Dear Dominik

Comedy

Really, I think it's impossible to live with someone for any significant length of time without their tastes rubbing off on you. Whether or not you agree, you become sensitized to what your partner (or roommate or child) likes and dislikes, and that colors your thinking.

Stand-up comedy was one of those things in my life with Dale. He hated jokes: he once told me that people who tell jokes do so instead of making conversation. He said they try to attract attention to themselves without allowing any input from others; they are bores who want to control the conversation. (Okay, he said it more colorfully. I'm translating.) And since my dad was a joke-teller, and certainly a bore, I was inclined to agree with the assessment.

I mean, Dale could make you laugh until you were mopping up tears with the bar towel (eewww), but he preferred to make wry observations about the people he was with and the situation he found himself in - or to tell hilarious (true) stories about "the shit that goes on." And he liked to have humor served back to him the same way, via snappy comeback or "You ain't gonna believe ..." anecdotes. SHORT ones.

So he never had much use for stand-up comedians - with the exception of Bob Hope, whose USO work canonized him as far as Dale was concerned. (And the occasional Johnny Carson monologue.) And really I've been perfectly happy without comedians in my life. It's not like I was feeling deprived, and waiting to indulge in comedy whenever he was absent, like you do sometimes. You know, "Hey, the old lady's gone, I'm gonna [whatever]!"

Anyway, eh. I watched an old Blue Collar Comedy Tour one night, and I kinda liked Bill Engvahl, but mostly I felt like it was a total waste of time. Just don't care enough.

And then ... and then ... Netflix started recommending stuff, including some comedian named Eddie Izzard. Wha? I don't watch comedians! I never rated a comedian! What on earth? But then the name came up again elsewhere, in some context that inclined me to pay attention - and I thought, okay, maybe I SHOULD check this out.

AND I AM BESOTTED.

I am playing every bit of Eddie Izzard I can find, on Netflix and YouTube, squeezing In partial viewings whenever I have ten minutes and need a lift. Thinking of him makes me smile. I hear business conversations in his voice. I catch myself mentally replaying his toaster routine when making toast, demonstrating his saw routine to the uninitiated, and, of course ...

... buying tickets to his gig in St. Louis in January. Imaginary Lisa - now an initiate - is going with me. We're hoping he'll be in drag, but I guess it really doesn't matter.

Ariel: your corruption of your aunt is complete. Thank you!

Library

Alyssa, age 8, has decided to start a library in her tiny community (pop. 323) (really). Her mom, Imaginary Lisa, has gotten permission to use the Community Center, and I am to design fliers to hand out to local businesses, asking for book donations. (I am also eager to divest myself of some books, so my support is wholehearted.)

Two evenings a week, Lisa and Alyssa plan to staff the budding library. I wonder if they've thought through how they're going to keep track of which books are checked out and returned; and I imagine they'll find excuses more and more often, as time goes by, to absent themselves from their self-imposed shifts.

But it's a cool idea, and I'm glad Lisa is helping Alyssa with it. The other day, Lisa said something about "finding volunteers to help me," and Alyssa stopped her.

"I'M the librarian," she insisted. "YOU'RE my assistant."

***

In other Alyssa news, she says she likes to hang out with Lisa and me, because "you don't care if people don't want you around."

We were momentarily stunned by this: it never occurred to Kay and Lisa that anyone wouldn't want us around! But, the main thing is, Alyssa likes to hang with us.

I do wonder what her adolescent rebellion will be like ... <frightened>

Football

There is a category of "things Dale didn't do, and I didn't do without him" - including live football games. I've never been to a professional football game - neither the St. Louis Football Cardinals nor the St. Louis Rams. Dale never thought it would be fun, to drive "all that way" and fight the crowds. He preferred staying home, where he controlled the TV and the beer was free. And I preferred to watch football with Dale: he taught me to appreciate it, and it wouldn't have been fun without him.

Today, I got free tickets to Sunday's football game, and here's the thing: the Rams (boo) are playing the Arizona Cardinals (boo hiss) with quarterback Kurt Warner (MANIACAL CHEERS). Apologies to the Quincy Symphony Orchestra: I really did mean to stay home Sunday and clean my house for the onslaught of Thanksgiving guests, but I GOT TICKETS TO SEE WARNER!

