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November 20, 2008Make something out of nothing.Tonight’s homework assignment.BRING INTO EXISTENCE:this column. I must “create” it—bring it into being; use my imagination to invent and produce it. Since March of 2005 I have enacted this process 115 times. Doesn’t seem like much to me—an average of 2.5 per month. Nevertheless if you printed them all out (my sister has–I haven’t) you’d need one or more three-inch binders, and that is a lot of words on top of words. That binder exists only because I made something out of nothing. Three inches of paper covered from top to bottom with words. You try it! I saw a poster years ago for the Chicago Public Library, I think, which read, “The alphabet has 26 letters. We have all of them in some very interesting combinations.” SUCH IS MY TASKtonight, to combine letters into words and build sentences out of them. I had an English professor who would give assignments for papers like, “Write something intelligent about this book.” That’s the kind of free reign I love. What do I write about next? It could be anything! Limited only by my imagination, which is like the sky—where does it start and end? It’s everywhere. THAT’S WHYI love the web. Where does it start and end? It’s everywhere. My words and thoughts are out there in the ether, readily accessible by anyone in the world, and that is how I have accumulated a readership. Blessings upon you! But sometimes I think, if I were “set for life,” that I would just write at will and self-publish my work at will. I like being in charge. “EVERYONE WRITES THE WAY HE WANTSand the way he can,” said Chekhov. But in my piece that recently appeared in a magazine, part of a sentence was left out. An important part, which not only was a clever pun on the topic of the piece, but which rendered the remaining part a confusing non sequitur. My first lover was also demoted to “my first love.” See, I’d never allow that to happen to myself (or him). But that is what happens when you lose control. I felt like Zorro had held up my piece and slashed a Z through it. CONTROL FREAK?Well, I have a right to be, when it’s my thoughts and ideas that are on the chopping block. It’s also why I prefer to live alone. If the place is a mess, at least it’s my mess. And if my brain is a mess at least I’m the only one who has to live with it. I don’t have to excuse or explain my behavior to an exasperated lover or irritated houesmate. Back in 1977 when I got my first apartment at 1622 Pine St. (at Smedley), Philadelphia, I was obsessed with some Domenico Scarlatti harpsichord pieces. Just as Bach has the Schmieder index of works (the BWV), and Mozart the Köchel, a dude named Alessandro Longo catalogued Scarlatti’s keyboard works, and a piece may be identified by its Longo number. I referred to the pieces as Longos (“I love this Longo!”), and I couldn’t get enough of them. I had just gotten a cush little job at an art gallery, and I celebrated by sitting on my living room floor eating Russian eggs (hard-boiled with mayo and caviar) with champagne as I played them day and night, sometimes a particular Longo over and over. Just as my uncle was infuriated by my sister and piano teacher singing “The Time Has Come Today” on the phone, I imagined my neighbor across the hall pounding on the door with, “If I hear that Longo one more time…” BUT IT’S LONGOS GALOREfor me, for as long(o) as I want to play them. My record for record-playing was three months with the Bach Concerto for Two Violins (which I once saw Jack Benny perform on TV), with the occasional Schumann Piano Quintet for relief. I remember standing on the Eiffel Tower back in 1975 looking out at the City of Lights and thinking, “Damn, would I love to hear that quintet right now.” I JUST CAME IN FROMMTT and the SF Orchestra recording their performance of Mahler’s “Symphony of a Thousand” at Davies, the premiere of which Mahler conducted in 1910 with seven soloists and three choruses (858 singers), and a custom orchestra of 171 performers. Including Mahler, there really were a thousand (and thirty) people making music together. Tonight’s performance featured roughly 400 singers and musicians, in all corners of the stage and in the balconies. I was right behind MTT in the second row and he kept turning around to conduct the singers mixed in with the audience, a startling practice that unnerved me (he broke the 4th wall). Go back where you belong! Of course announcements had been made to be extra quiet during the recording, but during a dreamy passage in the 2nd Movement, someone literally erupted with a sneeze like a thunderbolt, the loudest respiratory report I’ve ever heard. Of all the luck. There but for the grace of God. BUT WHAT A PERFORMANCE!With all those people on stage, those hundreds of voices, with the powerhouse energy and fever pitch of the piece, it was a most impressive “Sonic Experience,” as a concert I once went to was called. Multiple orgasms of the ee-ah for sure. I am spent! As MTT turned and leaned on the railing of the podium and became the focal point of the huzzahs sounding in the hall, the whole place standing and cheering, I would not have been surprised if he’d exclaimed, “I’M KING OF THE WORLD!” What must it be like to have at the command of your fingertips this monumental manifestation of Mahlermania, and then to be surrounded by the musicians and adoring audience calling you back time and again? How do you come down from high like that? Hey I was just sitting there and I’ve been wired all night. He worked it, though. He was pouring sweat and opened the collar of his shirt. Perhaps it exhausted him. But I’d rather imagine him heading off to Jardinière and throwing a few back with his inner circle of friends. I’VE SAID IT BEFORE,if I could have the life of anyone in San Francisco, it would be that of Michael Tilson Thomas. But, music is his métier and language is mine, so here I sit at 4:00 a.m. surrounded by books and sleeping cats. My life, too, is to be envied. I spend my days and nights doing work I love, and have the time to do it in. I love music, but I live for words. We’re simpatico with each other. Friend Kathy and I saw Kristen Scott Thomas in “The Seagull” (“that dead bird,” someone called it) in New York, and though the writer Trigorin is a pretty despicable character, he does have one speech which I’m sure came from Chekhov’s heart and went straight to mine, for those who think writing is a glamorous profession:
Well…I do have an element of the compulsive about me; sometimes I do feel suffocated by this overriding need to scribble—but I think giving away honey made from my finest flowers is a pretty nice way to spend a life. I’d rather make honey than money! I MUST SAYabout “The Seagull,” fine a play as it is, I really don’t need to hear another word about unrequited love as long as I live. God these melodramatic Russians! I am so sick of the suffering of love! So sick it might be terminal. I’m the Queen Bee, so buzz off! But he who cultivates my finest flowers will find the honey that much sweeter… Cheers!
The author’s waiting for you at the bus stop. ------------------------------------------------------------ Music is divine,
Make something out of nothing. You try it! copyright Alexandra Jones 2008 |
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