The Musical Chill

I've been reading Alex Ross' The Rest is Noise: Listening to the 20th Century, for the last week or so, and enjoying it very much. It's an engaging, well-written, well-researched survey of classical music and musicians of the 20th century, and it gives a lot of insight and perspective into a lot of thorny, forbidding music. Nobody, of course, composes in a vacuum, and everybody is coming from somewhere. I've been a pretty avid explorer of this stuff for a long time, and many of my favorite pieces of music are difficult works by fellows such as Ives, Bartok, Webern, Ligeti, Schoenberg, etc, though I will readily admit that Mozart and Beethoven have a stronger hold on my heart. I am not a scholar, and the structural logic of these works usually escapes me, and so it takes a lot of effort and repeated listenings to really get a hold on music of that density. But I enjoy it; I really do. And lately, in concert with my readings, I've been taking pieces and listening to them again, carefully, and getting a lot out of them, maybe more than I have in the past. Maybe it's just the slow process of my ears and my brain opening a little bit more every year, maybe it's the synergy between the music and my readings, maybe it's the slow accumulation of repeat hearings, maybe it's all of the above. For somebody who loves stories as I do, the perspective you get learning about the lives of the musicians and the genesis and development of the art is invaluable. And the stories mirror the stories of the century - Shostakovich's struggle with Stalinism, Strauss' conflicted complacency within Nazi Germany, Copland's populist front during the New Deal and WWII America, Schoenberg's revolutions at the dawn of the century. In case you're curious, some pieces I've revisited lately in this context: Schoenberg's String Trio, Berg's Lyric Suite, Shostakovich's 5th Symphony, Stravinsky's Les Noces and L'Histoire du Soldat, Ruggles Sun-Treader.

One thing that the author mentioned briefly in passing that has grabbed my attention is the subject of what he calls the musical chill, when you experience a physical tremor that runs down the spine and stands hair on end while listening to music. He references a scientist named Jaak Panskepp who has researched this phenomenon, trying to figure out what causes it, both in a physiological sense but also what kind of music starts it off. Here's a quote from Mr. Ross's excellent blog www.therestisnoise.com: "Panskepp says that music in which a solo instrument steps in front of a softer background is especially prone to cause this effect. He compares such moments to “the separation call of young animals, the primal cry of despair to signal caretakers to exhibit social care and attention.” I immediately thought of the Largo of Shostakovich’s Fifth Symphony, in which solo winds sing out plaintive motifs over a backdrop of tremolando strings. An entire nation is crying for its mother in the night." To test this out, yesterday I put this piece of music on my stereo and paid particular attention to the largo; it is a wonderful piece of music but I didn't experience the chill.

The musical chill has always fascinated me, and I have certainly experienced it many times. In a way it is an exagerrated demonstration of what is so mysterious and unexplainable about music, which is why it appeals to us at all. I know that theories abound, and I'm sure most of them have merit, but they all still seem light years from telling us why such an arcane art form that seems to have no practical contribution to our survival can take on such profound meaning and have such a deep emotional effect on so many people, to the point where we can experience a shivering moment almost akin to sexual release. This has gotten me thinking about what music causes this phenomenon in myself, and immediately two things spring immediately to mind: first, the passage in Mozart's Don Giovanni, presaged in the overture and then appearing with the Commendatore near the end, where the strings play the rustling, rising sequence of scales to accompany that ghostly, powerful presence. Second, the brassy apotheosis about two-thirds of the way through the first movement of Sibelius' second symphony. The thing that really amazes me about these examples is that they do it to me every time. I don't know if I've ever listened to either of those passages and not had a shiver run down my spine, as if the response has been etched in my DNA.

I'm going to keep thinking about this and try and remember other pieces of music that do this for me. And, actually, it's been spurring some other thoughts of how I might use this concept in some embrionic writing ideas I have, so if you can think of any pieces of music that produce this 'musical chill' on you, I'd love to hear about it, either in the comments or in an email to bckenney@hotmail.com. Fascinating stuff.

Eating and Reading

Last week I resolved to stop reading while eating. I had some kind of buried thought that it wouldn't be that easy to do, as it has been a lifelong habit of mine, but it's been much harder than I imagined.

Why do this at all? you might ask. No real reason beyond just trying to be more mindful in my daily life. I've done some basic mindfulness meditation here and there (of the vipassana tradition) and have found it to be very helpful, and have always wanted to use the practice a bit more in normal, habitual life outside of sitting down for a twenty-thirty minute session. And food and eating is very important to me, something I give a lot of thought and energy to.

One reason I thought it might not be too hard is that I often find myself, somewhat comically, struggling with my book, trying to keep it open with one hand while I try to eat with the other, putting it down a moment and losing my place, fumbling clumsily with my food, trying to saw through a piece of vegetable with a fork...it didn't seem like it would be hard to give that up. Plus, I would often realize that I'd been reading virtually the same paragraph the entire time, meanwhile barely noticing the food I was eating. I wasn't really aware of either the food I was eating or the book I was reading.

And I think it would be good to train myself not to obsessively keep my mind going with some sort of stimulation constantly. But there's the rub! It's agony. If I sit down to breakfast, alone, and I don't have a book at hand, my mind goes a little nutso. If I treat myself to a lunch out on my day off and forget to bring something to read, it seems like torture, and I feel naked. It's such a firmly ingrained habit that I've mostly forgotten about my resolution this last week, almost every time I sit down to eat, catching myself as I start cleaning up my dishes.

It's no big deal, I suppose, and thus far my lack of resolution has been mostly humorous, but I'm going to keep trying. Of course, my subconscious keeps bringing up one of my favorite little lessons I learned once, which goes something like this: At a meditation center, two students noticed that their teacher was sitting at breakfast and reading the paper. Remembering that he often instructed them "When eating, just eat! When reading, just read!", they went up to him and asked him why he was doing both at the same time. He looked at them and said "When eating and reading, just eat and read!" I suppose it's no surprise that I like that story, as it provides some justification for one of my favorite pastimes. But I think the deeper message is not to be dogmatic about these instructions, or anything else by extension, which is a very valuable lesson, I believe.

A palm-reading experience from my youth

When I was twenty-three years old, just a year out of college, I worked as a 'teacher/naturalist' for an overnight camp and school called Nature's Classroom northeast of Columbus, Ohio. Schools would come to our site and spend between three and five days doing all sorts of crunchy outdoor nature stuff: building rope bridges and shelters, hiking, learning about wild edibles and birds and turtles and the web of life.  There were always chaperones, teachers and parents who came along as well to help manage the kids.  

One time one of the parents told the staff that she was learning to read palms from a friend of hers and would like to practice on us if we were agreeable.  We were, though we were mostly skeptical, me included, though I'm sure we were polite enough not to be rude about it.  But I'm sure we were also all curious.  

