fly over the country like gossamer, here and there, and are sung at a thousand places at once. We find our very own doings and sorrows in these songs. It seems as if we had all helped to make them.”

~ Theodore Storm in Immensee

Imagine all the people

Remembering December 8, 1980 and John / Dec. 2004

I was a senior in a college in New Jersey typing yet another sociology paper on my clunky old “portable” typewriter (yes, it did buckle into its own carrying case, but, because of its weight it was like carting around an anchor). It was late in the evening — a Monday, I think. The little black and white TV was on in the background. Suddenly newscasters broke into the broadcast to announce that John Lennon was dead. The moment is seared into my memory. The Beatles always seemed like a mythical group to me as I was too young to appreciate them in their heyday. Their music was funny, wise, harmonious, uplifting, thoughtful. That one of them who incessantly preached peace (and had such a wonderful sense of humor) could have died in such a violent manner just up the turnpike from my college didn't seem possible. It didn't seem fair. It just wasn't right.

I was thinking last night about how the world has changed in the past 30 years. There were no 24-hour cable news channels, no internet sites to check for details, no email or cell phone or text messaging to contact friends. You were left in your own surroundings with your own thoughts and feelings about what had happened. The girl who lived across the hall from me, Joanne (a smart, efficient biology major from a town in north Jersey that I'd never heard of), was visibly upset by the news. And the memory of her emotion has stuck with me much longer than the incessant recitation of facts and video feeds that we get on any of our media devices today.

Sadly, we seem to be no closer to the peace that John Lennon imagined. I find myself wishing he was here to lead “bed-ins” and peace rallys. To challenge the pundits with his wit. To be a guiding light. But maybe his example is for we who are here: what can each of us do every day to promote the cause of peace?

A fable

All fables should have two parts: the intrigue and discovery. They may be divided into three types: the probable, the allegorical, and the marvelous (I like to think that this fable is marvelous ...) / Nov. 2010

For many years the soup pot was happy to make large quantities of spicy crab soup. It warmly simmered the onions, the celery, the potatoes, the tomatoes, the cabbage, lima beans, green beans, corn and peas, and the delicate crab meat. Then, one day, a musical wizard picked up the empty soup pot and hammered out a pleasing rhythm. Ka-thump-thump-thump. The wizard was inspired to compose a song for and about the soup pot, adding a heady mix of strings, melodica, shakers and bells to the pot's knell. It was a magical rhythm that moved mere mortals to sing and dance like the gods. The soup pot traveled with the musicans to a festival of spicy hot in a mythical place atop the endless mountain. The musicians sang in tribute to the soup pot while the soup pot called out the beat. Shakers shook. Uke strings twanged. Dancers danced. Flutes fluted. Bells jingled and jangled. The people were overcome with joy and called out. They clapped their feet. They stomped their hands. The soup pot sparkled and sang. Its metal glowed like a shooting star breaking through the august night. It had found its destiny. Days later the soup pot traveled back to the land of jersey and fell silent. No musical wizards made its metal sing or its heart go ka-thump-thump-thump. Months later it was pressed into service to make crab soup for a great feast. It simmered the onions, the celery, the potatoes, the tomatoes, the cabbage, lima beans, green beans, corn and peas, and lastly the delicate crab meat. Finally the cook turned the flame off beneath the pot so the soup would cool down. Hours later the pot was still too hot to touch. It burned with an intense desire. Fed by the soup spices and the memories of its music, the soup pot burned so hot it made the cooling cabinet melt. It burned so hot it turned the soup sour. It burned so hot the cook cried out in anguish, "but what shall we feed the dinner guests?"

The moral of the story is ... Have extra vegetables on hand to make another pot of soup because once the devil (dawg) has gotten into your soup pot you may not get him out. Or maybe: Once it has kept the beat the soup pot may no longer be able to regulate its heat? Or (more likely): Make sure your soup pot has cooled down completely before putting it in the refrigerator.

Porch music

Summer nights made for porches / August 2010

This was the night of the porch music that swelled in the intense August heat, filled the expanse of the turquoise ceiling and wafted out over the expanse of black-eyed susans and lavender carrying with it tidings of good will.

Birdacious

St. Francis and his birds / June 2010

This was the day of being thankful for an office with open windows and tall trees outside where birds perched and sang their hearts out after talking on the phone to someone in a windowless office who wanted to know did I keep birds because they could hear them singing in the background.

Knitting and Luthiering, 2

Knitting cables: CB6 means slip three stitches onto a cable needle and hold them to the back, knit the next three stitches, then knit the stitches off of the cable needle / Mt. House / Feb. 2010

This was the morning of the guitar players and the knitters discovering how much they had in common. Look, said the guitar player, pointing to the cable sequences on the knitting pattern, you have minor chords in knitting, too.

Knitting and Luthiering, 1

The Knitting and Luthiering Workshop / Mt. House / Feb. 2010

This was the morning of the guitar players and their strings and the knitters and their strings working in companionable harmony at the Knitting and Luthiering Workshop.

Their rhythm is always the same

Delightfully colorful seeds in my November garden; I think the secret to a content life is to always be germinating new ideas and thoughts and projects and talents and interests / New Jersey / Nov. 2009

“I sing praise to seeds, their rhythm is always the same,
they open and close and jealously transmit their secret.”

(from Lesser Psalm by Edvard Kocbek; full text of the poem after the jump)

. . . and I sing praise to the rambunctious rhythm of the family: Turkey Stomp