I'm interested in dischord right now.  Harmony is pretty and soothing but dull.  It is in the tension between unrelated opposites that truth, if not beauty, can be found.  But dischord is nearly impossible to appreciate.  It is harsh, grating, sometimes violent.  It is never comforting, always jarring, and impossible to ignore.  It challenges our notions of order, opening one door a crack for a peek into the madhouse, opening another door to a world of possibilities. 

 

I choose to do this because right now my life is in good order.  But during chaotic times of simmering anger, depression,  and daily recriminations this subject was too close to me, too scary.  I couldn't step back from dischord and see it for what it is.  I was enveloped by it.  A critical remark from my husband, an insult from my boss, a harsh word from a girlfriend would transport me to a desolate desert of hopelessness.  I was the common element in these frictions.  Therefore something must be wrong with me.    

 

Well girl, you are not the center of the universe.  Everything does not revolve around you.  Sometimes others have a bad day, sometimes couples fight over deeply held beliefs, sometimes friends just can't be friends anymore, sometimes people don't like you.  Dischord is as much a part of life as harmony.  We cannot grow without pain.  Wisdom and character are earned by confronting difficult truths.  Humankind is wonderful not because we are inherently good, but because we can be wicked and we choose not to be.   

 

At times like these I'll listen to the music of Boulez and Carter.  "Ewartung" by Shoenberg packs a visceral punch.  Senseless, disjointed films are the order of the day.  Fellini, Bunuel, and Bergman are the old masters.  Paul Thomas Anderson's "Magnolia" or anything by Jim Jarmush pushes the envelope.  I'll prowl the Museum of Contemporary Art and visit Frank Ghery's wild stainless steel bandshell in search of inspiration.  I want spicy Thai food and eclectic Mexican fare.  I want ideas, not dogma.  And I want to  celebrate the differences of Americans and the great gumbo that this country is in the process of becoming.     

 

I don't want anything staid, conservative, easy, or backward looking.  I don't want a comfortable compromized peace.  I want challenge and growth and if that brings dischord, so be it.  Harmony is wonderful, but everything has its season.   I need a little more chaos in my life.   

     

 

   

Now that Ashley is at camp, tomorrow brings my first of six one hour piano lessons.  I'm feeling more pressure to practice to justify my teacher's time.  I'm way beyond being scared of my piano teacher.  It's just that I want to be able to put my lesson time to good use.

 

I'm working on a piece by Mozart simply called "Andante."  I chose it not for any musical reason nor because I like Mozart.  I chose it because it's the only piece I could find in the key of A and I'm having a difficult time recognizing the notes A and E when I'm reading music.  I figured that this piece would force me to learn those notes since A and E (along with C#) are in the root chord of A.

 

I started studying music eight years ago because I wanted to experience what my daughter was going through as she learned piano.  I wanted to deal with the tedium of practice and the terror of recitals so that I could better coach her as she progressed musically.  I also wanted to get a grounding in music theory so that I could beter understand what I was hearing at our Chicago Symphony Subscription Concerts. 

 

I received so much more than I expected from my music instruction.  Now I understand the significance of a key change in a piece and I have a much better grasp of tempo, harmony, and melody.  I can actually hear the violas now and appreciate the role they play in the orchestra.  I get why Reggae sounds like Reggae, and know that the blues has a scale all its own.  Although I can't syncopate for the life of me, I know that jazz wouldn't be jazz without it.  My only regret is that the piano has no place in my second favorite music (next to classical)--bluegrass. 

 

And now I'm playing a composer whose concerts I dread to attend--Mozart.  I find his music to be too formalized, not romantic enough.  As with Bach and Haydn I find nothing thrilling to listen to in his music.  Oh but when I study the music of any of these composers, play it, and interpret it the music comes alive.  What intricacy, what beautiful harmonies, what brilliant counterpoint!  These are muslcal gems and they must be played with ones own hands to be appreciated.

 

When I purchased my baby grand piano I made sure that it fit my living room's decor just in case it turned out to be only an expensive piece of furniture.  I was fearful that when my children moved on the piano would fall into disuse.  I don't think there's any danger of that now. 