The other day I was going through a few personal papers I had stashed away and came across a piece of paper where I had written down what I had been told during my reading.  I remember being quite surprised and impressed with what she had told me.  In fact, at the time I was almost unnerved.  There was nothing in it that was truly overwhelming, nothing where I thought 'there's no way she could possibly know that about me' or anything like that, but nonetheless I was startled at what she read in my character and person after having met me maybe five minutes before and taking a brief look at my hand.  Most of what she said was more in the nature of describing me and my personality than in making predictions of the future or advice, though there was a little bit of that.  I ultimately decided that she was simply a very perceptive person, and of course there are people like that in the world.  

In any case, I've never really let go of what she said that day, and I've never forgotten the experience.  But it was interesting to actually see what I scribbled down regarding the session right after I was done with it, and I'd like to share it now with you for your curiosity and amusement, with commentary from my current-day incarnation.

She told me that I was:

Very sensitive  [I think this is true, sometimes painfully so, especially to emotional conflict]

Very nurturing  [partly true, but I can also be very self-involved and selfish with my time]

Very idealistic [definitely true, though I am not quite the crusader I once was]

and a little bit clairvoyant [???  Doesn't everybody think they're a little clairvoyant?  We've all had moments when we know what somebody is about to say or are thinking the same things and think it's too much of a coincidence - still it was gratifying in some strange way to hear this stranger say it]

She told me that I would make a good father.  [For what it's worth, I think this is true, but it seems to be a very slow boat]

She said that I think very much, very often, in many different and unusual tangents. [This is also true, I think, sometimes distressingly so, as I can't quiet my mind or focus on what I want or need to, and am often kept awake from the restless cascade of thoughts]

My fate line is to find my center, who I am, as my life and soul line are linked.  [Not sure what this means, but if it means that I would spend a lot of time thinking about who I am, what I want from life, what things are important to me, without much in the way of productive results, spot on]

Regarding my Love line,  I was told very matter-of-factly that I was in love.  [And I very much was so at the time. I was amazed that she said this.  Now I think it must have been obvious in everything about me and how I carried myself at that time, and an easy call]

 I was also told that I would have an intense, very strong, compatible marriage, passionate and perfect, until death do us part, and that it would take much time and thought and decision before I got there.  [This of course, was a prediction, and has not come true yet, but if it does, the part about it taking a long time and being a sometimes difficult process is a grand slam]

She said that I prefer to be a worker to a leader.  [True: I am not comfortable in leadership roles.  However, I also very much dislike abandoning my freedom and self-will to anybody else, and can get surprising defensive when I am asked to do things that I am not comfortable doing.  Ideally, I like to work in small groups of creative equals, or alone on personal projects]

Power is not of much concern to me.  [Absolutely true.  Otherwise I'd be president]

That's all she said, or at least all I wrote down.  

Still not sure what to make of the whole thing after all these years (15 years ago!!!)

Have a great day!

Global warming - a moot point?

Okay, here's my rant of the moment. As a card-carrying member of the left-leaning environmental movement, I believe in global warming. I believe that it is happening. I believe that it will have a profound effect on the way of life of many, if not most, people around the globe. These will often be difficult, if not disastrous, changes. I believe that the practices of human beings over the last couple of hundred years have contributed to global warming. I also believe that the Earth has climate cycles of its own as well, and we are probably in one of those, and so I think global warming has many factors and variables which will be completely impossible to fully parse. I believe that trying to figure out who's to blame, us or the planet, is probably a pointless exercise.

Most likely, whoever's to blame, we are well into the cycle and would spend our time much better trying to figure out what actually is going to happen and how we can best deal with it. You may wonder if this means that I don't care about reducing our carbon emissions. In answer, I think reducing our carbon emissions and our use of oil is probably the most important thing we need to do right now. I just think that global warming is not the most important reason. Our planet is starting to run out of oil, and we need to start using less of it because eventually we will need to learn how to get by without using it at all. It would be well worth our while to try and figure this out now while we still have oil to fall back upon, than to consume the rest of it in great big gulps over the next few decades and then go cold turkey. Barring a miraculous technological development, that would mean catastrophe. And if we cut back now, the oil will be there for us longer.

Counting on a new energy technology coming through in the clutch is very risky, and I personally don't think it's going to happen, at least not on any level that will replace the type of growth our civilization has been capable of the last century because of our exploitation of cheap, abundant oil. I think that within five years we'll be paying three times as much as we are right now for oil. Than in itself would mean huge shock waves for every economy on Earth. And almost all of our potential other energy sources depend heavily on oil for their entire infrastructure, development and construction. We use fertilizers and pesticides derived from petroleum products in order to grow corn for bio-fuels.

We need to use less oil, to learn how to do things without it. This will mean a lowering of our standards of living as we currently understand them. But if we consciously choose to take these things upon us, thoughtfully and with good intentions, we may find silver linings here and there. I'm in the lucky position of living only three miles from where I work. However, until recently I have rarely walked or biked, choosing instead to drive, which takes less than fifteen minutes. But a month ago I started walking regularly. It takes me fifty minutes unless I really hustle. I listen to music or birdwatch or just think about things, and I get a decent piece of exercise. Sometimes I walk part of the way with friends I work with who don't own cars and have enjoyable conversations with them. I feel good when I get home and sleep better in the evening. Biking only takes about five minutes longer than driving, and is also good exercise.

I'm no saint, and I don't expect to walk every day, maybe not most days. But two or three days a week is something, and all in all, more enjoyable than being in my car. I'm glad I live somewhere that this is possible.

Okay, I'll stop now. I apologize for getting up on the soapbox and preaching, but I really think this is something we're all going to have to deal with, sooner than we think. Hopefully not sooner than I think, because I think it's coming soon.

John Adams and the Future of Civilizations

I've been reading David McCullough's biography John Adams, and I'm enjoying it very much.  Biographies are probably my favorite way to explore history.  I'm especially partial to biographies of musicians, but every once in a while I take the time to explore some of the larger trends and happenings that occur away from the piano.  And well-written biographies that put the person in context within their culture and the place that they lived give such a personal, visceral flavor to the historical or private events depicted.  Every person's life is a story, of course, with its own dramatic arc, of temptations and failures and success and change, and often much more exciting to me than more general or scholarly compendiums of events and issues.

Anyway, yesterday I was particularly struck by something that was going on in Adam's head during the 1776 meetings of the Continental Congress, when they were debating whether to declare independence or not and planning the flegdling war in New England and New York.  Adams was clearly a man inclined and capable of seeing the big picture, and he was very aware of the uniqueness of his and his fellow patriots' position, not so much as being swept up in the midst of war and revolution, but in being in the very rare circumstance of being given a chance to build their government from scratch.    McCullough quotes Adams as pointing out how many great thinkers of the past would have wished to live in "a period when a coincidence of circumstances without example has afforded to thirteen colonies at once an opportunity of beginning government anew from the foundation and building as they choose.  How few of the human race have ever had an opportunity of choosing a system of government for themselves and their children?  How few have ever had anything more of choice in government than in climate?"

