Somebody give me a cookie.

The concerts were so much fun! That first rehearsal kicked my butt, but from there on it was so... pithy? There were so many tricky-great phrases and spots for the violas to rock out. I love playing with this section. How many people get paid for something they love that much?

This is hands down one of the biggest, trickiest and most rewarding programs I've played in years. When people ask me what composers I like to play, I always tell them Stravinsky. Seriously, don't all professional classical musicians get, like, totally sick of people accosting them in line at the grocery store and on the treadmill at the gym to ask these sorts of things? I know. It's such a burden, this red-hot fame we violists especially bear. I recommend therapy. This glass of Willamette Valley Vineyards Riesling is also helpful.

Anyway, if I really thought people were that deeply interested, I'd recommend Lutoslawski, too. In general his stuff requires a bit more of an investment from the LutosWHOski?! kind of ear.

I myself try never to dismiss new things quickly. (J is convulsing with suppressed inappropriate laughter. Ignore him.) With a lot of complex music a minimum of three relaxed listens are required to come to any conclusions or opinions. There are people who don't like program notes- the Pro Arte quartet never includes them. That's sad because the average listener needs some scraps of context to cling to in the onslaught of aural reference. The more possible connections a listener can find, the better.

Humans are context machines.

This won't resonate with everyone out there, but I have to say the same holds true for bible study. The more you know about the context of a book the better. N.T. Wright talks about the futility of a theology that fails to acknowledge history. You can't escape the influence of your own time on your worldview. You hear that, post-modernism?

Anyway, tomorrow morning we're whirling on to Shostakovich 8, so I better head off perchance to sleep. Woo!

Everyone's a Critic: Student Edition

Toby demonstrating how much you really know about other people on the internet.




I am a member of the viola internet group and thereby recieve regular email digests of the most recent posts & discussions burning through the international viola community. Sometimes you learn stuff. Just last week I asked them to suggest some works I could play with a local choral arts group and they totally came through with things it would have taken days to look up on my own. Plus, I got the insider lowdown on what's worth playing: priceless.


But, like anywhere on the internet where two or more gather in the name of some esoteric interest, the viola list is periodically subject to being extremely lame. There's always one monkey, who throws some crap and starts a regular crapdisco. This weekend somebody found a random YouTube posting of a violist's recital and assumed because she was dressed formally and has her own website that she's a pro. It took some digging to see this girl was actually a student, and there's no way to weigh the intention or impact of the flurry of (mostly negative) comments. This got me thinking about netiquette, and specifically that a person's motivation is what is most noticably absent when they hit that send button.

Of course this blindness isn't limited to the internet. This is exactly what makes me nervous about recording anything for public consumption. How sad is that? I already know there is no perfection, but I have hopes of making something I can be proud of, and it's hard to accept that not everyone will like it. Some of them will likely be pretty outspoken about it. I don't want to let fear of that prevent me from creating what I can.

It's funny that I will happily pay a friend $50 an hour to criticize me because it helps make me better, but I cringe to think of accepting it for free from hundreds of violists all at once.

Bravo, 3rd Angle!

Okay, I'm really tired but I think everyone on the internet should run out right now and buy Sherman Alexie's new book Flight. I went to an excellent Third Angle Music concert tonight because my stand partner was playing and Alexie was narrating & reading, which was a pleasant surprise.

His reading almost made me cry, and I'm not a cryer. I was caught that way by another story of his on NPR in my car about a year ago, and sat listening for a long while in the driveway until it ended.

I love when you're not sure you feel up to going to something, but then do, and love it and your faith in the state of the arts is renewed. It is very unusual that poetry set to music does it for me, but tonight it really really did. The settings were effective, the words sublime and the performances did everything justice.

Gotta go to sleep now to do my private-public battle with Stravinsky & Lutoslawski in the morning.

Humility

It would be nice if I had been practicing the Stravinsky Concerto for Strings for months.

That way my intenstines wouldn't have to get all upset as we near the second movement. They tense and send signals to my right shoulder, which would apparently like to hide in my ear. The next in this mutiny of the body is my brain, which decides there are just too...many...notes.... and refuses to translate any more accidentals or remember any fingerings. A-flat or A-natural? Huh?! HUH?! Hey, is my bow still moving?

Error. Errrrrrrrror.

It's better today, but of course today we rehearsed the Brahms instead. Sigh.

Play Misty for me...

