"I want to be with Carrie."

Those were Debbie Reynolds' last words, just hours ago today. Just a few moments ago, Marie and I turned on our computers and Huffington Post wouldn't load. We tried CNN and saw the headline, and couldn't believe it. We checked NBC, and it is true. Debbie Reynolds has died.

Debbie Reynolds. This breaks me into little pieces. Yesterday, while posting about the death of her daughter, it didn't even occur to me to quip, "This will just kill Debbie Reynolds." I am sitting here numb. Debbie Reynolds, at 84, looked so vital. So fresh. So strong. I was so wrong.

She was at her son Todd's house, it is reported, beginning preparations for her daughter's funeral, when she experienced shortness of breath. She was rushed to the hospital where she died of a stroke. One day after losing Carrie. Devastated, I can only imagine. But gone now? I can't get my mind around it. Marie tells me that she's read about Debbie Reynolds apparently having a couple of strokes, but we don't know the source of that information. It isn't in the news story - yet. She seemed functionally OK when she posted the comment on Facebook yesterday, although the missing punctuation marks show a red flag, now that I take a second look.

Debbie Reynolds has died of a broken heart. May she be reunited with her daughter and find peace.

Carrie Fisher:1956-2016

Remembering Carrie Fisher

  What does one say? How does one express feelings when our primary vehicle these days seems to be either blogs or social media? I grew up with Carrie and Todd Fisher. I watched their father leave their mother; even then, at a young age, I wondered about how those two siblings would be affected. 

No mother should have to bury her child. It’s looking like what happened to Carrie is, in some ways, similar to what happened to my beloved friend Jean Mangan three years ago, at the age of 59. My heart broke then for her mother, Joan; and my heart breaks today for Debbie Reynolds, who is just six years younger than my own mother, and is faced with this heartbreak. I turn to Facebook for inspiration from folks I know personally; it's late at night and I simply don’t know where else to go. I’m not surprised to find wise words from so many thoughtful people. 

MaryEllen Morgan, a dear friend from my high school days, posts: “Let's face it, we all wish we could make as deep an impression as Carrie Fisher did in her 60 years (a small amount of time, if you look at the lifespan of our fathers and mothers); her lifespan was short. But we all need this as a lesson to us. What do we need to do and say in the new year? What does your life say about you? What legacy do you want to leave? There is so much work to do out there, my friends. Please make room in your weekly schedule to step up and forward to advance the ideals we all believe are important.” 

I respond to her: “MaryEllen, I resolve that as I grow older, I shall always remember that as each day passes, life becomes more and more precious." I continue: "I will try to hold back the curt word, the sarcastic comment, the impulse to retort. I will strive to react kindly and with courtesy to Marie, my best friend with whom I live. I will make a heartfelt effort to control my quick temper, and to avoid the curt response. To smile at people. To give from my heart to others." Quietly, I pray that for the maturity to think beyond my own personal bubble. I ask for guidance and hope in the coming years. May all of us find a meaningful way to work for peace and justice in this troubled world. Because MaryEllen is right. There's so much to be done.

 I talk with my significant other, Paul Dale Anderson, who reminds me: "Know that every minute we spend with loved ones is a gift not to be taken for granted. We ought to consciously cherish those times, and to make all our interactions positive." My response to Paul: "Yes. Life is a treasure. I'll do my part by striving to remember to put others first; and by making amends when I am wrong, without expecting forgiveness. I desire to radiate love and acceptance to all people of all backgrounds, ages, religions, personal life choices, and situations. To find a way to work for peace and justice. It all begins within one's self." 

That's why I pray every day. 

Right now, I think of a certain 84-year old (yes, famous) mother, dear to me from my youth, who now has to bury her 60-year-old child. I pray for Debbie Reynolds and for her family and friends, who will surely provide a wellspring of strength to her. May she know peace and grace at this time of sorrow. 

And so I add:  "Everyone is a beloved child of God.  Think before you speak. Think before you speak. Think before you speak.”   

 

More on Claw Hammer: I get to repeat myself because I'm old

Another Paul Dale Anderson essay, because this is my blog and I get to write it. Even if I repeat myself. I get to do that, too, because I am 66 years old and have earned that privilege.