And how few, even amongst thoughtful, intelligent people, would truly recognize the uncommon situation they were in?  It is clear, from McCullough's view at least, that very few really saw the longer view apart from their desire to break from tyranny and get on with their lives, but Adams was very aware of the potential, and the danger, that would be ushered in even with resounding victory.  All cynical views aside, I am finding myself grateful that our founding fathers had the foresight to think about these issues, deeply and convincingly, and to set up structures that protect me even to this day in a far from perfect world and government.  

Our last century has had its share of trials and times when it seemed the trajectory of civilization rested delicately on a wobbling fulcrum, mostly stemming from the synergistic combination of advancing technology and social philosophy.  It seemed that every generation had its own world-shaking battles.  It is frightening to realize that they are not over and that technology has not slowed down, and that our lives, our governments and our planet are at considerable risk.  We are again living, I think, in a crucial time, but it is also a much bigger world.  How many of us can truly say we are there at the balance point, like John Adams was, recognize it and have the vision to act accordingly and honorably?  Or maybe that's not the point at all; certainly even in the much smaller world of the thirteen colonies there would have been no revolution were it not for the anger and vocal support of a large portion of the population.  Or maybe the biggest battles will not be on the political front, but in the millions of little decisions we all make trying to make the world a better place.  Maybe that was always the driving force behind political will, anyway, the little things that made Adams into the person of strength, honesty and foresight that he seemed to be.  The non-political grassroots of education, family and compassion.  

Or maybe I'm just trying to find a place for myself, feeling somewhat powerless within the machinations of world politics and giant elections.  When threatened with global climate change, loss of natural resources (including what I think is our biggest long-term challenge, looming shortages of oil), international war, terrorism, over-population, loss of traditional skills and knowledge, expanding class tensions, concentration of power and resources in a few corporations and powerful people...

Now I'm ranting.  And sometimes frightened!  But not hopelessly discouraged, while there's still a place for us to drag a guitar over to a friend's house to share music and a meal together and to think about others compassionately and thoughtfully.  And then to go on and do our part, whatever that may be.

A Taste of Briar

Words can be such magical things, so strangely compelling and beautiful, subversive, manipulative, entrancing, and of course practical and descriptive as well. And so many other things. I think all of us are probably more affected and influenced by the words we encounter than we fully realize, even those of us like myself who are admittedly very verbal people. Sometimes I notice it happening; many more times, I'm sure, the affect that a certain string of words pulls out of me flies well below the radar, pushing me and directing me in any number of ways.

Today, I was doing a spot of shopping before work, as I'm leaving this afternoon for a weekend ski trip and wanted to be able to get an early start and not get mired at the market later on. As St. Patrick's Day is coming up, my friends and I had decided to make an Irish lamb stew Saturday evening. I dropped into the wine store and asked the clerk there if he could help me pick a nice wine to match a simple lamb stew. First he suggested a Napa Cabernet, describing it, I think, as ripe and juicy and a good value. Then he went on to a French Cotes Du Rhone, calling it "a little feistier, tart, with a tast of briars". He went on to show another couple of bottles but I was already sold, and barely paid attention to his further suggestions. Walking out of the store I realized what captured me was his use of the word "briar".

Now I have no idea how that word would translate into the taste of wine, or indeed if it would translate into something that I would even appreciate as a flavor, but it's a favorite word of mine, mixing folklore and nature and personal experience and symbolism (thorns, flower, love) into such a heady brew that I couldn't get it out of my mind. Vistas of castles hidden by brambles and thorns, memories of wading through wild rose looking for nesting birds; any number of connections and images arose from the use of this simple word. And I don't doubt that it will somehow affect the way I perceive the quality and taste of the wine when we finally get around to opening it.

Anyway, I just thought it was interesting.

Happy Saint Patrick's Day!

-Brian

ps The picture, by the way, is "The Legend of the Briar Rose", by Sir Edmund Burne-Jones, 1870-90, that I culled from the internet. It appears to me that in the upper right hand corner of the painting Darth Vader is walking around in the briar patch.

Braised Endives

Chicories! I love them. Endive, radicchio, frisee, escarole, I've really learned to enjoy these crunchy greens (or purples or creamy whites) with the bitter bite. As I've been trying to keep my diet closer to some kind of 'seasonal' ideal, I've been eating these guys a lot lately, as many of them come into their own during the colder months. I love salads, and they are often the only real salad greens that are in season this time of year without greenhouses or long routes of transportation (of course, I'm not really talking about New England; nothing's in season here anymore).

I enjoy them raw, in salads, where they stand up well to strong, acidic dressings with lots of citrus or vinegar and the sharp flavors of blue cheese. But I especially love them browned and braised, which is the perfect way to cut the bitterness and open up their flavor to their wonderful, smoky, mysterious potential. The best vegetable for this, in my opinion, is endive. Here is my perfected, scrumptious recipe for braised endive.

Heat your oven to 425 degrees. Melt a bit of butter and olive oil in a black-iron pan over medium-high heat. Cut the endive in half, length-wise. When the butter is frothing and just beginning to turn darker, put the endive halves in cut side down, and sprinkle generously with salt and freshly ground pepper. Once the endives have browned nicely to a rich, crusty hue, pour some stock in the pan, enough to cover the bottom and come up the sides of the endive just a bit, a half-centimeter or so. Cover the pan with foil and throw it in the oven for a half-hour to an hour or so, until the vegetables are soft and melting. The endives will have absorbed most of the stock. Remove from the oven and place on a plate, cut side up or down as you see fit (both sides are attractive, in my opinion).

You could just eat them now and they would be very good indeed. But to get to the next level, throw another small pat of butter in the pan and a nice squirt of lemon juice (not too much lemon, it is easy to overwhelm the more delicate flavors of the braising), and scrape up all the browned juices with the lemon and butter and drizzle this sauce on the finished endives. Finished!

This basic formula works very well with many other vegetables, with minor alterations for cooking time and absorbtion, etc. For a perfect mid-winter's meal, match these with a simple pasta, spaghetti or an egg noodle tagliatelle, of softened butter, grated parmesan and lots of coarsely ground black pepper.

-Brian

What the Heck Have I been doing with myself?

Those of you who know me, (and I think that very few people are reading this who don't know me personally), understand that I have a number of hobbies that I dabble in, and that I tend to fall into one or two for a time, then burn out a bit and turn to something else, then fall out of that and back to the other, or to something new for a time, eventually getting a little bored or antsy and on and on... It's something I kind of both like and dislike about myself, sometimes fighting against it, sometimes just letting myself drift with my fancies. I like exploring many different interests, but I also regret not accomplishing more by really devoting myself to one (or even just two or three!). I'm in the midst of a somewhat successful campaign to rectify this with some consistent efforts at writing fiction over the last three years, but even there I've had long down periods, uninspired, unmotivated, or just occupied with other things. Birding, cooking, music are other wide-ranging hobbies that I spend time jumping around in.

