The delight of apples and random things

A fitful sleep on Thursday night and a Friday that stretched for two too many hours. So after several draining meetings, with much relief and happiness, I went to see a friend who prepared me a wonderful dinner of Spaghetti alla Puttanesca (whore's spaghetti), flat white fish, and a side salad. I had two hearty helpings because I'd eaten like a mouse all day. (I only eat like a mouse when I don't like the food; in this case, the food was catered and of the overtly manufactured sort that makes me feel like I'm eating plastic.) For dessert, we had baked honeyed apples - I shoveled down two. We agreed that a day-long beleaguered condition transforms me into a ravenous, insatiable creature.

Thank heaven for the culinary skills and warm generosity of like-minded friends. For the large and little respites we receive. For a well-lit road home, a clean bed, good books, the love of friends and family, gentle conversation, a buckle that stays fastened, wine-drenched songs, dreams in a pie, and unexpected letters whose words nest in our minds.

Songs to end the day with -

Apple, by Dave Hosking
Been a long day, by Rosi Galan

Horses At Midnight Without A Moon

"Horses At Midnight Without A Moon" by Jack Gilbert

Our heart wanders lost in the dark woods.
Our dream wrestles in the castle of doubt.
But there's music in us. Hope is pushed down
but the angel flies up again taking us with her.
The summer mornings begin inch by inch
while we sleep, and walk with us later
as long-legged beauty through
the dirty streets. It is no surprise
that danger and suffering surround us.
What astonishes is the singing.
We know the horses are there in the dark
meadow because we can smell them,
can hear them breathing.
Our spirit persists like a man struggling
through the frozen valley
who suddenly smells flowers
and realizes the snow is melting
out of sight on top of the mountain,
knows that spring has begun.

It's been a little hard pulling myself together to write something. DSD and I had an exchange last month about how lazy we've become with our blogs. Perhaps a positive way to look at this would be to realize how busy we've been with...living. Since last year, our lives seem to have been moving in parallel; there've been too many similar experiences to mention, but in the past two months, we've been on brief but inspiring journeys abroad, accepted new jobs, and gotten a few parts of ourselves mangled. (But nothing is beyond repair.)

What is summer without journeys, without the dark and the inspiring? What is summer without the sea and the weight of the sun? DSD and I are very brown now, especially after spending Tuesday on Sentosa where she fell asleep on the sand and I stayed as long as I could in the water, staring at clouds and sky, ships and trees. I cut my foot on a rock but what of that? Little else marred the tender serenity of that morning.

There were visitors too, over the past month, like my favorite from Japan, Barney, (his second trip this year) who came for medical reasons but also to continue our adventures with Lara Croft in Southern Mexico and the Arctic. Between squabbles about who's the better motorcycle rider and bossing each other around to solve the endless puzzles, we also ate fish-n-chips and senbei snacks, looked at special jewelry for his significant other, talked over hot cups of tea about work and friends, brainstormed ideas for his secret project with Jon, and had dinner with some of my visiting friends from Michigan. Dear Barney listened to my tales of happiness and woe, responded with great sarcasm and affection, and reminded me how lucky I am to be who I am and where I am, though a year in Italy someday soon would be a splendid idea. I agreed fervently.

I hate it when he leaves; it takes getting used to. It was just as well I went to meet DSD on Sentosa after dropping him off at the airport. Soon, I will have to say goodbye to DSD too, who leaves for Hong Kong in a little over a month. Another absence I will have to adapt to.

That Tuesday we spent on the sand, DSD and I talked of our restless spirits. Wanderlust, a desire for life to be more than just ordinary. Horses, I said to her. We're horses whose thirst for life and light and landscape is too seldom slaked. We talked of things to look forward to, in spite of the things that hold us down. We talked of skin and sunburns, the human touch and lingering memories, connections between people and the dark yearnings of the soul and body. I fretted slightly about the cut on my foot; she traced the tan lines that crossed her back, hoping they'd disappear in time. I had my own lines, of course, which DSD pointed out to me, as well as the small hairs on my back - "high level of testosterone," she declared, and we laughed about what that implied.

Many of my closest friends live far away from me. For selfish reasons, I lament this. But I am glad for all the adventures they're having and the good lives they lead. They inspire me to better my own. Oh yes, I can hear the horses.

The Horses, by Rickie Lee Jones
On Saturday Afternoons In 1963, by Rickie Lee Jones

You've lost that lovin' feelin'

A bunch of guys - several of them were friends of mine - re-enacted this scene somewhere in Europe while we were on a school trip. It was very entertaining.