This book has a great amount of personal significance to me, because it marks the beginning of my friendship with Paul Dale Anderson. In 1989, when Claw Hammer first came out, a co-worker at Rockford Public Library told me about it and I was immediately intrigued. I've always been a horror fan, and I was impressed that a local author had published what promised to be the type of read that was right up my alley. I got hold of the book and I was not disappointed - I devoured it, and I decided that I had to meet this Paul Anderson. At the time, I was running the Northern Illinois Writers Conference, so I immediately hired him to present a workshop, which he did - and I had the pleasure of meeting him and his lovely wife, Gretta. Paul and I connected immediately and were to go on to become great friends. That same year, I performed on my fretted dulcimer at an event sponsored by Rock River Friends of Folk Music, and Paul and Gretta were in the audience. I again had a chance to talk with them and it just reinforced to me what intelligent, interesting people they were. Paul got a job at the Library soon thereafter, and our friendship clicked; we went on to share grisly stories and try to outdo one another with demented humor and the sharing of our love for language. We co-wrote a stage production to commemorate the retirement of Joel Rosenfeld, our director; I wrote parodies on four show tunes and Paul did the script. I have pictures of us from that era, posing with Mr. Rosenfeld - me sporting a dreadful spiral perm and Paul with his signature beard, bushy black hair, and evil yet charming smile. We spoke often about Claw Hammer, and Paul encouraged me in 2008 when I wrote my own novel, The Five Notebooks.

Paul left the library at some point but came back; both of us had been through enormous life changes. The connection had survived; I remember rolling my desk chair up to his cubicle and pouring out my heart. I imagine I was ranting about work, or maybe just the state of things at large; in any case, he listened. We'd often see one another in the staff lounge, each in a corner with a book, and that twinkle in his eye continued to make me smile. Remember---at this point, we were friends. Co-workers and kindred spirits. Nothing even vaguely romantic crossed my mind in my interactions with Paul; he was a happily married man, devoted to his wife.

I retired from the library in 2010 and Paul retired the following year to devote his time to Gretta, whose health was failing. When he posted on Facebook of her death in January of 2012, I broke down and cried for this kind man who would have done anything under heaven for her to live. I sent him a letter immediately, expressing my condolences, and I attended Gretta's memorial service. That winter, I thought often about my dear friend Paul, now so broken and bewildered. He would come into the Friends of the Library shop were I volunteered, and we'd talk frankly about his loss, and I noticed in these conversations that he spoke freely to me as if I were family. I was honored by that. I still considered him a dear friend and I wondered what life had in store for him.

Months later, Paul sent me a message on Facebook - basically a greeting. What started as banter turned into a deep conversation that went on for quite some time. Through the written word, we mutually decided to meet. AGAIN - for me, it was to touch base with my dear friend, share a bottle of wine and some memories, and give him a chance to talk his heart out with someone who knew him and would listen to what he needed so express. Both of us were blindsided by what transpired that night—we fell in love.

We didn't expect to fall in love. Love is sneaky and capricious and I think love has a sense of humor as demented as the twisted plays on words that Paul and I have always shared. Love calmly sailed in that evening and tapped both of us on the shoulder, stunning me. (I can only speak for my own reaction.) For him, it meant more than just beeing moonstruck; he had to cope with the well-meaning but intrusive comments that inevitably came his way, most not complimentary to me. For me, it involved a 180 degree change in the way I chose to love, along with equally snide comments from others who thought I was temporarily insane. It could have disrupted my household, but it did not. Love was the joker, but the joker wasn't wild; love was sensible and compassionate. For almost five years now, Paul and I have continued to love one another deeply while choosing not to marry and not to share a home. My mooring points are intact, and he is doing his dream; he followed his heart and gave up his hypnosis practice to return to his true calling: writing. My challenge is to remember to give him the personal, physical, mental and emotional space he needs so he can do this work.

Why do I share all this? Because it was through Claw Hammer that we met, and now Claw Hammer is born anew - this time updated and presented in trade paperback with a gorgeous cover that calls out "Buy me!" I reread it, of course, as soon as I got my autographed copy, and I found that even then, the Paul Dale Anderson of 1989 had the chops and the talent and the gift for plotting and creating memorable characters that is the trademark of the Paul Dale Anderson of today. I watch him now, with joy, as he has begun editing the sequel to Spilled Milk, and I relish in his Instruments of Death series. His Winds series took me to a different level; he combined personal catharsis with his deep knowledge of everything from military strategy to Eastern spiritual practices to the history of our beloved city; weaving a series of genre-bending, gorgeously written books - well worth reading. In addition, his short stories are masterpieces.