Currently, I'm absorbed in music-making. I just bought a new guitar, and have been trying to put together a set of favorite songs, sort of, with the chords and words memorized and an enjoyable performance worked out so that I can have fun with it, by myself or with singalongs, etc. A few choice Beatles numbers, of course, with Bob Dylan, Townes Van Zandt, Lucinda Williams, Roy Orbison, Beach Boys, The Band, etc in there as well. I'm also trying to learn some fingerstyle guitar, a hard boat to row for me. The ring finger on my right hand is incredibly weak and uncoordinated, but I'm trying to stick with it for now, as I see it slowly coming along (practice really does work, if you stick with it). If I could someday just work myself up to a few of the gentler John Fahey pieces (like Sligo River Blues) I would be ecstatic, though a smooth performance of Freight Train would make me happy right now.

I'm also falling again into a semi-obsessive exploration of Irish music, after not paying too much attention to it since the summer. There is really a lot of exciting music out there. Some favorites: The early Chieftains, for their gentle vibe and eerie echoes of ancient Ireland; Planxty, for their diverse, creative arrangements and virtuosic playing; Liz Carroll for the utterly infectious joy of her playing; Tommy Peoples, for his rustic, dense and uniquely percussive style; Paul Brady, for his spine-tingling voice... I've been learning a few new tunes as well, and have finally started to get the feel of jigs, I think. My favorite tune at the moment is a jig called Old Hag You Have Killed Me, which I've learned off of the Bothy Band's second album (titled Old Hag You Have Killed Me). I think I like the names of the tunes as much as the tunes themselves - The Banshee, the Rakes of Kildare, the Monahan Twig, Jennie's Welcome to Charlie, The Maid Behind the Bar, Junior Crehan's Favorite, Merrily Kissed the Quaker - so humorous, absurd or prosaic, simple, evocative, a symbolic little slice of life. I'm trying to motivate myself to start going to a few sessions here and there, which I know I would enjoy, but I'm just such a homebody.

I've also been going through some tutorials for GarageBand with my new MacBook, and hope to do some recording again soon, after not doing any for five or six years. Maybe even do some writing again (music, that is), though I'll probably start by just exploring a few favorite tunes (and maybe a song or two). I have a hankering to record Roy Orbison's Blue Bayou, for some reason, as if I could ever hope to even be a distant shadow of his voice (or Linda Ronstadt's, whose version of that song for the Muppet Show is an all-time favorite for me).

Writing-wise, I'm working on a short-story, a ghost-story of sorts, about a boy who encounters a barn owl in an old abandoned house, and is followed by it and begins to suspect... well it's a work in progress I guess.

Back to school, now...sorry for the rambling, self-involved post. What else are blogs for?

Love,
Brian

Some photos to share, new guitar and painting.

This is just a quick upload of some pictures.  One is a painting of my sister Esme done a few years ago by my then-roomate Matt Weinberg, who is quite a talented painter.  He has a knack for telling stories with his paintings and drawings, even within straightforward portraits and landscapes.  This was painted from a photograph.

The other pictures are of my new guitar, which I just got today.  Some of you may know that I was considering getting a new guitar.  There wasn't any problem with my old guitar, really, but I was looking for something smaller and a little easier to play, as my Martin J-40 was a big, loud guitar with a stiff action.  But a wonderful guitar nonetheless with a great, ringing bottom end, almost a piano-like sound.  For those interested, this is a Huss and Dalton CM Model guitar, made in Staunton, Virginia.  It's a 12 fret model (the body is built out to the twelfth fret instead of the more standard 14th) with a short scale length, and somewhere in between a 00 and dreadnaught depth.  Adirondack spruce top and Indian rosewood sides and back.  It's got a nicely balanced tone, quite crisp and punchy; I like it a lot, and it's definitely easier to play.  I've lost some of my finger strength now that I play more violin than guitar, and I wanted something a bit quieter for my voice, which is not very strong and had a hard time competing with the J-40.   Not too expensive either, especially given that I was trading in something of more or less equivalent value.  Anyway, it's a lot of fun.  Now I have to get out my violin and practice for my quartet rehearsal this evening.

Pictures of my apartment and New England day of weather

A corner of my cluttered kitchen; assorted cereals, herbs and aloe, chili pepper poster and paella pan.
My bed and bookshelves, with musical print and assorted gurus (Edgar the raven puppet, Spencer the bear, and buddha bear).
My computer station in my bedroom, with chinese moon guitar up in the corner.
My bedroom dresser (exciting!) with a nice print of the "Arkansas Traveler" above it.
A corner of my living room, with a painting of my sister Esme and a chinese print of some ducks from the Ho Toy Noodle Company calendar.
Another view of my living room, with plants and entertainment central.
This is a view of my living room, with my new couch front and center, and two nice pieces of fabric with chickens stitched into them.  I think they come from Thailand.

Today is one of those days that literally reflects that old New England aphorism (which is also applied to many other places as well) that goes something like "If you don't like the weather, wait ten minutes".  I woke up this morning to a beautiful day, if still soggy from last night's snow.  I took advantage of the nice weather to move a couch, and as soon as I finished getting it up into my apartment it started to rain.  Then it stopped, and the sun came out.  Out I went to do some more chores.  Pulling into the library the skies started turning a roiling gray and as I approached the library doors there was a crack of lightning and a loud roar of thunder that rumbled on for nearly half a minute.  By the time I reached the second floor (maybe a minute later) there was a thick, blowing snow, almost a blizzard, obscuring the streets and the skies.  I watched it for a few minutes and then went to get my books and my movies.  As I was leaving, the snow had stopped and it was starting to brighten.  Leaving the supermarket a half-hour later it was sunny and still, and I thought maybe I would put on my cold-weather action suit and go for a run.  By the time I got home it was raining again.  Now, an hour later, it is snowing lightly but blowing something fierce, pulling leaves from the trees and sending the house sparrows for shelter in the eaves and gutters.  But wait, now it has stopped and just a light breeze tugs at the tips of the trees, I kid you not.  

Regarding the pictures, I know they're not the most exciting, but my dad wanted to see what my apartment looks like and what I've done with some of the fabrics and prints he and Lisa sent me in the fall.  I'm happy to post them, though; I'm really enjoying my apartment right now. I did a major clean and straighten last weekend, and have been rearranging some furniture and artwork.  It's a pleasant, roomy place, though a little drafty in winter and swarming with bats in the summer.  Enjoy!!!  