Yeah. In this house, we are WARNER fans. I understand this is not unusual for St. Louisans. Kurt Warner is a phenomenal quarterback, and when Martz stopped playing him and put Bulger in, the Rams stopped being any good. I used to love to watch Warner whip his head around in the pocket and fire off a shot to an impossible position - into which Bruce or Holt suddenly appeared, ball in the belly like it dropped from heaven.

So I'm going to my first-ever football game on Sunday, earplugs already packed in my purse; and my vintage outfit comes from the back of Dale's closet:

Taste

In the midst of an office move, I started hauling some of my treasures home – the Pan and Buddha figures, some cherished photographs. For one thing, I’m trying to turn my life – so long topsy-turvy – back to turvy-topsy. I LIVE at home. I WORK at the office. I don’t mind some overlap, but I’d like to know where the lines are that I’m coloring outside.

 

But I’m also moving stuff around at home, displaying things that Dale wouldn’t have cared for. An unmarried friend remarked that he’s always marveled at how people with such diverse tastes could manage to build a life together – not me and Dale specifically, but people in general. Well. <shrugs> There is compromise in living with another person.

 

***

 

Zadie Smith’s new collection of essays, Changing My Mind, arrived yesterday; and although I’m in the middle of a library book that has to be returned soon, I joyously abandoned the book in progress for the new addition to the permanent collection. And here is Zadie Smith, reviewing a book I’ve never heard of (Their Eyes Were Watching God):

 

The story of Janie’s progress through three marriages confronts the reader with the significant idea that the choice one makes between partners … stretches beyond romance. It is, in the end, the choice between values, possibilities, futures, hopes, arguments (shared concepts that fit the world as you experience it), languages (shared words that fit the world as you believe it to be), and lives. A world you share with Logan Killicks is evidently not the same world you would share with Vergible “Tea Cake” Woods. In these two discrete worlds you will not even think the same way …

The outward “tastes” that Dale and I shared (Pink Floyd) – or didn’t share (ABBA) – are just embellishments on who we are as people. The partnership itself was built on seeing the world similarly, with the same priorities. Our home was our hobby, our shared project; that’s why I feel like such a failure when I can’t fix things, but that’s beside the point.

 

To look at it another way: at my first grief support session, we talked about my symphony series at the Pulitzer, and something was said about me no longer having a partner to go with me. “Pssshh,” I said, “Dale never went to the symphony. So I got season tickets and went by myself, or took a friend.” The less experienced of the two counselors asked me, “Have you always been so independent?”

 

Uh. This question sort of rocked my world view. It never occurred to me NOT to be independent. That there are women who wouldn’t go to the symphony (or anywhere else) simply because their husbands wouldn’t go with them is … pretty creepy. But I mulled it over. “Well, yes,” I finally offered. “I mean, he was MARRIED when I met him. He wasn’t going to dictate what I could or couldn’t do!”

 

And he wasn’t the kind of person who would try to dictate that anyway. He would tell me, "You're a smart girl; make your own decision." So because of that partner choice in my life, I have had freedom and open doors and support and carte blanche to do as I pleased. What could be more precious?

 

***

 

Elsewhere in the essay, Smith offers the idea that “Tea Cake” might not have been the reader’s choice for our heroine, and that makes the romance even more compelling: because we don’t get to choose. Not in a novel, and not in real life. The partnership between two people is theirs, and it is stronger than the “independence” we try to pretend we have. Smith writes:

It is about the discovery of self in and through another. It implies that even the dark and terrible banality of racism can recede to a vanishing point when you understand, and are understood by, another human being.

That gets lost in a lot of fruitless searches for the perfect partner, because so many of us allow others to define “perfect.” I left Dale once because I was convinced his alcoholism made him a bad person. There are people who whisper, “But he cheated on his wife!” (Me, I don’t really believe in “cheating.” Your body is yours, and I don’t have the right to tell you what to do with it: what food to fuel it with, how to behave with it, or what sensory inputs you choose. I can’t even vilify poor John Edwards on those grounds.)