 

 

 

  

Youngest daughter Ashley is at music camp for the next six weeks and we're all mssing her already.  Her sister Mara called her this afternoon to check on her.  I think Mara is a little lonely without Ashley.  I'm on the Interlochen web site three times daily to see if there's a picture of Ashley.  Mike says he'll see her in two weeks, no big deal.  I interpret that as a man's way of saying he misses her.

 

I can't wait until two weeks from now when we'll see her.  Usually she wants to see us by then.  When we dropped her off we couldn't leave fast enough for her.  I think it had something to do with seeing her boyfriend from last summer.  He called her from the airport just after his plane landed.  We were driving to the camp and were about an hour away.  They had to make plans so they didn't miss one minute of togetherness.  And they were on the phone the night before until 3am!  I hope I wasn't that foolish in love when I was a girl, but I bet I was.

 

    

I read review of a new book by Steven Miller, entitled "Coversation: A History of a Declining Art."  Mr Miller's thesis is that electronic distractions, a lack of idle time, and a decline in love for language and the vulgurization of language have conspired to rob us of our ability to enjoy conversation for its own sake and to have eloquent and sublime conversations.

 

He writes that our politics have become so polarized that we avoid the topic of governance.  Talk radio gives the illusion of conversation, but is merely a grandstand for the host--and serves to further polarize the political climate. 

 

Work has become so all-encompassing that it leaves little time to develop other interests, and little patience for what some perceive as "chit chat."  But what is more boring than a discussion that centers on the minutia of work related problems or successes?  For these aren't universal topics of a give-and-take discussion, but personal stories that, as welcome as they may be, do not lead to further ideas.

 

According to British philosopher Michael Oakeshott, conversation should have a lack of purpose.  It "has no determined course, we do not ask what it is 'for.'"  It is "an unrehearsed intellectual adventure."  As with gambling, 'its significance lies neither in winning nor in losing, but in wagering." 

 

The best, most sublime conversations are those where the parties eschew a show of ego.  The give and take, the flow of the conversation from idea to idea is the thing.  It's a partnership, not a competition.  It is about synergy, not individual eloquence. 

 

To have great conversation we need the willingness to discuss ideas.  But willingness and ideas are in short supply in 21st century Amreica.  We need the ability to check our competitiveness and work for a common goal.  But 21st century Americans are taught from Kindergarten that competitiveness is what makes us great.

For great conversation we need to relish wordplay and the beauty of our language.  I fear for the future of conversation when I hear what passes for American English on the street.  Finally, a great conversation is free, it costs us nothing.  Lamentably, capitalist America devalues anything to which a pricetag cannot be attached.

 

 

I'm getting my first taste of summer camp season (the kids are away...) today.  Eldest daughter Mara is going to our church's (Unitarian Universalist) General Assembly in St. Louis today.  She'll be gone through the weekend.  We're thrilled becaused she ASKED to go.  No coersion at all on our part.  I hear that there are quite a few young people at GA and she expects to have a great time. 

 

The only reason we're not going with her is that we're taking Ashley to summer camp on Saturday.  She and her sister have been going to music camp at Interlochen, Michigan for the past four years.  It's an intensive camp, six weeks long.  Six days a week are spent in orchestra and chamber music rehersals and the campers play a concert of new material every weekend.  They're in bed at ten, up at six thirty, they clean their cabins, they wear uniforms.  It's a mother's dream.  It's also Ashley's dream.  She has made great friends from all over the United States and from other countries at camp  and she can''t wait to get back. 

 

I mean it when I say other countries.  Last year Mara had a stand partner from South Africa and there were kids from Europe, Asia, and South America in her orchestra, aptly titled "The World Youth Symphony Orchestra."  The Orchestra performed with soloists Mark O'Connor and Evelyn Glennie.  Their repertoire included Strauss' "Till Eulenspigel," " Sheherezade," and Franz Liszt's "Les Preludes," pieces usually played by professional orchestras.  Famous alums of Interlochen camp include Nora Jones, Josh Groban, and Jewel.  Nora Jones donned a uniform and visited her old cabin berore her concert two years ago.