What I've Been Listening To

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I thought maybe I'd try to fill some space on my blog by writing about some music I've been listening to lately. I don't feel too inspired right now to write about much else that might be going on in my personal life. Suffice it to say that I've been doing a bit of birding, some writing, and playing a spot of music here or there, along with eating a hearty pan of roasted root vegetables that I cooked up the other evening.

In that traditional folk world, the dominant genre of my attention the last few weeks, one particular album comes to mind. With some assistance (I won't name names) I was able to find a download of a long out of print album from the late '70's from Irish instrumental and singing wizards Andy Irvine and Paul Brady. The opening track is a stunner called "The Plains of Kildare", a rousing narrative about a racing pony named Stewball sung by Andy Irvine in his lively tenor voice. The instrumental arrangement, though, is the real star, constantly turning about with unexpected harmonic voicings, tempo changes, converging and diverging lines of guitar, mandolin and fiddle, and exciting stop/start rhythmic figures. The instrumental break near the end through into the final entry of the vocals is incredibly exciting. The next standout track is Paul Brady's version of "Arthur MacBride", a traditional Irish ballad that I'd previously known only from the first Planxty album. Planxty's version is livelier and more humorous, possibly more fitting with what I see to be the essential comedy of the lyric, but Brady brings his incredible voice and a ghostly, shimmering solo guitar accompaniment to his version that makes it simply a spellbinding, beautiful piece of music, complete with shivers down your spine and echoes of ancient Irish troubadours. The rest of the album is very worthwhile as well, and as luck would have it it has just been relreleased in a legal, commericial format with probably much better sound quality than the copy I have, which I may well replace with this legally-purchased version.

Of the little bit of rock and roll that I've been hearing, aside from my endless repetitions of the Beatles, I've been enjoying Joe Strummer's last album with the Mescalero's, Streetcore. It opens with a song called "Coma Girl", a rousing rock and roll number, exciting and well-crafted, that mixes driving guitars with interludes of ska beats and clever vocal harmonies. The track, and the album as a whole, lacks the anarchic noise of the Clash at their best (and worse), but that's not a criticism; this is a mature, assured album that keeps turning up surprises as I give it repeated listens. Joe Strummer was also just about the only artist out there that I would truly trust doing a cover of Bob Marley's "Redemption Song", which he does here in a simple, convincing and direct version.

That's all I'll mention for now. (The picture, by the way, is of Andy Irvine playing a bazouki).

Family Travels

I've got too much to do today to write here, but I thought I'd post some pictures from my recent sojourns to Cincinnati and Whidbey Island.  This was family visit time, though I'm sorry to say I didn't see everybody I would have liked to (my apologies, Beth, Peg, Dave) and didn't bring a camera on some trips (sorry Brad, Jim and Sue), but here are some representative shots of myself, my mom and Terry, my Dad and Lisa, Esme, Franny, Gabby, Sonja and Nick, and one unnamed Peregrine Falcon.  I haven't figured out yet to label individual pictures with their own comments on blogspot.  Of course, I haven't really tried to figure it out.

Cincinnati Birds

I'm on vacation now in Cincinnati, visiting with my folks and my sister Esme.  I tend to spend a lot of down time when visiting with family, reading and eating and chatting and strumming a guitar or two, maybe a movie as well.  I have gotten out once or twice, however; once to the Newport Aquarium where the highlight was a Pacific Giant Octopus.  These are truly amazing creatures, and no words could do them justice.  I hope someday I can see one in the wild. There is a great sequence in the book Island of the Blue Dolphins where the girl has a long battle of wills with an octopus in the shallows and tidepools of her island (one of the channel islands of California).  

There was also a requisite trip for Cincinnati Chili, and this year instead of Skyline we made the trek to Camp Washington Chili.  The basic template was the same, but the sauce was just a tad spicier and richer, I think, and the little oyster crackers were smaller (but of course you could have as many as you want).  Frank's Hot Sauce at the tables.  Now I can go a couple more months without cravings for this distinctive american treat.  

I've also discovered a very productive spot to go birding, a newish park called Armleder Park, along the west bank of the Little Miami River just a bit above its confluence with the Ohio. Near Lunken Airport.  It's a mix of recreational fields, dog park, bike trail, riverbank and fields managed for wildlife and nesting birds.  I discovered the website www.cincinnatibirds.com which has a log of local sightings and noticed that short-eared owls were dependably seen there.  These are amongst my favorite birds (as are most owls, and I am not alone in this) and so I made sure to make it down there.  I've gone twice now, and both times were very enjoyable and productive, with the focus on raptors.  5 species - short-eared owl, red-tailed hawk, american kestrel, northern harrier, and cooper's hawk.  In particular, the owls and harriers provided considerable drama.  The first day, we watched the owl snag a nice vole or mouse only to have the harrier attack and snatch the prize away in mid-air.  Today, the harrier was cruising along and suddenly dove into the grasses, rousting an owl into the air.  The owl was then mobbed by a large group of crows, twenty or so, for several minutes as the owl flew higher and higher in tight circles.  Finally the crows drifted away, one by one, and the owl stayed up in the air at considerable height for some time before descending.  I was thinking about how I'd never really heard of or seen owls fly so high in the air, and then I was wondering if the crows are likely to abandon their attack as the owl goes higher and higher, or what exactly was going on...mobbing behavior is so interesting and mysterious.  

Anyway, a great show (and apparently quite dependable) for such a smallish park on the outskirts of Cincinnati.  If only I could find the fox sparrows, merlin and red-headed woodpecker at Spring Grove Cemetery.  Next week, on to Whidbey Island in Puget Sound.  More birds await, as well as my two nieces, Gabriella and Sonja.  

Hawks, Shrikes, and Razorbills, Oh My!

These are pictures of a Rough-legged hawk and a razorbill. The hawk is one of three 'winter specialties' of Plum Island. The other two are the Northern Shrike and the Snowy Owl (I will discuss the razorbill later). All three of these are uncommon or rare winter visitors around here, but found dependably and regularly on Plum Island. By the way, I did not take these pictures, I wish I had. I did try to take a picture of a rough-legged this morning, with my phone camera through my spotting scope, but that was quite the exercise in futility.

I was lucky enough to catch all three winter specialties this morning, in droves. Three shrikes, two snowy owls - well, probably the same one in two different spots - and at least four Rough-legged hawks. I went out with a group outing sponsored by the Brookline Bird Club. As I've said before a lot of good eyes can make for some great birding.

Despite our luck with the shrike, owl and hawk, the highlight was certainly the seawatch at the north end of the refuge. It was calm this morning, with very little wind. The water was still, not as glass, but a gentle, even ripple that spread out to the horizon. Landward the sky was overcast but over the sea it was bright with warm, yellow highlights bordering the low clouds.