 

Conversely, I’m sure there are people who point at me and say, “She wouldn’t even keep him at home. She stuck him in a nursing home so she could keep up her own lifestyle.” Really, it all depends on how you look at it. I know what Dale did for me, and he knew what I did for him, and the puzzle that others make of it is just their incomplete view. Yes, we had different tastes. That SO doesn’t matter.

 

Anyway, I’m still attending symphony concerts, and I’ve been changing things around in the house. I’m told that redecorating is a typical response to grief; in this case, it’s because I have other facets of myself that I want to highlight now. It’s like realizing I don’t have to leave room on the vanity for “his stuff” – now there’s room on the walls and in the floorplan for more of “my stuff.”

 

The irony is, as I look at the result: I think Dale would have loved it. <smiles>

 

Chelsea Hotel #2

Leonard Cohen told this story in Kansas City:

"I wrote this song sitting in a Polynesian bar. I was drinking from a ceramic vessel shaped like a coconut; I was taking a break from the deeply authentic. And I was thinking about the '60s, which, contrary to popular belief, lasted for 15 minutes."

Don't you love the way he uses words?

"At the time I was thinking of, I was living in the Chelsea Hotel. I returned home one night after a pointless evening ..."

Eh, I can't do justice to the rest of it. He met a young woman in the elevator - she seemed to be constantly in the elevator - so he asked her if he could help her. "I'm looking for Kris Kristofferson," she told him. He replied, "You're in luck. *I* am Kris Kristofferson." She was surprised: "I thought you'd be taller."

And that was the setting for the song, "Chelsea Hotel #2." After that story, it seemed a much more cheerful song. I had always thought the last line - "I don't even think of you all that often" - was one of those protest-too-much lines like "I'm not in love" or "I ain't missing you at all." But now, it's more like - huh, maybe he really doesn't think of her that often. It was just one of those moments you remember when you're taking a break from the deeply authentic.

***

Today I watched the movie Leonard Cohen: I'm Your Man. R had tipped me off that he seems to be claiming he wrote the song "Chelsea Hotel #2" about Janis Joplin - startling, but apparently true. He says it was terribly ungallant of him; Janis wouldn't have cared, but his mother would.

And now I have to learn video editing, because I want this movie - but I want to cut out a lot of the performances. Nick Cave is great, even though he gives kind of a Lounge Lizard performance. Rufus Wainwright is fine. There's one other male singer I thought did a nice job, and right at the end I'm stunned by a female singer. Otherwise ... blecccchhh. Who ARE these people who can't sing? Was it some mad scheme cooked up by someone who didn't like Cohen's voice, to impose these dreadful performances on his worshipers? Who is this Antony character, and for god's sake WHY?

[Okay, I see from Wikipedia that he's under Lou Reed's wing. That probably explains a lot. Also, alas, the video of his ... performing ... "If It Be Your Will" is on YouTube. I do not recommend it. I have to watch/listen to the Webb Sisters about 22 more times to purge the memory.)

But, I love the interview snippets with Cohen, and then there's this totally odd piece wherein he does "Tower of Song" with Bono and The Edge, who have contributed their thoughts about Cohen here and there throughout the documentary. Very worthwhile movie, but don't stream it on Netflix; you need to be able to fast forward past some truly appalling performances.

***

After watching the movie, I decided to look up "Chelsea Hotel Janis Joplin" to see if I could find the original journalistic reference for which Cohen apologizes in this movie. I found this on Songfacts, and it kind of bummed me out that Ron Cornelius accuses Cohen of stealing the song. It gave me a different view of this person I've had on a pedestal. There is no reason on earth why I should believe Ron Cornelius - I've never even heard of Ron Cornelius - but just the fact that someone could view this icon differently ... well, it makes me aware that there could be other ways of looking at the man. Whether it's true or false or something in between, I guess ... there are more facets than what we've glimpsed through his music.

Although, as Bono says, we are humbled by the stuff he throws away.

***

So I've been a little bit gloomy today, partly because of this potentially different view of Cohen, but also (mostly) because of a respiratory infection that's taking over my head. I've had to cancel plans to attend a KGS concert and to spend some time with my niece, who was to return with me and join a company bowling party tomorrow.