In the continuing spirit of being late in commenting on everything ever, I would now like to talk about Josh Bell's performance at a Metro station in Washington DC. The Washington Post asked him to play on the street to see if the average person would "recognize genius out of context."

You know, there is a part of me thinking if a few things had been different that morning, more people would have stopped. If it had been later than crack-of-dawn 7:30am, if it had been a weekend, if the station was in a less workers-only area, if he had found some less hectic commuters more walkers spot, if he had chatted up a bit or played some tunes from that Appalachian folky CD he and YoYo Ma did that one time, if if if.

But you know what?

Classical musicians have got to be kidding if they think the average person is familiar AT ALL with what it is they do for a living. I would have been really interested to hear what each of the commuters' experience has been with music. Did they get any classical in childhood? Did they ever get to play any intrument, let alone a stringed instrument? Have they ever listened to classical music while not in the produce section? Even if they were thick in it and loved every CD Bell has ever made, would their commute leave time for them to stop? Do they think busking is no different than panhandling and refuse to stop on principle?

Just showing up in a busy commuter space and expecting fawning is ridiculous. The article implies that a mom pulling her 3 year-old past Bell is unintentionally choking the art out of his little life. Um, even if Viktoria Mullova, David Perry, Edgar Meyer, Tabea Zimmerman and Bjork were all jamming in my driveway, if I had to go to work and provide for Toby, I'd have to go to work. I might need some medication and a large box of tissues once I got there, but I'd go.

This, however, bears no reflection on either the performers or my ability to appreciate them. I don't think it's clear that people in a hurried grimy commuter space failing to deviate from their routine in the presence of greatness are necessarily shunning said greatness. I'm not convinced this experiment provides commentary on missing out on the beauty in life. It wasn't just the context of the location: it was the context of the purpose of that space. I guess as far as the article goes I'm a Kant-er.

So while I don't think this experiment really proves it, it is true that the average person on the street doesn't know great classical music, and they miss out on some of the most incredible, complex expression of human creativity because of it. These commuters are the people in the prime working years of their lives. I wonder what the classical scene will be like over the next decades as music and art is continually diminished in public schools. I hope the transformation to an obscure cult-following art is slowed or reversed, and that Josh Bell figures out how to show people what is so amazing about what he does for a living.

Thinking Blogger Awards

Jippy the Jabster, I thank you for this Blog Award (okay it's really just a tag, but whatever, I do what I waaant). Who doesn't LOVE an award?!
You have flattered me this week in so many ways, my friend. Zach's my hero.

So.
In order to properly claim my prize and glory, I have to write up five bloggers who make me think and "tag" them. This is hard for several reasons:
A. The internet is most often my guilty brain-candy pleasure, a realm in which deep thoughts are but a byproduct.
2. Tagging people makes me nervous. It's like asking to sit at the cool girls table at lunch. I don't expect or need responses per se, but I hate to be a bother. (What am I, everyone's ninety year old granny?)
III. By writing this, I am revealing yet another incredibly personal layer of myself out here on the internet for anyone to... oh wait, don't care about that. Let's go!


Number One.

I love to read Strobist. Written by Baltimore Sun photographer David Hobby, this is a really beautiful blog. He teaches photographers how to use cheap off-camera lighting (a flash set to the side of the camera) by writing tutorials, pointing out great photos and, my FAVorite, he posts pictures and asks his readers to figure out how he lit them. There's also a very active Flickr photo group, which he calls the Grad Students of Strobism and recommends to anyone wanting to post a question. This blog has definitely helped me better follow some of Jonathan's technical conversations.


Number Two.
Becoming a mom made me wonder how much style I would be able to have in my life. New parents can tell you: anything unique and well-designed for life with kids is a bazillion and half dollars. I hate the plastic pastel world of mainstream kidstuff (we can pick apart my BoBoism later, 'kay?) and Gabrielle Blair's Design Mom site is anything but. Plus, while she doesn't accept advertising, she often does Random Giveaways for her readers- I've yet to win, but I have discovered some cool ideas anyway. She does have expensive taste, but as always I like to figure out how to make my own knock-offs. And if you're feeling like an extended dose of design blogs, check the folks in her impeccable sidebar.
Her sister Jordan's Oh Happy Day is another fave.




Number Three.
The group of writers over at Adoption Blogs have given me a lot of food for thought this year. In case you actually click over there I will warn you that while there are some gems, not all of them are happy reads. I've learned that I am not cut out for foster-to-adopt, nor does open adoption appeal to me. My favorite authors are Owlhaven of the Ethiopia Blog, and Faith Allen from the Hoping to Adopt section. As we get closer to an adoption and I figure out my own thoughts a bit, I will most likely blog about it here.