So, Paul---you and I have walked through this forest apart and together--marveling at trees, sitting on stumps, tripping on vines, laughing into the sun and crying in the rain. I am honored to call you beloved friend and now loved one as well. And I celebrate this by seeing Claw Hammer come full circle. I know that even though Gretta is on the other side, she's still right beside you, feeling pleased that you are happy and that you’re back in the world of writing. I’m proud to be by you side now, and I couldn't be prouder of you, Paul Dale Anderson. as I hold in my hand my copy of Claw Hammer, which is still a perfectly-paced, intelligently written and terrifying read. I love you, Paul, and I love your writing. All your books. But this one will forever be special. ----Lizza

For Paul Dale Anderson

Now on Amazon!

Trade Paperback of Claw Hammer

Oh, my stars. This started out as a brief Facebook post, and has become not only my celebration of a major event in Paul Dale Anderson’s life as a writer - the reissue of his bestselling novel, Claw Hammer, in trade paperback; but my passionate love letter to him. I received my copy (and his autograph) yesterday, and I cherish this prize as I feel cherished by him. Paul deserves this—the chance to revise Claw Hammer and see it in a new format that will bring him even more devoted readers.  He has always been a masterful horror/suspense author, and revisiting this novel has made me see, anew, what a talent Paul has nurtured all his life--and how even though his craft has matured, he already had "It" - that special touch, back in 1989 when I read his work for the first time.

Paul and I both have a physical love affair with books. There is something about a trade paperback that always takes my breath away. The creamy, matte paper, the cover artwork, the font faces, the drop caps, the professional presentation, the crisp newness. What a piece of work I hold in my hands! Claw Hammer has extra-special meaning to me, because it was that gritty 1989 mass-market paperback that made 39-year-old Elizabeth Flygare decide that she simply HAD to meet this "Paul Anderson" from Rockford, Illinois. Little did I know what how what was to unfold over the coming decades. We began as professionals, each in our own realm; first, I hired him as a guest presenter at the Northern Illinois Writers Conference, which I headed when I worked at the Library. That same year, he and his lovely wife Gretta came to a Rockford Friends of Folk Music event where I performed on fretted dulcimer. It was only after then that Paul Dale Anderson came back to work at Rockford Public Library, becoming my colleague and my instant friend. Our mutual love of horror along with our appreciation of literature, psychology, good music and snappy conversation made us kindred spirits. Paul was always there for me, to laugh with me and to listen to my stories, as I listened to his. It doesn’t surprise me that when I go through old photographs, I find pictures of us together in the workplace.

Paul wove in and out of my life for the next two decades. At each meeting, we found our friendship intact. It was Paul Dale Anderson who grasped the profound impact on my life and the depth of my grief, even as I couldn’t do so myself, when my father died in 1997. It was Paul Dale Anderson who shared my demented sense of humor and co-wrote, with me, the stage production which was performed by Library staff in 2000 to bid Joel Rosenfeld bon voyage upon his retirement. It was Paul Dale Anderson who would come into the staff lounge with that twinkle in his eye, and his pipe, with his "Hi, Elizabeth," and that devilish grin back in the day—even when I didn’t want to talk. We’d sit in our corners with our books, neither of us knowing that our great minds were probably thinking alike. And later, it was Paul Dale Anderson, back at RPL part-time, who didn't mind when I rolled my chair up to his desk in the Adult Services office and poured out my vents about the traumatic changes in our workplace. Paul, in his astute way, perceived what troubled me, but wisely withheld unsolicited advice, instead lending me his patient listening ear. When I left the Main Library to work at a branch and subsequently retired, I didn’t realize until later that he might have missed me as much as I missed him, with his newly-minted library degree and successful hypnosis practice. And finally - when the shock of the loss of his beautiful wife Gretta in January 2012 shattered his world, it was I who sat in my living room chair and wept, unable to find the words that would give him grace. To me, he was more than friend; he was tribe – he was brother to me. When he hurt, I hurt. But the love I had for him then was purely agape love, and vice versa.