The must have been a lot, I mean a lot, of fish in the water. As we walked over the last dune we could see large, roiling masses of gulls and seabirds spread here and there, and other scattered individuals or small groups everywhere else. Best of all, for me, was the presence of probably one - one hundred and fifty razorbills, a stout black-and-white diving bird with a highly distinctive thick, curved wedge of a beak. I've only seen these before either on the far horizon (where I can barely make a reliable identification) or a very quick flyby. These were actively foraging in tight groups, pretty close to shore (one hundred yards?) where I could easily make out their markings and the shape of their bill. They swam and dove right amids big groups of gulls and red-breasted mergansers, usually moving in a thick line, steadily moving forward until they found an exceptionally rich spot. Neat birds. Also scattered around were Common Loons, Red-necked Loons, Horned Grebes, Red-necked Grebes, White-winged scoters, Black Scoters...I watched one Horned grebe just a few yards out from shore wrestling with a long, thin, silver fish.

Other highlights? Nothing in particular. Eventually, I got cold and hungry. Time marches on. Several others remained to continue prowling the marsh, thickets and beaches. I know I've said this before, but the range of devotion and fanaticism that people take to their hobbies always fascinates me. Many of my friends and family would consider me to be an unusually passionate, devoted and knowledgable birder. And to the average person, I am. But I often run into people who far surpass me, people who are out almost every day, or at least every weekend, virtually all day. Who obsessively follow what's being spotted around the state and will make sure to travel anywhere something unusual is being seen.

Anyway, it's fun.

Goodbye, Grandma

Here in Boston we've just gone through a mini-deep freeze; I think it was 10 degrees fahrenheit or less all day yesterday and colder than that the night before. Last night was the same. I tossed and turned all evening because my street kept losing power, and the streetlights would go on and off and my apartments furnace would stop blowing, then kick in, then stop...you get the picture. So I tried to grab a little more sleep but finally gave it up to take a walk and do a little birding. I thought it would be okay because I heard the radio say that it would be much warmer (in the high 20's) today but I was too sleepy to think it through, and it was around 12 degrees. It was cold, cold, cold. I just went to a local park in Newton, Nahanton Park, and really saw nothing but a few unhappy mockingbirds and blue jays. Maybe a few crows and gulls as well, and something I half-persuaded myself was a juvenile northern shrike but now am fairly sure that it was just a robin. The things your mind can persuade you into believing! Anyway, after a half-hour my chin was numb and my feet were also coming along quite nicely and I went in to work. I should have stayed in to work on my book, but I was so bleary from the lack of sleep that I just couldn't face it.

I just got back a few days ago from South Bend, Indiana, where my Grandmother Mary Breden passed away on December 26th. I don't really know what to say; I would like to write something special, but I keep hearing the tribute my sister Meghan wrote when I start thinking about it. Please visit her blog at www.meghan5m.blogspot.com to read it. For myself, a lot of different things have been going through my head. Grief that she's passed on, sadness that I didn't really get to say goodbye, a wish that I'd seen more of her the last few years, but also a stream of wonderful memories and the presence of her love, which I still feel. And in visiting with my mom, my aunt and my cousins, and in talking with my sisters, I've also found myself, happily, still learning new things about her; its amazing to find someone who has passed on still growing as a person before your eyes. She was 92 years old and had a full life, rich in experience, giving, and love. In particular, I'm so pleased (and thankful) that she spent her last years with so many wonderful and attentive daughters, grandchildren and greatgrandchildren.

I love you, Grandma! (And I miss you.)

Love to all,
-Brian

ps A special message for Seth: See you later, Fishbulb! (you're the fishbulb!)

Christmas Birding

Merry Christmas, everybody!

I hope everybody is doing well, and enjoying the holiday. My thoughts are with you all, and especially with my Grandma and my Mom and her two sisters, Marilyn and Patti.

Last night I spent a very nice Christmas Eve with my cousin Kate and her husband Kevin, their two kids James and Petey, Kevin's parents and his sister's family. We had a wonderful meal and it is nice to spend some time with family when I am otherwise spending the holidays alone here in Boston. No reason for too much pity, however; I will be spending a week each in Cincinnati and on Whidbey Island in January.

Today was my second annual Christmas Birding trek to Plum Island. We are in the midst of a stellar year for winter finches and frugivores such as redpolls, bohemian waxwings, evening grosbeaks, crossbills, etc. In particular, Common and Hoary Redpolls have been reported very consistently in the Hellcat parking lot on Plum Island, and I was hoping to see them there. No such luck. It was actually a pretty quiet day, with low numbers of species and individuals found (at least by me and those I was with). Nonetheless, you couldn't have asked for a nicer day and as it turned out I found a few nice birds anyway.

The highlight had to be the northern shrike; I was driving south along the refuge road and saw a bird perched at the top of a roadside tree, cocking its tail and grappling with the branch in the breeze. I got out and saw that it was a northern shrike. I watched it for a half-minute or so before a small flock of goldfinches came along and buzzed it repeatedly; it left its perch and flew across the road into a thick bramble. I lost sight of it but a moment later I heard a cardinal start pitching a fit, and suddenly a female cardinal burst out of the shrubs and flew across the road, the shrike in close pursuit, maybe just four feet behind it. Then I lost them; I don't know who came out the winner.

Other highlights included a Rough-legged Hawk and a Snowy Owl. For those who are interested in what a slow christmas morning's birding at Plum Island might bring, here is my complete list of species: Candada Goose, American Black Duck, Snow Bunting, Herring Gull, Ring-billed Gull, Great Black-backed Gull, Northern Shrike, American Goldfinch, Northern Cardinal, American Robin, Black-capped Chickadee, Red-breasted Nuthatch, Tree Sparrow, European Starling, Northern Harrier, Snowy Owl, Horned Lark, American Crow, Blue Jay, Rough-Legged Hawk, Mallard, White-winged Scoter, Common Loon, Mourning Dove.

On the way home, I stopped off at the Ipswich River Sanctuary, still hoping for the redpolls. No dice, and their feeders were empty, so it was very quiet. However, I did add: Red-tailed Hawk (a wonderful view), Downy Woodpecker, Tufted Titmouse and one very friendly Chickadee that kept landing on my head! (They are used to handouts here).

On my way home, I also saw a Raven, my second for the week (the first was in Newton, outside my place of employment, of all places).

Not a bad morning, after all. 28 species. Later on I'll check massbird.org and see some fellow birder post 50-60 species (or more!) in the same locations, I'm sure.

Merry Christmas!!

First Snow and a special message for Gabby

As I am writing this, we are in the midst of our first real snow of the season. It's a real storm; it's not blowy or icy but there's a lot of accumulation. I woke up to reports for the Boston area of 3-7 inches, but I think we've got 9 or 10 already and it's still coming down steadily.