Number Four.

I bet I am more conservative than you. I know I'm more conservative than almost all the good blogs I've found, and watching the national news makes me insane with frustration. A post about that is percolating, but for now let's just say I'm a politically conservative, socially moderate, artistic sarcastic Christian who hates that parties have allied with religions. Let's also clarify that the previous sentence, while chock full of labels & codes, doesn't really help you know me any better. Buying me a Starbucks or a nice Syrah might- it's definitely worth a try. Anyway, the topics broached at Reason Magazine's blog and the way they write about them make me think. They are considered Libertarians. Whatev. I like the toned down spin which is nicely balanced with impassioned writing: a rare construction.

Number Five. ish.
Speaking of people I love to read despite the frequent attacks on my worldview/prudism/demographic, I would like to introduce you to two writers I just discovered this week. Color me behind the times.

Sweet Juniper's a peppy little blog written by a cheap ex-lawyer stay at home Dutch dude and his hip indie wife. Both enjoy cussing. They dress their girl like a rock star but buy it all at thrift stores, and is the name Juniper not completely stellar? (Shuddup- it's a tree not a shrub, J.) Check out their Sweet Juniper Tunes in the bottom left sidebar for some excellent iTunes adventuring. I am waiting for their Alphabet Book to arrive and will let you know how I like it.
Like everyone born between 1960 and 1985, I like Dooce. I like Fussy even more- sometimes I worry that my addiction to commenting there further reveals the too-eager mouth-breathing cool girl wanna-be in me.
Then there are the violists- always excellent thinking bloggers.

And that is all. For now.

Whew! I think I'll pour myself a tall glass of DAILY VOTING after that post. Mmmmnnn.

Laaaaughing huh huh huh haw huhh

I love that Guess Who song from the deep recesses of my childhood.

Tonight's gig was funny. Funny in a bad bad way, in a way only my inner 12 year-old can truly appreciate. It was a tiny "orchestra" cobbled together from about 10 musicians accompanying a church choir. We were approximating Faure & a some shrivelled piece of music by a guy (bite me, Rutter) all the choir directors have mistakenly put their faith in, so to speak. I hate when Christian music operates with the same tasteless training wheels reserved for children's music, romance novels and knock-off perfume.

Anyway, that wasn't even what was funny. (And by "funny" I mean amusing only to me and maybe my husband but he's probably just humoring me. Humoring. Ha.) The funny started when we tuned to an electric organ that played very very flat whenever it changed sounds (stops) in the piece. Like our very own anti-miracle organ. (I was going to say the Devil's Organ but that just doesn't sound right...) Remember that scene in The Goonies where they found a big organ thingie in that cave with the pirate ship and had to play horrible notes on it that made their friends teeter above a pit full of spikes? This was worse.

Also funny: the conductor held his entire upper lip thinly quivering taught so he looked oddly nauseated whenever he sang along with the choir. Conductors like to mouth the words without singing pitches, but they usually can't help themselves and end up stage-whispering a lot of it. It's just like when you try to talk to somebody in another car and end up somehow half whispering "DID YOU WANT THAT SPOT?!" all breathy with flailing gestures and if you're not careful some errant spittle. That is exactly like conducting, in case you ever wondered what conductors really do.

So the tuning and the mouthing were funny, but some of the other players struck me funny in a much more perverse way. They were a type of professional (and I am assuming alot here) musician I have run into before; they evidence almost no enjoyment of playing, lament at length how busy they are with so many important gigs, often appear to lack a bit in their technique and (this is the most important element) are so above any other players that they will do their utmost to condescend should the opportunity present itself. I think this personality disease goes most unchecked in the semi-professional scene. The per-service orchestra generally boasts a percentage of this kind of person. Madison Symphony was seriously infected; it took months (LITERAL MONTHS) for anyone to say more than two words to new people. Geniality was a sign of weakness, and I almost gave up on orchestras entirely.

Now I know I can be... a bit over-exuberant and chatty for some tastes. I hate when people say I'm always happy, though now that I'm old I would rather that impression than the alternatives. But this isn't just adult seriousness, this is a conscious effort to be a dour prig in order to appear better than others.