And here I am now, blessed as I find myself by his side – it will be five years this April. Who can explain how and when a love like this can blossom and bring two hearts together? In the great scheme of things, I believe both Paul and I needed to live the lives we lived, and that it was pure grace that we recognized in one another the promise of a new surprising turn in our road that April. Then came that day in May, at our first WisCon together, when Paul told me of his decision to retire from his career as a hypnotist and return to the world of writing. I was honored to be there by his side, and challenged to respect his need for solitude as he climbed back up on the horse and resumed the ride. I haven’t always succeeded, but I’ve tried to give him the quiet space he needs as he builds his fine reputation in the changing arena of the writing world. And now, we're seeing it together - the harvest of his dream realized - many books published, his name now known, and the celebration today of the book I hold in my hands that first drew me to become his friend.

We can and do love many people, and in many different ways. I respect and revere the memory of his beloved Gretta, as I delight in the gift of becoming his loving companion now as we lean into our senior years. Paul Dale Anderson has taught me what love is, and what love is not. We cherish our times, learning from each other’s ways; we know we don’t need to marry nor share a home to be together. When apart, other friends and other experiences enrich our days, so when we come together, we meet refreshed, having had our own space to learn new things, which we share with each other. I want to think that somehow dear Gretta is at peace that he is happy.

And now I look at him, amazed. Paul Dale Anderson, who has taught me the concept of unconditional positive regard - tough love at times, but steadfast love just the same. Paul Dale Anderson, whose words inspired me to get sober three years ago. Paul Dale Anderson, who helps me remember, every day, that love is not needy, and love is not rescuing. Paul Dale Anderson, who appreciates and shares my deranged sense of humor, recognizes that we’re both incurable romantics, and knows exactly when to hold my hand. Paul Dale Anderson, the only other person I know who watches all the credits after a movie. Lover of cats, father, professional writer, scientist, scholar, elegant gentleman, generous friend, sweet lover. The paradox is that while perplexing and maddening at times, as well as numinous and multifaceted, ours really is a simple love. Yes - pared down to its purity - it is uncomplicated. It is, after all, the most elemental force: love.

So – you who haven't yet read a Paul Dale Anderson novel, (and all of you who have had the pleasure), know that when you hold this new edition of Claw Hammer in your hands, you can look forward to a brilliant, well-crafted read full of surprising turns, vibrant characters and impeccable timing. Then, after you have finished it, go on and read his other books! The world is a richer place because Paul Dale Anderson is in it. I love him.

I'm not gonna take it

TODAY'S FACEBOOK POST

Trump chooses Sen. Jeff Sessions for attorney general, Rep. Mike Pompeo for CIA director

OK. I'm done. Jeff Sessions is ANTI-CIVIL RIGHTS. I tried being gracious and even posting to individuals' Facebook pages that I was sick of all the negativity, and that we should all unite. How can we unite in peace and hope? This is my tipping point. I can't. Not any more. I'm too bold and outspoken and opinionated to force myself to subdue my personality. What is happening to our country is so vile, so unspeakably demonic, so viscerally terrifying that I can no longer abide by what Hillary Clinton suggested in her concession speech: that we must accept that Donald Trump will be our president, and that we must give him a chance. He is showing that he is a mentally unbalanced, narcissistic, shallow and evil carnival huckster who has managed to hypnotize a large portion of our population. He is vomiting his hate into every valley and every river and every mountain in this land that I love. I can't leave the country. I'm 66 years old and my entire body is racked with arthritis to the point where I can't sleep. I can't go out and march and demonstrate; I have days when I can barely walk. What can seniors do? Where are the college students - where are the young, passionate, bright shining stars who will stand up and fight? Because posting on Facebook won't do it. When I talk to my closet friends, I'm preaching to a choir who knows the notes much better than I do and, like me, lack the physical energy to even think about the subject, much less go out there and be activists.. Some have chosen to retreat; I respect that, because a human being can just take so much before they reach the magic number 7 plus or minus 2. I woke up this morning with "Do you hear the people sing" playing in my head. Will it come to that? Will I live to see the wreckage---probably. Will I live to see the healing? I doubt it. All I have are my words. From now on, even though I realize I'll be unfriended, I'm going to be open about the wretched way I feel about the atrocities that are being visited upon our country after this nightmarish election. I can't suck it up and I won't. To all my friends who've had to read my cloying, pompous scoldings about how we should all "unite and be as one people," I give my heartfelt amend. Those who support Trump and what he has already begun to do to dismantle the country I love have no problem expressing their opinions here.So I shall express mine too. This isn't about Hillary Clinton, nor Democrats, nor Republicans any more.(I could have lived with a Mitt Romney presidency). But I cannot and WILL NOT accept the situation we're in, and I can't just sit in my recliner and weep. WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN? Will there be an outright rebellion - a revolution? Is this the end of the United States of America? It feels, to me, like the end of the world.