You've Lost that Lovin' Feelin, by The Righteous Brothers

Words from men and women about women and men

He loved the things about me that nobody noticed. ~ Jane Birkin

Monogamy? I can't wait. I don't practise it, because I haven't met the one I'd practise it with, but I believe in it absolutely. I'd join that club in a heartbeat. ~ Mickey Rourke

Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love. ~ Neil Gaiman

Everyone suffers humiliation, we all have our hearts broken, we all become orphans. Everything is stacked in men's favour, but still I wouldn't want to be one. It's more fun to be a woman - a more varied life - and the clothes are better. But then the flip side of "varied" is a life of constant interruption, which, of course, is the enemy of writing. Despite the inequalities that exist, I think educated people can play either way. I don't think it's harder to be a woman; these days I think what's hard is to be young. I'm so relieved that youth is behind me and all the heartache and anguish is reserved for my desk. ~ Isabel Fonesca (wife of Martin Amis)

I'd like to go for a man who is a grown-up. But there are not many of them. That's why I'm on my own. ~ Pattie Boyd

Goodbye, J.D.

I started watching "Scrubs" when I was in grad school, around 2005, a little later than when the series first began, but I'd like to think that it's never too late for anything (although I've been proven wrong a number of times). My buddy Noob had given me a bunch of downloads, and I remember breezing through three or four seasons over the summer and then watching subsequent seasons whenever I could, though the screwy streaming videos I watched in Singapore put an end to my regular viewings. Still, I've never forgotten the terrific music selection, J.D.'s weird and wonderful fantasies, his musings, the bro-love he shares with Turk ("chocolate bear"), the heartbreak he experiences, the hurt he causes, Colin Hay's songs, the great ensemble cast, especially the janitor, Perry, and Dr. Kelso. Every episode was a grand treat.

The show has finally ended (it goes on but without the usual cast, so to me, it might as well be the end), and though I haven't had the chance to play catch-up on the seasons I've missed, I couldn't resist reading about the finale. I kind of wish I didn't. Not that anything was spoiled for me, but the accompanying clip was so good, it made me want to purchase all the missing seasons from iTunes just so I could get to this last episode.

I watch another show - "How I Met Your Mother" - which I love as much as I do "Scrubs," and perhaps one of the reasons is the main character. Both J.D. and Ted are endearingly dreamy and hopeful. Haven't we all met someone like them once? Innocent and complex, young and also very old, greedy for but sometimes a little apprehensive of new experiences, frustratingly sensitive on all the wrong occasions, sometimes sunk with disappointment, but always emerging again to chase after clouds and dreams and shadows.

But back to "Scrubs." I like what Margaret Lyons of Entertainment Weekly has to say about J.D. after these eight seasons -

"But understanding and experiencing that suffering isn't the same thing as being defined by it: Is there anyone more resilient than J.D., who despite everything, still thinks this time, his fantasies could come true?"

"The book of love has music in it
In fact that's where music comes from...
The book of love is long and boring
And written very long ago
It's full of flowers and heart-shaped boxes
And things we're all too young to know."
~ from The Book of Love, by Peter Gabriel

Da Capo

I read this essay in the anthology The Best American Non-Required Reading 2008 a while back but it was Olduvai who recently pointed out the online version, which has accompanying videos. Soon after, I chanced upon a follow-up article (I love follow-ups and things that connect!); more on this later.

The main article features Joshua Bell playing his fiddle incognito - Joshua Bell! That alone had my attention. For the experiment, he plays plenty of Bach - Bell and Bach, a lethal combination for me. That aside, the novel idea of placing a virtuoso disguised as a busker in a subway station during peak hour makes the article a terrific example of creative journalism (it won the Pulitzer). It explores the perception of beauty and brilliance, the context for such perception, and priorities in modern life. Would people "stop and stare" at the violin player? How much would a virtuoso earn as a street musician? Would you have stopped? Even if it made you late for work?

But it's really the second piece that's truly inspiring. I cannot recommend the second article enough. Read it, and you'll marvel. You know how there seems to be some pattern in the world that we can't grasp, but sense is there? It's almost as if history has a sense of humor. Whatever it is, I'm very glad I get to witness it on such rare occasions.

Joshua Bell's playlist for L'Enfant Plaza:
Estrellita (Ponce), by Joshua Bell
Meditation From Thais (Massenet), by Joshua Bell
Ave Maria (Schubert), by Joshua Bell
Chaconne (Bach), by Hilary Hahn (my other favorite violinist)
Gavotte en Rondeau (Bach), by Hilary Hahn

All five pieces zipped up here.

Joshua Bell's thoughts on Bach's Chaconne, which he plays twice during his performance at L'Enfant Plaza.