Somehow recognizing the disease tonight made me smile instead of roll my eyes and seethe. Maybe it's because I don't have a job-job yet, and it helps keep me humble. Maybe it's because I know that groups of wonderful accomplished friendly people do exist and sometimes I get to join them (Oregon Symphony). I love playing. I don't necessarily love playing in poor performances, but right now I'm okay with just trying to contribute something that might make the overall experience better. Missionary musicianing. It's not lost on me that aspects of this attitude may be more deeply condescending than just trying to out-snob the other players, but I like to think my motives are better than that. And at least this way I can still have hope for them.

Plus, I keep reminding myself that there are only two more services.

Rants are what God made blogs for.

So, do you ever have a half hour of crap happen that almost convinces you you're being punked? That any SECOND some dried-up ex-child-star will leap from behind a bush with a cameraman and say, "Wow, Miriam, you really handle stress well and that shirt looks great with dried drool on it on national TV. By the way, your fly is open and you're hyperventilating."

Driving to buy a stroller off Craigslist (because I'm CHEAP) I decided to call J and find out where our bank had an ATM so I could avoid paying the fee (because I'm CHEAP). Husbands with busy jobs make excellent concierges.

While in the ATM drive-through, some dip (expetive deleted) from the OHSU pediatrics office calls to tell me they are having trouble with our insurance provider. Except they have never had an actual problem with ours, and they aren't even saying its exact name- apparently ours just uses the same list of preferred providers or blah blah sweet jiminy blah. Bottom line: we can sign some waiver making OHSU come after us for all payments or we don't come to OHSU. She sweetly offers to leave our next appointment on the books for now. I sweetly fail to say anything smartassed and hang up so I can call NATO or somebody to get this straightened out.

Now I'm heading toward late for my clandestine internet meeting, so I schlep over where we were headed, buy the super cute stroller while Toby languishes in the carseat (FEVAH! recovery) and it starts to hail. While the sun shines down. Hard. Lots of hail. No locusts yet or seas of blood, though.

I hate to use the cell in the car, but this insurance thing was freaking me out because in my head our next seven kids must all be popped out at OHSU with the midwife group or at least given post-adoptive care there. So all the way home I'm talking to our company (who basically said, HUH?) and then J, and then when I got home I called OHSU back and they won't even give me a number to call. The NURSES are the ones to talk to about this? Really, where's the candid camera? I am trying very hard not to swear. The nurse doesn't understand what she's talking about either, especially the part where I tell her I need a number of a businessperson, not a babycareperson. What I need is somebody who understands, "ridiculous business practice" and "lawyer", so I'll end up with the priviledge of having HER take care of our BABIES.

There is NO PROBLEM with our insurance and I am not signing that waiver because they CAN'T MAKE ME just because they're annoyed with some OTHER company. They have horrible wierd complex billing anyway and isn't this exactly what we pay the insurers to deal with? Our company is actually trying to take care of this, but the only number I could give them was the daft nurse with the dafter supervisor.

AND, my ATM card was apparently left behind in the fray. The bank can't tell me if it's out having fun on the Nigerian stock market until 3pm, when they open the machine for all the idiots who leave their precious's behind.

Gaaa. If this is candid camera punking me, can I at least request somebody from the Breakfast Club? Or Six Feet Under? Or maybe Annie Lennox?

Feevah! In the mornin'

... Feevah all throuugh the night.

We went to the doctor yesterday, because it had been twenty-four hours of sad, hot Toby.

Is it wierd that I feel most like a mom when he's sick? He prefers me then (yes, as opposed to most of the time, when he prefers whosoever is closest to the bird/car/window/dangerous objects).

He's only really been sick twice including this time so we are winning the lottery so far.

The doctor resident we saw was certainly not a day older than me, so I naturally assume he must have been all Doogie Howser back in Elementary School in some sort of insanely accelerated program for the genetically engineered.

Residents will look up any dang thing you ask them- try it next time you see one about town. In this spirit, once we had confirmed Toby just has a stupid bastard virus and was not fighting one of the many new worries House has planted in my cerebrum, I pointed out a dark spot on the edge of Toby's big toe and inquired as to whether he might have an ingrown sommat' or other. Mr. Resident, who looked alot like Ron Howard, trotted off to find out what should be done about such afflictions. Of course, we all forgot to actually get that info at the end of our visit, but the point is they are Jack Bauers of discomfort, terriers of information. As am I, unless I get distracted. See how nicely that works out? What were we talking about?

Ready for some treacle? It really is particularly lovely when your baby will lay on your chest and watch your face while you sing badly to him. Mine happens to only sit that still when he's radiating heat and his eyes look like somebody slipped him a doobie, but it counts anyway.