Alexander's Feast: A dream realized

HANDEL’s ALEXANDER’S FEAST, or THE POWER OF MUSICK

By Elizabeth Aisling Flygare

I am a writer, a poet, an artist, a devotee of choral music, a by-ear musician (piano, guitar and fretted dulcimer) and a former part-time organist in the Episcopal Church. I hold a Bachelor of Arts in art with several hours beyond a minor in music, and I was a paraprofessional librarian and music selector for our local public library for 35 years. One of the joys of my career was that in the beginning, we were encouraged to listen to music on the job! It was then, in 1977, that I discovered the Alfred Deller recording of Alexander’s Feast.

I was familiar with most of Mr. Handel’s choral works, but this one was new to me. I took it home and fell instantly in love with the gorgeous melodies, the soaring harmonies, the hilarity of “Drinking is the Soldier’s Pleasure,” (as I listened to this music while writing and swilling wine), and the sheer bliss of finding out that this was an ode in honor of St. Cecilia. The words of John Dryden, combined with the heartrending Handel melodies and the opulent choruses, filled this incurable romantic with absolute bliss. I declared, at age 27, that this was my favorite choral work, and that one of my life’s goals would be to hear it performed live.

Fast forward to 2016. Last week, at age 66, I finally realized the dream on my bucket list when my closest friend and I attended the performance of Alexander’s Feast by the Music of the Baroque Chorus and Orchestra. It was held in the North Shore Center for the Performing Arts in Skokie, and there wasn’t a bad seat in the house.  I did notice how cramped the balcony seats were, but I was too immersed in the experience to care. I had long ago given up hope that it would ever be done in the United States, and this event was two hours from our home! I still can’t believe I truly was there, and that I had the privilege of experiencing such a stellar performance. It exceeded my expectations.

My first observance, and question, has to do with my good friend Liz Cifani. We’ve been out of touch far too long; I gather she has retired as principal harpist for the Lyric Opera. Marguerite Lynn Williams is a worthy successor. Her playing is lyrical, her phrasing flawless, her performance impeccable and her skill seemingly effortless. Now, I must look up Liz and find out what she’s up to these days.

Softly Sweet, in Lydian Measures was listed in the program as a soprano solo; in this concert, it was performed by a tenor. I revisited Alfred Deller’s recording and he does not make his Hitchcockian appearance here; he, too, used a soprano soloist. Why the change? It did sound appropriate at the Music of the Baroque performance, but I was a bit surprised.

After the concert, a very kind woman named Jen More let me have access to someone affiliated with the chorus for a brief exchange. Jen also told me that the Music of the Baroque uses the Barenreiter edition of Alexander’s Feast. I am going to try to get my hands on it. In the meantime, I’ve been listening to the five recordings I own of this masterpiece. Each is different; even the performance in Skokie was different. I gather there have been countless discussions and debates, over the decades, concerning the “right” way to approach this music. It fascinates me to hear each interpretation.

-Alfred Deller’s version completely omits the harp concerto, Your Voices Tune and any form of Let’s imitate her notes above. Thais Led the Way is sung with a slur on the first two notes; I believe the Music of The Baroque soprano treated the first note as dotted with the tie between the second and third notes. (I was jarred by this!) Deller’s version ends with a festive rendering of Let Old Timotheus, ending with the triumphant, emotional She Drew an Angel Down.  Honor Sheppard’s singing is sumptuous. This is the version I have loved throughout my adulthood, and I thought it would be a hard act to follow. Incidentally, the Novello Handel Edition score, edited by Donald Burrows, insists that “Thais” should be pronounced “They-iss”, and that is how the Deller Consort pronounces it. (They also use “Tie-motheus”; it seems the preferred pronunciation uses a short vowel, as in Timothy).