However, I still have to go to the bowling party - with mask and rubber gloves - because I have created the coveted Fred Flintstone trophy! We are planning a contest for the best Fred Flintstone Bowling Impression. Here are the rules:

Competition to determine the best impression of Fred Flintstone’s bowling style. Sound effects will be provided. A panel of independent judges (i.e., whoever’s standing around) will score contestants on presentation, style, character and results. Winner will be awarded the coveted Flintstone Trophy. Sign up at the Registration desk or show up at the appropriate lane when the contest is announced.

 

And here is the trophy:

 

The Piper at the Gates of Dawn

Yes, and here's to the few who forgive what you do
And the fewer who don't even care
And the night comes on - it's very calm
I want to cross over, I want to go home
But you say, Go back, go back to the world
~ Leonard Cohen, "The Night Comes On"

To move from the magical to the mundane is painful.

In the classic children's book The Wind in the Willows, our main characters Mole and Water Rat - seeking a stray child of their friend Otter - are led by the sound of piping to the feet of the Horned One, helper and friend of all small forest creatures, where they find the sleeping child. But because the magic and power of the occasion would be too much for them to live with afterward, they are blessed with the gift of forgetting; the reeds at the river's edge sing and whisper, "Surely they shall forget," until Mole and Rat are able to return their thoughts to the physical world before them.

This appearance of Pan is the reason for the Pan statue that has graced my office and perplexed coworkers for some years. Well, and the randy old reprobate Pan of Jitterbug Perfume figures in, too. And neither of these characterizations is out of line in describing Leonard Cohen ...

The thing is, I am not ready to "go back to the world." The magic spell cast on me Saturday night lingered throughout the following day, but I couldn't find anyone to share it. "Everybody knows," I fumed (referring of course to a Cohen song), "but nobody cares."

But it turned out that somebody DID care. My son-outlaw Eel, who cares about music the same way his girlfriend and her mother care about music, had wanted to go to the concert, and was upset at the thought that Cohen might not pass this way again. ("Hey," I said, "he might be back in another 75 years.")

A little investigation revealed that his tour was wrapping up: Las Vegas Wednesday, San Jose Friday, and France in March. But he'd be in Kansas City on Monday night: There was this extremely tight, Apollo 13-type window for re-entry to the atmosphere. On Monday morning the three of us did the necessary rescheduling, hopped in the car and drove to Kansas City.

***

I wasn't going to write about this. It was to be a secret, because ... well, fiscal irresponsibility is my middle name, but I don't always have to publicize my less desirable qualities, do I? Eh. A mere bagatelle. This was so right in so many ways. There was the original intent - to allow R and me to share the experience with someone who cared. But there was also the matter of proving to myself that I can still be impetuous, spontaneous, light-hearted and footloose. Also a handful of things like generosity and preparedness to make me feel like a good person ... and, you know, I got to see and hear the piper again.

It was perfect. It was perfect. Fate smiled, and I am still smiling back.

Goodnight, my darling, I hope you're satisfied
The bed is kind of narrow, but my arms are open wide
And here's a man still working for your smile.

***

The audience has so much to do with the experience, which is why performers like to do live performances. The St. Louis audience was cheerful, enthusiastic, appreciative; and this group dynamic made the concert experience lively and fun. It's nothing like listening to Cohen alone, tapping into a spring of loneliness and longing and desperate hope. But the Kansas City audience took us to new heights of surprised amusement, as seemingly random lines were greeted with hoots and YEEEAAAAHHHs! I mean, for instance, he sang, "I'm just paying my rent every day" and this guy hollered. It was comical and refreshing. After "I'm Your Man," a group of women behind us screamed, "You're our man!" - which Cohen seemed to appreciate. And R tells me that people were singing along with "Hallelujah" - I missed that, because I was trying so hard to stifle my own outburst of song.

Anyway, this very funny audience (in a miserably cramped venue) seemed to infect the performers with an unserious, playful attitude. It was the same set we heard in St. Louis (except that one song I didn't know was replaced with another song I didn't know), and it was performed as flawlessley and as deadly beautifully, but there were smiles and an aura of relaxation and letting down of hair. But maybe my imagination runs away with me.