 

The camp is in the woods, nestled between two lakes, just outside of Traverse City, Michigan.  The boys' camp is on one lake and the girls' on the other and the kids congregate on a large shady quadrangle beside the four thousand seat outdoor auditorium.  Although the Beginners and Intermediates face quite a few restrictions, the High Schoolers have free run of the place.  That's why Ashley was so thrilled that her cello audition tape was good enough to get her into High School Camp.  That and the fact that her summer boyfriend from last year's camp will be in the High School Division.  

 

Last year both Ashley and Mara went to Interlochen for six weeks.  We visited the girls every other weekend, usually staying in extremely rustic rental cabins in the woods.  From our cabin we could hear her sounds of music wafting through the air at all hours of the day.  Someone is always practicing.  One early morning I walked by the lake behind Kresge Auditorium and heard the haunting horn solo that opens Mahler's Fifth.  A student was alone on stage, shaping the piece for performance.  We bring our bikes and ride around the campus, we join our daughter at the cafeteria for some meals, attend concerts, and drink gin and tonics under the stars by our cabin.  We have our own summer camp experience. 

 

Mara will be a senior next year and will probably not return to camp at Interlochen.  Maybe Aspen in a couple years, we'll see.  Ashley wants to go to camp at least two more years.  That is unless she chooses to attend the Performing Arts High School at Interlochen for her Junior and Senior years.  When Ashley no longer goes to this musical paradise in the woods, I wonder who will miss it more, the girls or me?   

Move aside David Robertson, I have a new heartthrob.  He's not as cute as you, or as young.  In fact he's sort of owlish.  But he's intelligent and sensitive.  He loves poetry and literature.  And he has this wonderful voice.  I had only heard Garrison Keillor on the radio in the past, but now that I've seen him in person I have a new crush.  I'm so fourteen sometimes.

 

It's all my husband's fault.  Last Wednesday he took me to see the movie version of "A Prarie Home Companion."  We all enjoyed the film so much that as we left the theater we said that we should see the show live if it ever came to Chicago.  The next day Mike called me at the office.  He was listening to NPR and they were advertizing that "Prarie Home Companion" would be live from Ravinia in Highland Park (about 50 miles away) on Saturday.  He and Ashley were on line with the ticket office and three seats in row W, center had miraculously opened up.  Did I want to go?  Oh yes!  Oh God yes!

 

Two days later we were sitting twenty three rows from the stage in a packed pavillion.  Garrison (we're on a first name basis now--I am so fourteen) was warming up the audience pre show.  Wireless mike in hand, he wandered the aisles, talking in that beautiful voice and singing in his almost sort of on key voice.  He walked right by me when he went to the back of the auditorium.  When he went back to the stage I swear he looked right at me!  I was totally in crush!

 

The show began with the familiar NPR music and announcement.  The band began to play and Garrison began to sing the oh so familiar opening tune..."Hear that old piano..."  The stage was decorated with the familiar little white house and signs for Guys Shoes, Powdermilk Biscuits, and Duct Tape.  The show was going out LIVE to millions and I was there.  I got goosebumps. 

 

It was a typical PHC show.  Guy Noir, Dusty and Lefty, gospel music, News from Lake Woebegone.  What seemed strange was the relentless pacing of the show.  Silence is forbidden on the radio--dead air.  So unlike ordinary concerts where the performers (and audience) pause to regroup this show filled every second with music, talk, sound effects, something.  On the radio it's perfect.  Live, it's odd. 

 

We waited after the show so that I could see Garrison, but alas it wasn't to be.  For the time being I'll have to feed my crush by listening to Garrison's daily book comments and the weekly PHC broadcasts.  And by reading Garrison's books, book reviews in the New York Times, and Op Ed pieces in various newspapers.  On second thought, maybe I'm not so much pursuing my crush;  it looks like the ubiquitous Mr. Keillor is stalking me.       