Lucky for Toby and especially for me, my own Mama came up to help out. She herself didn't have people around when her first (aka test run, experimental prototype baby- Hi, C!) was new. She was stuck on the outskirts of Walla Walla. There isn't much to Metro Walla Walla, so imagine being outside it with no car and no neighbors and no mall to wander in when the weather gets bad- that would have put me right over the edge. You saw in the video how tough my Mom is, though. When I left for my gig last night she was rocking Toby and singing to him just like I like to. Because I don't have to work a day job, I have the luxury of appreciating other pairs of hands caring for the kid without (much) jealousy or guilt. I hope we don't ever take that for granted.

This morning he's no longer eminating dry heat and he woke up babbling instead of with that deep lowing cry he had tried to rip my heart out with yesterday. If all goes according to plan, by tomorrow I should be back to praying for his afternoon nap to go long.













PS: DID YOU VOTE TODAY? THANK YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOU!
VOTE HERE DAILY!

A vote for us is a vote for humanity.

Click here, or copy the following to your browser:
http://h30044.www3.hp.com/hptv/home/View.aspx?entryId=140

We would love your votes. Here's a message from the film maker himself:
OH – and please send an email around to anyone you know who won’t be annoyed, and encourage them to vote (for those who don’t know, I’m trying to win a 50” TV).

..and be sure to give it a five. ; )

Also – you can vote once per day – so vote early and often!

Thanks.

~J.

I just can't wait any longer.

We made a video for the HP TV contest. Please, though, just one thing: Once we put it on the HP site and put up the link, PLEASE go vote for it. Sadly, we have to take out my favorite part, which is Toby giggling at the beginning. They don't want anyone under 18 in the videos, even with consent. Lame.

So, here it is, temporarily until we can get it posted to HP: Yay, J!

Freddy

I am planning at least one "things are really looking up all the sudden after an unexpected slump I hadn't mentioned until now" post per month. In case you were wondering.

It is a windy gloomy day here. My response? Run away. We're going to check out the new frog-shaped sandbox at a certain residence in Aumsville. The proud owners had to fight to get that puppy- let's just say the words "floor model" mean nothing when a grandToby is involved, and the Fred Meyer store manager didn't stand a chance. Somehow it pleases me that a Frog thing came from Freddy's. Freddy the Frog-box. Fredster the sandman. Hmmm, neads tweaking.



A few things to note about this picture.
1. Being held by Grandma, looking at mom "WHO???"
2. Crocodile tears turned on the instant he realized people he knew were there to pick him up at the church nursery. Irrational? Maybe. Also cried when being left, for exactly two breaths.
3. Stole a red shaker toy. From babies. At church. On Easter.

So, with a quick stop for a baby hazmat sandproof suit and a shop-vac, we're off!

Pivot step step Turn

This has been an up and down (down, down) month at casa del J-ward. It was frankly making me wonder if I was losing it just a wee little bit. I felt bad that every time I talked to friends far away I was kind of dark and grunty.

This weekend, lo, it came through for me. Mom and dad took away my baby boy for two nights and spoiled him mercilessly. Seriously, it wasn't until this afternoon that he finally looked at who was spooning over the yogurt with a glint and a giggle of recognition. A grandparent junky at 15 months, help us Mr. Roboto.

The generous chunk of Alone Time gave J and I the space to rehearse for some rad Churchy God stuff (more later) and to have the baddest, loudest and longest fight since way back in our early Madison days. We (um ok, I) no longer slam doors, but why can I not refrain from the piercing shrillness? I hate that and snivel-crying. It occurs to me often that I wouldn't want to live with me 76.3% of the time, time I spend in sad imitation of some demented terrier in heat with a leaky nasal system. Attractive. I mean, while being right all the time is nice, I would still like to be in better control of my voice and snot, see.

Big stupid fight notwithstanding, this weekend was a turning point. Something let go and I'm okay with my playing and parenting Toby and my duties as a shrew-wife (licensed and bonded in the state of Oregon only).

I think becoming an adult is repeatedly accepting the impossibility of perfection and recognizing the vast superiority of the extraordinary. Awesomeness, incredibility, superlity, neat-o-rama. We have it in spades, and we get to enjoy it every day UNLESS!! the distractions win out.

Thank you, Easter weekend*. I'm so much more prepared for (the 8.75 months left of) the new year.