Eel suggested that the utter perfection of this concert - the flow of the music, the staging, the handoffs on solos and the tight harmonies - might be in part because it's a money-raising tour for Cohen's retirement. The point is, it WAS perfection - again. At intermission, Eel didn't say much - he was processing - but I saw his face, and he was awed. Afterward, he ranked this among his top five concerts of all time, with a disclaimer that it's kind of in a category by itself.

It was SO worth it.

I can't emphasize enough that this trip was about restoring my long-dormant impetuosity, as well as sharing the experience with someone who would understand. He understood, and we flew like leaves on the breeze, and sought out the magic one more time.

For surely they shall forget ...

But like a refugee

Every heart - every heart to love will come
But like a refugee.
~ Leonard Cohen, "Anthem"

Other than a very brief intermission, Leonard Cohen and his Unified Heart Touring Company performed for more than three hours: it was 11:15 when we struggled and we staggered down the snakes and up the ladders, to the exit. And while various numbers showcased the incredible talents of all the musicians, this 75-year-old man – who skipped, waltzed, knelt and prowled about the stage with the grace and limberness of someone half his age – sang every song but one. Sharon Robinson, co-composer and singer of Ten New Songs, sang “Boogie Street” solo … except that Cohen was visibly singing along with every word, unmiked.

 

Yeah, he can still sing. I think his voice has gotten even DEEPER, which is hard to imagine and astounding to hear. I swear he made my tummy rumble with some of the low-register vibrations. I actually prefer his old-man voice to the younger version: on early recordings he sounds too glib. The gravel provides a timbre of resignation and despair that gives an extra twist of the knife to his verbal thrusts. When I first heard him sing, “I was born with the gift of a golden voice,” I thought it was a bit of self-mockery, but not anymore. Not only are his vocal chords surprisingly agile and resonant, but his poetry itself is an eloquent voice. (That line got a hoot-and-holler cheer from the audience.)

 

The audience was very engaged, and very vocal. We greeted L. Cohen with a standing ovation at the start, and repeated it several times throughout the evening. “Woo hoos,” cheers and whistles were not uncommon. This was a celebration of Cohen’s music, not the lamentation I had feared; and although I tapped into that spiritual spring periodically – rapt and worshipful and deeply moved – the mood was very upbeat. Thanking us for the warm welcome, Cohen said, “I don’t know when we’ll pass this way again, but tonight we’re going to give you all we’ve got.” They did, and their enjoyment was infectious.

 

(The old man in front of us SANG ALOUD with the refrains on “Suzanne.” We were aghast, and I wish he hadn’t done it, but it just goes to show you how much the audience was into it.)

 

Hats

I didn’t get the memo that Hats Will Be Worn, but lots of people did. Mostly fedoras, with a few variations, in the audience. The whole band wore hats (except the drummer, now that I think about it), and it was mostly hard to see Cohen’s face under the shadow of his fedora.

 

From the souvenir program:

He’s bent before us, crouching, trying to squeeze out every ounce of blood, and he’s looking into the wings to summon a fury, a devotion, a power most of us would not have words for. An innocent in the audience might wonder what this courtly coyote is trying to sell us … Then she may notice that the singer is looking at the ground, as if admitting us to his private cell. He has no designs on us at all.

I was glad I had read this beforehand, so I was better prepared to see him on his knees, singing to Javier Mas’ guitar or to the footlights, head bowed, keeping his soul private even while opening it up to the world. Hiding behind hat and microphone.

 

Set List

I worked really hard at remembering the set list through the first half, and wrote it quite legibly on a scrap of paper at intermission. Second half did not work out so well – I scribbled over top of my own scribbling, and ran out of room when the THIRD half began … Yeah, the encores were an entire third set. Anyway, I’ve been able to decipher it all, and the set list is here. (Man. Now that I look at it, I hate it: it just doesn’t convey to you the thrill as each song began, the familiar chord changes washing over us, conjuring the ghosts of the heart.)

 

They did a number of fun things that made us laugh – not exactly comical, but light-hearted acknowledgment of the performer-audience relationship.