Has anyone else noticed the dearth of posts being placed during the summertime?  It's as if the bloggers have all decided to take a vaction at the same time.  Or maybe fewer of us are spending fewer hours at work, where I suspect most blogging gets done. 

 

Summer has finally arrived in Chicagoland.  The temperature is in the nineties and my wardrobe is entirely sleevless tops, shorts, and sandals.  It's wonderful!  Today I'll spend the next few hours at the neighborhood pool.  The most difficult decision is which swimsuit to wear.

 

I love the sun and heat.  I love the feeling of the breeze on my bare skin.  My brain can go on vacation for awile.  Summertime is all about the sensations of the body.  Yes shaving every day is a hassle, pedicures are a pain, and waxing is worse.  But five minutes after I lie in a deck chair with the hot sun relaxing every pore of my skin and every muscle underneath, it's all worth it.  After a half hour of tanning my brain functions slow.  It's not that there is nothing to worry about, it's that I just can't be bothered.

 

Work...what's that?  Bills...manana!  That low tire on my car...it got me here, didn't it?  After an hour in the sun I become Imperturbalble Woman.  Nothing in the world can penetrate my aura of bonhomme as I lie in my sun-drenched Fortress of Solititude. 

 

That is until I go to the locker room to gingerly take off my latex super costume (no cape), carefully silding my suit over sun-reddened shoulders and legs.  A short shower later, I am in my skirt and sandals and sunglasses, a very red and sensitive and none-too-super Carol.   

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

I listened to Dennis' advice yesterday and took myself a mental health day.  I stayed home from work, neglected every single one of my household chores, did my nails, read, fixed dinner, and saw a movie with my husband and daughter.  It seems to have worked.  Today I'm refreshed, relaxed, and recharged.

 

We saw "A Prarie Home Companion."  It's a film adaptation directed by Robert Altman of the NPR radio show.  The cast is magnificent;  Woody Harrelson, Kevin Kline, Meryl Streep, Lindsey Lohan, and Garrison Keillor as himself.  The music is constant and is in turns folksy, cowboy, religious, and always spot on and delightful.  The sentiment is never too serious and frequently touching.  I cried at least five times, and that doesn't count the times I laughed until I cried.

 

In short, it was the perfect film for this frazzled soul.  There is something magical about sitting in a cool dark theater surrounded by family and strangers, alternately laughing and crying while being drawn deeper and deeper into the story.  No pressure to talk, no pressure to act, just two hours to sit and watch and listen.  It's a pure and total escape from everyday life, something I think I could use a lot more of.  

I am overjoyed that Monday is here!  I've just had one of those weekends that you just barely survive, and limp, battered, into the work week. 

 

Lately I've been very careful about overscheduling my weekends, even at the risk of offending friends by turning down parties.  But  there are obligations that must be fulfilled, no matter what.  Funerals, graduation parties, the boss's birthday party.  I had them all, coming on the tail of Friday's trip to Chicago.

 

The funeral was for my elderly aunt who had been sick for years.  It was not a terribly sad affair, but instead an opportunity for the family to reconnect while we reminiced about my Aunt Mary's life.  Everyone was involved--I baked cookies and sat with my mother most of Friday evening.  Husband Mike was a pallbearer and Mara played "Amazing Grace" at the funeral mass.

 

Mike and the girls left the wake early on Friday so that he could go to a birthday party for his boss.  I stayed at the wake and got to the party at about nine.  I'm tired just thinking about it.  Art museum, concert, wake and party all crammed into one hectic Friday, with a weekend that promised(?) to be just as busy.  No wonder I feel physically, mentally, and emotionally drained.

 

Saturday was the funeral and the post funeral dinner with the obligigatory socializing with the nearly total strangers with whom we chose to sit.  We could have taken the easy way out and sat with my parents, but Mike and I are both good with people so we rose to the challenge and joined my cousin's high school friends.  The conversation was a lively walk down a memory lane that we had never visited, and after 45 minutes I took a wrong turn at the High School and was tatally lost.  Mercifully, my kids begged to go soon after and we were home for a few hours merciful rest before Saturday's much enjoyed and afterward rued Guess Who, Jefferson Starship, Steppenwolf concert with daughter Ashley.