"Bibo No Aozora" in the film, "Babel"

I realized only yesterday that the guy conducting the orchestra in Mariza's concert is Jaques Morelenbaum, who also produced and arranged the music for her album "Transparente." I know of Jaques Morelenbaum mainly because of his collaborations with a favorite film music composer of mine - Ryuichi Sakamoto. One of their most famous works is "Bibo No Aozora," which Gustavo Santaolalla (another wonderful film music composer - "21 Grams," "The Motorcycle Diaries," and "Brokeback Mountain") used in the film "Babel." Sakamoto wrote the piece years ago and recorded it with Jaques Morelenbaum on the cello and Yuichiro Gotoh on second cello.

I don't believe it's often a composer uses someone else's instrumental work in a film for which he scores but I love Santaolalla's selection of "Bibo No Aozora," which plays at the close of the film and leaves you weighted with both sadness and hope. The piano part is especially melodic, and the strings (two cellos in the studio version, a cello and a violin in the live performance) add a haunting counterpoint, and in one particular section is both beautiful and difficult. Its sudden turns make you uneasy, preventing you from relaxing and falling into a lull. Rather, it quickens the pulse with that strange harmony, deliberately jarring the listener and suggesting that every beautiful thing, even a piece of music, is not without complexity. Soon, even the piano's melody becomes equally strange and pointed. And then it ends - as all things must - whereupon you feel bereft of something unspeakably precious even though you remember how it bewildered you too.

Sadness and hope, these are what I heard in "Bibo No Aozora" and what I felt after seeing "Babel." Both are intertwined in the melody and harmony, as they are in the stories in the film. The world has become a global village, and the one the film shows us is harsh, often brutal. Despite the connectedness we're supposed to experience via technology and travel, tragedy, frustration, and anger remain.

Beneath the cover of advancements, we are still a mess, caught in a terribly human disarray of honesty (too little of it) and communication (seldom effective). And the random things that do connect us unexpectedly - like the bullet that demonstrates its alarming consequences in Morocco, Japan, the United States, and Mexico - reveal the terrible divisions among us, the result of politics, economics, class, and culture.

There's an overt but difficult beauty in the butterfly effect that the film explores, that is, the idea that everything in the world is inexplicably linked. In the case of humans, we may be linked but there's often friction whenever we bump up against each other because of our inability to communicate. This recalls the story in Genesis, Chapter XI (which probably explains the film's title as well), in which God grew angry because humans united to build a tower (The Tower of Babel) that might reach heaven, and as a result, he cast them to four corners of the earth and "confounded their language, that they may not understand each other's speech." Language barriers certainly prevent us from communicating easily. But then, two people could speak the same language and still fail to communicate effectively and honestly. Ironically, this inability is something that cuts across most cultures. We're all guilty of it. Too terrified, complacent, or plain unwilling to do so.

Where does hope lie then? Is there nothing else that we recognize as common between ourselves? Perhaps it's the universal emotions and realities that we experience - love, pain, loss, aspirations, dreams, imagination. And one more. The film doesn't address it, but it's well-known: music. Which is why this particular music selection for the ending of the film is so poignant (to me, anyway). "Bibo No Aozora" is composed by a Japanese man, recorded with a Brazilian and a fellow Japanese musician, and then selected by an Argentine composer for a film written and directed by Mexicans.

Bibo No Aozora/04, by Jaques Morelenbaum (cello), Ryuichi Sakamoto (piano), and Yuichiro Gotoh (cello)

Saudade no meu coração

A year or two ago, I wanted to learn Portuguese so I could go to Lisbon and listen to fadistas sing in dimly lit fado houses. (And to understand what they sing, of course.) Someday, maybe. For now, I'll satisfy my melancholic-music craving with my fado playlist.

I once wrote about fado, about Dulce Pontes, the only fado singer I knew at the time. Since then I've discovered Ana Moura and Mariza, and listened to a number of wonderful songs. But there are three I love best - "O Que Foi Que Aconteceu," "Garca Perdida," and "Chuva." All three songs strongly evoke saudade, a powerful emotion that can't easily be expressed in English. At best, the descriptions on the Internet suggest a form of tragic nostalgia, a deep yearning for something that's lost, something irretrievable.

I didn't think I could appreciate these songs more than I already did (short of mastering Portuguese or hearing them live), but I was wrong. I'd forgotten about Youtube. Over the weekend, an Amazon music critic wrote about fado and put up a video of Mariza singing "Chuva." I hit 'play', and was floored. I couldn't take my eyes off her. It seemed as if she had lived through and perfectly understood all the emotions pulsing within the song, and every expression on her face moved in tangent with each line, each word.

Chuva (live), by Mariza

Garca Perdida, by Dulce Pontes
I don't believe Dulce Pontes ever sang "Garca Perdida" live, but here's another singer, Maria Fernandes, who performs it wonderfully.

O Que Foi Que Aconteceu, by Ana Moura

Lyrics after the jump.

This is one of those days...

...when I feel like Yoshimi.

Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots Pt.1, by The Flaming Lips