 

The Future: Bassist/musical director Roscoe Beck was spotlighted with a little two-step when Cohen sang, “And a white man dancing.” Then, right after “You see your woman hanging upside down,” the Webb Sisters (backup vocals) abandoned their hats and jackets to do a graceful double cartwheel into the wings. (Just before intermission, when Cohen introduced the band, he identified them as “backup vocals and gymnastics.”)

Ain’t No Cure for Love: “I even heard the angels declare it from above” … pause … and the three female vocalists did a heavenly arpeggio, before resolving the chorus.

Hallelujah: “I didn’t come all the way to St. Louis to fool ya.”

I’m Your Man: “And if you want another kind of love, I’ll wear an old man’s mask for you” (removing his hat and letting us see his face).

We had wondered beforehand whether he would have to recite, rather than sing (and that would have been fine). He didn’t HAVE to, but he did include some recitations that were chilling.

• There was a lead-in verse to “Anthem” that was unfamiliar to me, and made my eyes sting as it segued into “There is a crack, a crack in everything – that’s how the light gets in,” and thence to the musical arrangement.
• “A Thousand Kisses Deep” was a recitation of verses that do not appear on the musical recording, but are printed in Book of Longing. A sample:

But you don’t need to hear me now

And every word I speak

It counts against me anyhow

A thousand kisses deep.

And then there was “If It Be Your Will” – the fourth encore. Ay, ay, ay, ay … I have to set this up for you. We didn’t KNOW there were going to be six freakin’ encores, right? And we’d just heard “Famous Blue Raincoat,” the third encore, which seemed final – as final as the grave – when he signed off with “Sincerely, L. Cohen.” *choking up at the memory* But he took up the microphone again and recited the opening of “If It Be Your Will,” up to the point where he said, “If it be your will to let me sing …” (cascading cheers from audience)

 

That's when the Webb Sisters (backup vocals and gymnastics) took over, in vocal harmony, accompanied by harp. Please, watch this clip. If it be your will.

 

 

 

Defenseless

I wanted to live in the realm of the senses -
You've got to know how;
But for some kinds of pleasure there are no defenses,
I know it now.
    ~ Jackson Browne, "My Problem Is You," I'm Alive

We walked out of the movie theater in silence, avoiding one another's eyes, not trusting ourselves to speak. One of us may have croaked "Wanna get a beer?" - as innocuous a phrase as possible - but in my memory we agreed silently, with a glance, to stagger into the bar two doors down, where we clung to our mugs as if to lifelines.

Nineteen seventy-five: I had just seen One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest with my friend Jimmy Hoy. Luckily, Jimmy and I were just the right kind of friends: not close enough to have expectations, and not so distant that we had to work through the "Is this a romance?" question. No overtones, undertones or tritones whatsoever. We were friends, we were bored, and we thought we'd check out the movie currently playing. [In 1975 it was rare to have TWO screens in a theater, let alone a dozen or more.] We had no idea how powerful an experience it would be. We were both grateful that we didn't have to talk afterward.

Overwhelmed, stunned, disoriented, inarticulate ...

This is how I feel when I hear Leonard Cohen's songs and poetry. My senses are bombarded, my innermost thoughts and feelings and SELF exposed - pounded, punched, stabbed, torn and wrecked.

I made it to the forward deck - I blessed our remnant fleet -
And then consented to be wrecked
A thousand kisses deep.

***

I'm going to see/hear Leonard Cohen tomorrow night, if all goes well. I haven't talked about it and I haven't written about it because ... it's like talking about Cuckoo's Nest. I can't. I can't bear to have it trivialized, or to hear anyone scoff or sneer. "I hate James Taylor," said Thelma, and it hurt me. A colleague laughed when I said I wanted to go see Mark Knopfler, and I was bewildered. But those are bearable; remarks like that about Cohen wouldn't be. My skin just isn't thick enough. (Speaking of which, I've been diagnosed with psoriasis! Yippee! - which I understand is a thickening of the skin. So give me a couple of years.)

There are Cohen songs I can sing along with. There are hopeful songs, like "Anthem":

There is a crack, a crack in everything: that's how the light gets in.

There are songs that make me smile, darkly, because of the wry twist of irony he can't hide; and there are breathtaking lines that stun with their beauty:

But who is it climbs to your picture with a garland of freshly cut tears?