The first snow is special; I'm always surprised and delighted at its pure, uncanny beauty when it first appears. If I ever found myself living someplace where this didn't happen, and it certainly could happen, you never know what life might bring, I would miss it. I think I would especially miss taking a walk in the late evening as the snow still falls, when most everybody has gotten off the streets and has bundled up inside. The sidewalks and roads are empty and the silence is breathtaking; you can hear the little music of the snowflakes falling on the ground. I will stand and watch the snow fall against the light from a streetlamp, just happy to be in it. Later, I will sit in bed trying to read a book but my eyes will still be drawn to the snow outside, and I will fall asleep wondering how deep it will be in the morning.

And before I sign off,

HAPPY BIRTHDAY GABRIELLA!! I love you, Gabs, and miss you! See you soon!

-Brian

Blue, Blue Hubbard Squash

One of the best, and simplest, things to cook during this time of year, this cold and blowy time of late Fall and Winter, is a winter squash. These are certainly some of the most enjoyable vegetables (fruits, technically) to shop for, as their eye-popping colors, shapes and textures never fail to entertain, from acorn to spaghetti (a prize to the reader who can come up with a winter squash further on in the alphabet). Orange, yellow, green, striped, warty, curved, the varieties seem endless, and the big bushels full of them are one of the signature sights of Fall.

I've recently discovered the amazing hubbard squash, sometimes called the blue hubbard squash after it's wonderful sky-blue color. This is the big bruiser of the squash family, other than the mutant show-pumpkins. I've been told that if you buy a whole one the best way to break it open is to throw it from your roof. Luckily, there's a local grocer who cuts them up into nice wedges for less adventurous consumption. The flesh inside is a nice light orange, and the seeds are large and plump. I've also found the hubbard to be one of the tastiest of the winter squash, far outstripping the acorn (which I find a little bland) and easily contending with the butternut and the baking pumpkins.

My favorite way to cook one is to carve out the orange flesh away from the seeds and the skin and chop it into medium-sized chunks, an inch or two all around. I toss these with olive oil, salt, pepper and chopped fresh sage and throw them into a cast-iron skillet. Put it into a 400 degree oven and oven-roast for a half-hour to forty-five minutes, turning with a spatula every fifteen minutes or so. They should get soft and nicely browned on a couple sides. That's it, you can now eat them.

Oh, and the wonderful side benefit, my favorite salty snack in the whole wide world, spicy squash seeds. Separate the seeds (unhulled of course -the fiber's good for you, and crunchy) from the flesh and inner glop - though I recommend NOT cleaning them completely - a little of that stringy orange squash innards toasts up very well with the seeds, adding a little sweetness. Toss the seeds with olive oil, salt, pepper, and ground dried cayenne, to taste (in my case lots) and spread out on a baking sheet. These can go right in the oven with the squash, and will come out sooner. Shake them around every few minutes until they are toasted brown on both sides and sizzling. I dearly love these. If I could find fresh, raw, untoasted, unhulled pumpkin seeds to buy by the pound I would do so. As much as I love winter squash, I just can't eat the enormous quanitites I would have to in order to fully satisfy my craving for the toasted seeds.

Leftover squash, by the way, is great in soups (and great just reheated) but my favorite use for it is in a risotto. The soft texture and caramelized flavor perfectly suits the creamy complexity of a good risotto.

The Future Is Unwritten

Yesterday I went to see the movie Joe Strummer: The Future Is Unwritten. Joe Strummer was a musician and one of the guiding lights of one of my very favorite bands, The Clash. He died in 2002 at the age of 50 from a congenital heart defect.

The Clash were an English punk band formed in 1976, and one of the few bands to break out of the punk blueprint and have a widespread, lasting, and meaningful impact on music and culture. This was in large part due to the talent and charisma of Joe Strummer.

When I was in eighth grade I bought a cassette of the American release of their first album, The Clash, and it would not be an understatement to say my life was changed. I never really belonged to the culture of punk, and had been brought up on a diet of Mozart and the Beatles, but I was instantly blown away by their energy, their hooks, their sound. As I explored further and got older, I realized that, musically, they were ambassadors and experimenters, delving into dub, reggae, balladry, rap and funk in addition to their straightforward rock’n’roll and punk, and to these ears, succeeding spectacularly at all of it (most of the time).

At the time, I just loved it and didn’t think much of it, and my love of the Clash served as a launching into new realms of music, to the Ramones, The Specials, The Talking Heads, The Sex Pistols, and many others. As I got older, though, I found myself wondering just what it was about Joe Strummer’s voice that I loved so much. It was really more of a hoarse croak; he didn’t sing out of tune (that role was relegated to Mick Jones, the other guiding force in the Clash) so much as sing beside the tune and on top of it. I think Joe Strummer had something like a genius of personality. He was able to put his whole creative being into his singing – you couldn’t help but feel him, his integrity, his energy, his anger and his optimism coming through like an electric current. I now think that he’s one of the great rock and roll singers of all time.

The movie was very moving and very thoughtful. It didn’t focus so much on Joe Strummer as a musician, on his influences or on how he and the rest of the band expanded their sound and became successful, creative and diverse band, so much as explore his life and decisions . In that sense, the subtitle The Future is Unwritten is perfect, and watching the movie made me understand with poignancy that life itself is a creative act, starting with the way we think about ourselves and the world around us.

When the Clash disbanded, Strummer went through a difficult period, some ten years or so, and he was clearly depressed and didn’t hide it. He was torn by the desire for success but turned off by the commercialization of his music and his persona (a very moving scene in the film has a friend describing him as breaking down in tears when he realized that the U.S. Armed Forces were using the Clash song "Rock the Casbah" as a rallying cry for the first Iraq war). He was confronted with people’s expectations for him to follow in the Clash’s footsteps and at the same time his own needs to grow and do new things, even as he didn’t know what those things would be. It seems he finally came out of it with the simple act of working, of finding a new band and just doing whatever came naturally without any preconceived notion of what he could or could not do, or with what anybody else expected him to do. He died a happy and productive person in the full flowering of an artistic rebirth.

I’m far from an objective viewer; Joe Strummer has been a hero of mine since I was thirteen. But I heartily recommend this movie to anybody, not just fans. Also, incidentally, the last albums that Strummer recorded and released with his band The Mescaleros are all worthwhile. A much mellower vibe than the Clash, as one would expect, but vital and exciting work, and full of Joe’s inimitable, fractured voice. Of course, if you don’t know the Clash, please go out and listen to London Calling, right away.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Happy Thanksgiving, everybody!

This year, through a convergence of circumstance, poor planning, willful denial and solitude-seeking, I am spending Thanksgiving on my own. And though I will miss family and friends who I have celebrated with in years past, I am nonetheless looking forward to my day. Rest assured that I will be thinking of all of you as I go about my own celebrations (if indeed you were concerned).