-Harry Christophers - The Sixteen provided my second exposure to Alexander’s Feast.  I had to get used to the bouncy tempo after years of Deller’s stately interpretation. The harp concerto is restored after the recitative Timotheus placed on high, as in the performance by Music of the Baroque. However, this recording omits the soprano and alto duet Let’s Imitate her notes above. Immediately after Let Old Timotheus/She Drew an Angel Down (which I thought was going to be the ending.) Handel’s Organ Concerto # in G Minor is inserted! Following the concerto, the piece concludes with hymnlike, majestic choruses: a setting of Your Voices Tune which segues into Let’s imitate her notes above. The Christophers version ends the work with the words: “Sacred to harmony, Sacred to Love. It is beautiful, but not tear-jerking, as I think I should be!

-John Eliot Gardiner/The Monteverdi Choir’s reissued Decca recording is similar to what I heard Sunday night at the Music of The Baroque concert. This recording is live, and features period instruments. Interestingly, a countertenor sings Softly Sweet. The harp concerto is omitted; however, the Alexander’s Feast Concerto Grosso in C for is placed between parts one and two. The singing is graceful, but a bit too staccato for my taste. The ending sequenced as Music of the Baroque did it;  after the Grand Chorus At last divine Cecilia came, along comes the recitative Your Voices Tune, (but with a countertenor), followed by the duet, sung by a soprano and a countertenor. There is no choral setting of Your Voices Tune. Let old Timotheus-----She drew an angel down concludes the recording. Unfortunately, and my opinion here, the choir lowers its volume for She Drew an angel down, making the ending reverent and serene rather than triumphant. It’s lovely, but I missed the drama to which I’m accustomed at the conclusion. It is lauded by many as the “must have” Alexander’s Feast. I was fortunate enough to find a copy of this rare CD on Amazon. There’s a bootleg copy on YouTube, but it’s too long to download using an online video to mp3 converter to get the audio, so you have to download it as an mp4 instead and have a way to convert it if you want to put it in Amazon Music. They accept only MP3s for uploading. The YouTube video doesn’t give a numbered list of the descriptions of each track—what you get is one continuous 1:38:22 track. Very spare recording, nicely done, nirvana for purists. I am glad I was able to buy it.

-Sir Philip Ledger’s 2002 remastered version with the English Chamber Orchestra and the King’s College Choir is very interesting indeed, not to mention that it has the best Bacchus. It deletes the harp concerto, as does Deller’s version, and does not include the organ concerto oddly placed toward the end of Harry Christophers’ version. Softly Sweet is sung by a soprano. As in Deller’s version, Thus Long ago segues into the chorus At Last the Divine Cecilia came, and this is not noted on the album liner notes; they share a track. Following is the recitative and the chorus of Let Old Timotheus/She Drew and Angel Down, after which is inserted the recitative Your voices tune. Next is the soprano/alto duet Let’s Imitate Her Notes Above. Following this is that gorgeous choral version of Your Voices Tune, which segues into the choral setting of Let’s Imitate/Sacred to harmony, Sacred to Love. But that’s not the grand finale! The Choce of Hercules, which has been thought of by some scholars as the original third part of Alexander’s Feast, is included. On the Ledger CD, we are treated to the entire thing – all twelve tracks. This is probably my favorite version of AF, other than Deller.

-Nikolaus Harnoncourt Concentus Musicus, discovered while I was writing this:

Saving the best for last. The online reviews of this astounding version do it more justice than I ever could. I found it on YouTube and downloaded the entire video. It is a live performance and it is spectacular. I have also extracted the audio and converted it to mp3. Some CDs are available on Amazon at various prices; I may cave, but it doesn't have the "Your Voices Tune" chorus. So - I will probably stay with Ledger.
 This is the bare-bones information I have:

·         Posted on the YouTube page:

o   George Frideric Handel [Georg Friedrich Händel]
Alexander's Feast Oratorio composed in 1736
Concentus Musicus Wien conducted by Nikolaus Harnoncourt
Dorothea Röschmann, soprano; Michael Schade, tenor; Gerard Finley, baritone
0:00 Overture
7:41 Happy Pair
14:24 The list'ning Crowd
16:40 With ravish'd ears
20:35 Bacchus, ever fair and Young
27:15 He sung Darius Great and Good
34:12 Softly sweet
37:15 War, he sung, is toil and trouble
42:08 The many rend the skies
46:15 The Prince, unable to conceal
56:37 Now strike the Golden Lyre
59:21 Revenge
1:08:58 The Princes applaud
1:11:08 Thais lead the way
1:15:50 Thus long ago
1:22:04 Let old Timotheus yield the Prize

The expressions on the conductor’s face are so radiant, intense and energizing! I can feel the music with him, right into my bones. He is completely in flow, as is the chorus. I have yet to sit down and savor my treat in its entirety, but I will provide the URL for anyone who wants to experience the sublime:Harnoncourt's live performance of Alexander's Feast

Oh, and yes, it ends with She drew an Angel Down.