 

Sunday was just as hectic.  Argue with Mike over something stupid in the morning because we were both exhausted.  Go to a friend's daughter's graduation party in the afternoon.  Clean house in the evening.  No wonder I feel like I've been beat with a rubber hose.  No wonder my brain feels like one of the fried eggs in the "just say no" drug commercial.  Maybe the Institute for Sane Time Management should start a "just say no" campaign for women like me...the terminally overcommited. 

 

 

I am officially recitaled out.  May is always an intense month for music in my family, but this year my girls participated in at least ten performances in May and the first eight days of June.  Last night Ashley played the Sae-Saens Cello Concerto in recital.  Call me bised, but this proud mom thought she played beautifully.

 

So how do we reward our children for a month plus of dilligent contertizing?  We go to see the Chicago Symphony Orchestra.  This afternoon Daniel Barenboim will be conducting one of his last concerts with the CSO.  It incluses the Mozart Violin Concerto #4 played by my favorite violinist, Maxim Vengerov, and Stravinski's "The Rite of Spring" which my girls have never heard performed live.  Dad's at work today.  The girls will play.  This will be some serious mother-daughter music bonding.

 

But first we'll go to the Chicago Museum of Contemporary Art to see the Andy Warhol and Chris Ware exhibits and whatever other wierd and wonderful art that's on display at this quirky museum.  Then to Russian Tea Time for lunch.  I think that the only shopping time we'll have will be a half hour to run to Tower Records.  Unlike my daughters, I'm not yet comfortable at all with downloading music.

 

Family time is precious.  The girls are just out of school and Ashley leaves for a six week music camp at Interlochen, Michigan in two weeks.  Mara will be in college in a year.  I want and need to enjoy what time I have with my girls now.  And I think that the girls need and appreciate the interest that I show in them and their pursuits.  Modern Art, lunch, and "La Sacre" with my girls.  Priceless. 

 

 

I now know why people skydive.  It had always been unfathonable to me why one would leap from an airplane with nothing but a silk chute between themselves and death.   It's the adrenaline rush from fear.  It's the anxiety followed by heart pounding terror followed by waves of blissful relief.  Similar to the feelings I experienced before and during my piano recital on Sunday.

 

I arrived at the recital hall an hour before the start.  I wanted to try out the piano and to warm up, but honestly I was too nervous to stay home.  I played through "Cold, Cold Heart" once, noticing that the bench was a bit higher than mine and the piano's action was a little loose.  I then paced around the hall until the start--too much nervous energy.

 

I was fourth on the program.  The first performer was a seven year old boy who played "Mary Ann," a song I played as a beginner.  He was followed by a six year old who played "Twinkle Twinkle" on the violin and an eight year old girl who played something that I can't remember because I was obsessing over my nervousness.  I was so unfocused that my husband jabbed me with his elbow to shake me out of it.

 

I was up next.  I wore a flowing yellow and green sun dress and cute sandals, so at least I looked good.  As I sat down and prepared to play I was pleased to see that my hands were not shaking.  Good!  But my heart was pounding and my brain was racing and for the life of me I cound not locate the opening notes of "Cold Cold Heart."  I tenatively tried to start fout times before the fifth start took and I played seven measures--before I stopped dead.  I skipped to the next starting point, stopped again, and finally realized that none of this really mattered.  So I was a little embarassed.  So what.  This gave me the courage to play handfuls of semi non discordant notes that closely approximated the music on the page and to finish the song.

 

Having survived the worst, "Your Cheating Heart"  flowed well and easily.  My husband told me that people were tapping their feet and singing along.  My daughter said that my version sounded "really pro."  

 

What I remember most about the recital is the feeling of abject, total fear.  It was like being in a bad dream, but safe.  More like sitting through a horror movie.  My adrenaline was pumping, my senses were afire, and I was alive in the moment.  Utterly terrified, but thrillingly focused on only the task at hand.  My next recital will be in October.  I can't wait.