And then he comes along and clobbers you right in the heart. But there is no superficiality, no "I give it a three, it's got a good beat, I can dance to it" type music. If you can't risk your soul, don't listen.

And I'm going to go see him in person tomorrow night. I'm terrified. I mean, I managed to drive all the way to work this morning listening to Cohen, without tearing up ... it was the return trip that got me. *exhaling cautioiusly, checking for damage*

I wonder what the set list will be like. Will he wallow in the despair of "Closing Time"?

I miss you since our place got wrecked, and I just don't care what happens next:
Looks like freedom but it feels like death - it's something in between I guess.

Or will he concentrate more on the resigned acceptance that probably comes from his Buddhist studies?

All busy in the sunlight, the flecks did float and dance,
And I was tumbled up with them in formless circumstance.

What will I take away from this concert? Ultimately, I know, it depends on what I bring in: my mood, my attachments, my connections and assumptions. But, like Cuckoo's Nest, Leonard Cohen has the ability to blow ME right into a new dimension, leaving in this world only a stammering, awestruck, wrung-out rag.

We'll be goin' down so deep the river's gonna weep,
And the mountain's gonna shout "Amen!"

I'm scared.

I got lost today

Generally I love getting lost. I mean, eventually this road will come out onto something I recognize, right? And if it doesn't, I can just go back! *breezy wave of the hand*

Yeah. It's a little bit different when you're on a bicycle. My legs are going to be RUBBER tomorrow.

I mean, the concept is good: let's see where this comes out! That was EXACTLY my thinking when I whizzed* right past the known cutoff of the Watershed Bike Trail. It was 3 p.m., plenty of sunshine, and it's a bike trail! How lost can you get? You just follow the old railroad right-of-way until it meets up with something familiar!

*Here "whiz" means "to move rapidly," not "to urinate." Although that's a complication I hadn't thought about.

Drawback here is, you have to know the area for anything to be "familiar." And there's a further problem in that the old railroad right-of-way is bordered by deep ravines: no way to cut across to something more populous.

I crossed an overpass over a familiar highway, but there was no way down to it. Then the path took me across a godawful bridge over Cahokia Creek (I have this thing about bridges) - a REAL body of water, not the happy, burbling rivulets in the ravines.  Current objective: not to have to cross that bridge again.

ME: This has to come out onto a road sometime, right? I mean, people have to park their cars somewhere when they get ON this trail, right?

Right. There was a road. I didn't know what road it was, but I took it. It wound around but refused to give me any crossroads back over to the campus. Eventually it delivered me to a local landfill, where I asked a skinny old road worker how to get back over to New Poag Road. I heard a banjo picking out a ditty as he replied, "I have no idea," grinned and spit.

I gave up and turned tail. Cahokia Creek, here I come. Again. Between exhaustion, road construction, campus traffic and heavily graveled shoulders, it was a long ride back. But hey, the sun was still up and I didn't have to whiz.

Boys and girls, if you go exploring on your bike, just remember: do it at the BEGINNING of your ride, not when you're already tired.

another water issue

Really, life is all about water, isn't it?

The alarm on my septic system went off last night. Repair guy was just here: a new motor is needed. I could get the same (outdated) model for $545, or upgrade to the new model for $675. I'm going for the upgrade. If there's one system to keep running at all costs ...

To recap:

• For approx. $5,000 I had city water installed. I am delighted with the water pressure and have learned not to take showers - or dishwashing - for granted.
• After removing a mud-soaked carpet remnant and moving the stereo to higher ground, I paid $3,000 to have Woods Basement Systems install a system to keep the basement dry. The system has withstood the autumn floods - there is no water in the basement - and I am actually rearranging it into a livable area. The dehumidifier never runs.
• The condensate pump on the air conditioner never runs, either, but that's because I unplugged it. We had an extraordinarily mild summer, so not much air conditioner action, and I'm dumping water by hand.
• Roofers left a lot of sediment in the gutters, which wasn't getting flushed out. I removed the gutter guards and let the rain do its stuff. Just this weekend I re-installed the gutter guards to keep the water running smoothly.

So now, the septic motor, to process and purify the waste water. I need a quote from Lord Peter about the importance of the parish pump: pumping water seems to be the main issue of this house.