I suspend all intellect, critical expertise or lack thereof, nitpicking analysis, observations of pronunciation, sequences, the inclusions and exclusions, and the gender of the Softly Sweet singer. Even with the snippets I sampled, I was in that space surely as I sat, sober as a judge, in my cramped seat at the North Shore Center for the Performing Arts balcony this past Sunday night and was transformed. Thank you, Music of the Baroque, for an experience I shall never forget.

From Purple PT to Latte Soul

My First Post on Kia Soul Forum

Princess Kiana

Lizza on the 2016 Election

I am flummoxed by this election. I make no bones about my political views. My sisters and I were raised to be an old-fashioned, rational Republicans. General Eisenhower was the one who exposed the concentration camps - and if I have my history correct, as President he started the Interstate system. When I came of age to vote, I voted a straight Republican ticket--yes, I voted for Richard Nixon. My hippie contemporaries would have been horrified had I disclosed that. Appearance-wise, I was hippie-ish, but only as a fashion statement. I was opposed to the Vietnam War, but politics had no salience for me and I didn't absorb the actual events. I was too wrapped up in my fantasy world of poetry, classical music, writing romantic fiction and exploring alternative lifestyles.

As I previously stated, I voted for Nixon in 1972. I voted for Gerald Ford in 1976. He was a "normal," Chamber of Commerce Republican--certainly not a right-wing ideologue. Then came the Reagan era, and the worm turned. The Moral Majority was on the uprise--people like Anita Bryant and Phyllis Schlafly actually had credibility with some. I watched the Republican Party morph into a right-wing, ultraconservative platform that clearly didn't appeal to middle-class, educated, working Americans who were progressive thinkers but still respected tradition. As a municipal employee working at the public library, I remember, at one point, saying, "I can't afford to be a Republican any more." In 1980, I became a registered Democrat and voted for Jimmy Carter.

The Republican Party today is a different bird. It bears no resemblance to the party I once knew. People like me used to be called "Rockefeller Republicans." That term is now archaic. Gone are the Nelson Rockefellers, the Charles Percys, and other prominent figures who held liberal to moderate views on social and domestic policies. Relegated to the dusty past are the statesmen (and women) who valued tradition, culture and higher education. These days they are dismissed as elitist WASPS. I still bemoan the fact that John B. Anderson of Illinois opted to run as an independent.

Now we have the Tea Party. We have Sarah Palin and her daughter Bristol’s short-lived reality TV program. We have a plethora of social and religious fanatical groups that identify as Republican. The Republican Party, as it is now, has alienated rational voters. Funny how my sisters and I grew up thinking of Democrats (we called them Damn Craps) as blue-collar hillbillies. Yup, we were snobs. We were clearly influenced by our family matriarch, Grandma Arabelle, who was obsessed with the DAR and unduly concerned about what to wear to services at the Plymouth Congregational Church and to luncheons at the Dayton's tea room. And I've gone far beyond that worldview. How ironic; the Democratic Party has now become the party of intellectuals.

I am a moderate. I describe myself as a liberal Republican of the old-school, and a conservative Democrat. I am fiscally conservative and socially liberal. But I'm not a Socialist. I'm a Baby Boomer senior citizen with a good bullshit detector. I am aghast that we’ve gone from Dwight D. Eisenhower to a bigoted, bloated, reality-TV turd whose idiotic spoutings disgust me and are, in my opinion, an embarrassment for our country. If Donald Trump were to become president, the United States would be the laughingstock of the world. Imagine "Hail to the Chief" playing for him! I can't.  (President Obama is, by the way, one of the most widely respected Presidents {worldwide} that we've had---at least in my lifetime. I supported him and was glad I traded in my car when I did so I didn't have to personally remove my Obama/Biden sticker from the windshield.)