*Sponsored by generous grandparents set B, Black Butte Porter, Huckleberry Pie and Office Space.

He is Risen Indeed!

Wack Easter Wierdness

Happy Good Friday.
Wierd, wierd dark little filmlet. It involves a rabbit, but is not suitable for children, and it's a little long but I feel I accomplished something by sticking with it & watching to the end. If it displeases you, please don't come at me with a butter knife or a cricket bat mmkay?

Also, here are some stuffed animals right up my husband's perverse alley. I think we may just have to get Toby a babysafe one. It would be a good test of which moms are the most fun at playgroup.

Meat Shower

We had a shower for Toby's newest girlfriend's Mom last weekend, and I think everybody had a nice time. I liked the way the room looked even though all I did was vacuum and put up a few balloons and these ridiculous tissue pompoms from MARTHA.

There is something so satisfying about enormous shiny balloons, though I am overly sensitive about their popping potential and I wouldn't let the kids play with any of them. Paranoia is just one of my charms.

It's fun having parties for other people, especially when they're in the afternoon and the rest of the day can be spent lounging around an abnormally clean house full of beer, brie, sherbet and meatballs. (I love to cook meatstuff even though I haven't eaten any since 1986. Because it's gross, but I could totally slaughter and stuff.)

The meatball recipe was very popular:
One large container Grape Jelly (seriously)
Two jars of Heinz Spicy Sauce (looks like cocktail sauce and is in the ketchup aisle)
One package of frozen Italian Meat Balls (from Costco- I didn't actually use all of them but you can)

1. Heat the Grape Jelly and the Sauce until it's melted and combined. Try not to let it boil over on your stove because it's a dirty ho to clean up.
2. Put it all in a slow cooker for about 6 hours. The balls are actually pre-cooked so you don't have to worry too much if you don't have that much time, but you do want the sauces to really get all absorby and coaty and stuff.
3. Provide napkins and a cardiologist's phone number.
4. Don't tell the pregnant women about the Grape Jelly ingredient until you're sure they don't have anything against grape jelly. 8 out of 10 women at my party were pregnant. I am not.

Making Strange the Familiar

Mrs. Kennedy has written a thought-provoking post over at Fussy. She found this sentence in Emily Nussbaum's NYT review of a book of poetry written by a mom (I should say MommyPoetry, but those MommyWhatever words annoy me):
"Plath makes strange what should be familiar — which is, after all, a central task of poetry."

Making strange what should be familiar is not only an excellent definition of the role of the arts but isn't it really a comment on the human condition in general? We are animal and conscience and soul jammed together in an imperfect balance, then stuck in terrestrial bodies which are confusing at best. Watch a one-year old for a day and tell me our functions aren't at least a bit perverse. I know nature is beautiful and awe-inspiring, but you have to admit it is also surprising and wierd. Observing a new human provides innumerable reminders of and comments on our physical lives.

We are capable of such sublime acts; evil and good, strange and familiar. In fact I think we are incapable of failing to be all these things in the course of our lives, maybe in the course of our week.

Mrs. Kennedy quoted another part of the article where Nussbaum is introducing Mommypoetry as her subject, "The best such poems burn off the pink sentimentality of motherhood in favor of something wilder and more surprising."

It is infinitely more difficult to find a way to express "pink" emotions without falling into sentimentality than to just go straight to dark=deep, and I hope some true and honest expression is what that "something wilder and more surprising" is. I would bet, though, that the surprise is dark and sad and therefore deep.

Why is it we give so much more academic credence to the dark and brooding? Don't you think this is especially true of women's art? I am uncomfortable placing myself in a box with feminists, but I can't help it here. Walt Whitman can go on and on about his body and his lovers and...and President Lincoln! for pete's sake, but the woman poet had better tread carefully. Temper the bits about butterflies in the firmament with other bits about funerals in your brain. (I really think Em and I could have been friends.)

I don't know if there's a correlation in music because I can count on one hand the female composers anybody has ever heard of. And that anybody will need to have studied classical music to recognize any of the women period. (Fanny Hensel doesn't count for anything until you add the Mendelssohn.)

What a dark and brooding rant.
I must be hormonal, we women are so wild and surprising. Maybe the smiling coos of my angelic cherub will cheer me up. If only I were a poet...

(OH, and Jippy- thanks for the tag! and I'm working on it)

We are still here.

Normal blog rhythm will resume shortly. Meanwhile, enjoy a glimpse of what Oregon is doing lately. Secondly, we offer an example of our own recent occupation.