There is no place for people like me in this country. 

Many Republicans simply won't vote. I personally know several, many of them seniors, who plan to sit out this election. Yes, I shall vote, and I shall vote for Hillary Clinton - not because I think she walks on water, but because she isn't terrifying and she has solid political experience - she served as Secretary of State and has a firm background in the workings of government. I know a lot of people detest Hillary Clinton. E-mail issues are just one of the fuzzy areas that ought to be addressed formally; clearly policies need updating in this cyber-age.  Much of the ridicule of Mrs. Clinton (jokes about her being strident, shrill, wearing pantsuits, etc.) is God-damned sexist, and that includes first-naming her, which I will not do. How many people referred to our President as "Barack?  

I wish both parties could have come up with popular, widely respected candidates. There is a generation that didn't step up to the plate, and we're seeing the results. No criticism personally of my own nieces and nephews - but people born in the 70s are the right age to be running for President now, and the pool is empty. So Democrats have old people (older than I am!) running. And the Republicans have The Donald. I would love to hear my father's spin on this. The only thing I hear from him right now is him spinning in his grave. 

So - to Hillary Clinton, who I fervently hope wins the election, I say, "I put my trust in you to lead this country. Please don't let us down." My only words for Donald Trump are, "You're fired." 

Now we wait for the chips to fall - or for the shit to hit the fan.

Joan Mangan

Joan N. Mangan   1928-2016

A fine and noble lady has left this world. This past Saturday, almost two years after the sudden death of her beloved daughter, Jean (see blog entry about this from 2014), Joan

 Mangan died. What a life she had! And so blessed she was, to be given such a long life--and to pass from this earthly realm in the loving presence of her children. My heart breaks for this family; they have endured more than their share of pain, but they've maintained their sense of humor and loving hearts. To them, I dedicate this post,

I met Joan (pronounced Jo Ann) Mangan around 1987 when her daughter, Jean, began work at Rockford Public Library and later became one of my supervisors. We soon got to know what a lovely lady Jean’s mother was, and what a great bond Joan and Jean shared. Jean loved to tell us all the wonderful Mangan stories, with her dear mother (who was her best friend) shining always in the center. What a rare family--what a wonderful mother the Mangan siblings had! She had room in her heart to mother others, as well--many a time Joan dried my tears, over the phone, when I'd call to speak to Jean about some drama at work and Joan ended up with the call.  I'm so glad Joan got to go to Ireland with Jean--was it just once or more than once? Such memories to cherish. Later in Joan’s life, she and Jean shared a wonderful home together. I can hear their laughter as they are now reunited; I’ll tell you all, those two made me howl with mirth so many times! You see, they both thought that the baby names in the newspaper were hilarious. So, Joan would clip them out for Jean's delectation.  Jean would laugh until she cried and then deliver them to me at work. Our favorites were "Gassy," “Timmy Tinkletop,” “Clinton Renee,” and "Anastazia Earth Fire."  That's just one of the many ways in which I remember the fun and the joy that Joan radiated wherever she went. I thinks she was the purest soul I ever knew--she was a grand lady with the rare combination of a deep spirit and a true appreciation for silliness.  Truly, I felt a connection with Joan that went beyond ordinary.  Her sense of humor rarely faltered. Her empathy floored me.  Her sincerity, concern and caring must have had such a positive impact on others!   Her deep love for her children was evident in everything she said and did. Her dignity and grace when life dealt her tragedy and sorrow was unsurpassed; it came to be a great source of strength for me, as I am sure it was for her children and for all who knew her. And Joan had so many gifts to share with others! Did you all know what a beautiful singing voice she had? At the age of eighty-six, she absolutely blew my mind with her pure soprano. And I'll never forget the way she made me feel so at home in her presence--as if in her heart resided a home for all of the often-troubled souls whose trials and tribulations provided fodder for the countless "library stories" Jean would share around the dinner table.. I'm sure Joan laughed the most, but there was always respect and kindness toward the people who touched Joan's life in one way or another.  Joan was the heart, the muse, the grace note, the jewel of a remarkable family. All of you: Larry, Diane, Kevin, Eileen, Michael, Lori and Patrick, know that now your mother and your sister sit as angels upon each of your shoulders and will be with you always.  Ar dheis Dé go raibh tú, Joan.  Suaimhneas síoraí or. I love you, Joan.