I have started the day by reading in bed, always a pleasant activity. I am reading Nancy Farmer's The Land of the Silver Apples, a fantasy taking place in ancient England with a good dose of Viking berserkers. The title comes from a magical poem of Yeats which I am going to put here for you to enjoy. It has a certain air of celebration to it which I think is appropriate.

The Song of Wandering Aengus

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor,
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name.
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

-William Butler Yeats

I love Thanksgiving because, for me, it is a holiday with a strong spiritual dimension but no specific religious affiliation. I think it is good to remember that the first Thanksgiving, according to tradition, was celebrated by two peoples of differing beliefs. And giving thanks for the good things in your life is something that everybody can do and appreciate. And there are so many good things I am grateful for, Family and friends, life and good health, good food and a comfortable apartment, a wide world full of places to go and things to learn about, the third movement of Beethoven's 'Archduke' piano trio, Ursula Le Guin's Earthsea books, a nuthatch descending an oak tree and the dawn chorus, deep oceans and shallow creeks...I could go on forever, never stopping.

Now, I am drinking a cup of green tea (Lemony Gunpowder, it is called!) and will put in an hour or so of writing before turning off my computer. The rest of the day I am indulging in my own feast - but no turkey; I don't see what I could do with an entire bird, and if I just were to get a leg, I would have nothing to stuff. So it will be roast chicken with herbed stuffing, mashed potatoes and brussel sprouts. Wonderful stuff, though I will sorely miss the traditional spinach ring that my Aunt Ellen always makes. The rutabagas, not quite as much.

Love to all,
-Brian

The Once and Future King

Certain subjects of legend and myth are mined over and over again by writers, and none more so than the cycle of tales referred to as the "Matter of Britai"n, or more commonly the Legend of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table, of which countless works have been written. I've read many of them over the years (a large portion of them are books for younger audiences, a field in which I read heavily), and many are excellent. Marion Zimmer Bradley's The Mists of Avalon and Jane Yolen's short trilogy about Merlin comprising Hobby, Passager and Merlin come especially to mind.

I've just finished reading T.H. White's The Once and Future King, and I feel somewhat stunned in its wake. It has been a long time since I've been quite so enraptured and rewarded by a book, by something so pleasurable yet so challenging and full of riches of all kinds (possibly not since Moby Dick). It certainly stands as one of the greatest works in the Arthurian vein, and one of the great fantasy novels, if not one of the great novels, period. It is full of high and low humor, a startling variety of language, wonderful passages of natural history, unpredictably anachronistic references in future and past directions, endless insights into human and social nature, and finally, timeless storytelling of legends made real, sometimes painfully so. I often found myself amazed that so many different approaches to the narrative were so effective and seamless; one would have thought the effect somewhat disorienting or jarring.

The full work is made up of four shorter novels that are usually published together. The first one, The Sword in the Stone, is about young Arthur's boyhood and education at the hands of Merlyn the wizard. This book is the easiest to read and the most engaging, and certainly the most comical, but it is no farce nor simple fantasy. It is an episodic bildungsroman; if nothing else just read it with an ear for language and an imaginative eye on natural history. The book is full of old english words having to do with ancient sports such as falconry and jousting, and my head rings with them even if I barely understand what they mean. And the series of captivating passages where Arthur (or young Wart as he is called) is changed into a perch, a merlin, an ant, a goose (a particularly beautiful scene) and a badger as part of his education are richly poetic, the characterizaton of the animals he interacts with imaginative, moving, perfect.

The following three books follow the more 'mature' part of the legend, and are definitely grimmer and more serious works, though not mirthless by any stretch. The Queen of Air and Darkness is about Arthur's early years building his new society and the troubled Orkney brothers (Gawaine, Gaheris, Gareth and Agravaine) and their mother Morgause, who is also Arthur's half-sister and seduces him to bear his only child Mordred. The Ill-Made Knight is about Lancelot and Guenever and their troubled romance. Lancelot here is a remarkably complex and fleshed out character, mercilessly portrayed yet with great compassion, and the passage depicting his ultimately aborted attempt to remake his life with Elaine and their child Galahad is especially moving. Finally, Candle in the Wind is the shortest book, and brings about the inevitable conclusion set in motion by Arthur's seduction by Morgause and the affair between Lancelot and Guenever, and is also a surprisingly successful evaluation of the human troubles with government and violence.

The entire series makes a work of deep and complicated layers of all the stuff of human experience, ultimately troubled and difficult yet leavened with beauty and compassion and kindness and humor and the grand spectacle of the world; an illuminating, comprehensive and puzzling novel that I will return to again. Highly recommended.

Some Thoughts on Writing and Rewriting

(Engraving by Barry Moser)

I'm in the midst of the most productive and enjoyable stretch of writing I've ever had, and it's very exciting. Considering that I spent most of the last year making no progress, and doing nothing at all writing-wise except for a brief hash at a third draft last Winter, it feels great to take some big, positive steps forward. Even better, it's great to find myself in a steady rhythm, working daily and enjoying myself. It's hard work and there are miles to go, but right now I'm moving along.

I'm currently working through the third draft of my novel, provisionally titled The Vampire of Castle Esterhazey. In reading the interviews and essays of other writers, I've ascertained that there are nearly as many ways of revising and rewriting as there are writers. Some rewrite from scratch, paying little or no attention to previous drafts. Some pore over the text with a comb, spending more time tweaking than they ever did writing the earlier draft in the first place. And of course the decisions people make are wildly divergent: some engage in wholesale restructuring, some add characters, some change point of view, some just add judicious filler here and there to flesh out character, setting or atmosphere. I guess it depends on what you feel the text requires, and what you're capable of doing.

Anyway, I'm not sure that an entire rewrite wouldn't be the best approach, but I can't bring myself to do that after working so hard on the earlier drafts. I am doing a substantial amount of new writing, though. I've introduced a couple new ideas, mostly to give my main character, Claude, more motivation and a more active role in his own destiny. Also, I've tried to heighten the tension and feeling of danger at the very beginning of the book, partly through a prologue that introduces the main bad guy, who hadn't show up until nearly half-way through the earlier draft, right at the start. I've also replaced scenes that I thought were clumsy or didn't make sense or had bothered me for various reasons. All these new passages often force me to substantially rewrite other scenes and to carefully search for paradoxes and inconsistencies in plot or language. Kind of a potpourri of approaches, but I do think this draft is a significant improvement.

One of the down sides of all this is losing scenes or passages that you loved, that just don't make sense anymore in the flow of the story, or that you just can't find a place for. I have one waking dream that Claude has where he imagines himself as a wolf, running through the forest, that I like as much as anything I've ever written. But now, I don't know where to put it, and I'm afraid I'll have to ditch it.

Ultimately, though I'm warming to the revising process, the original round of writing and inspiration is the more enjoyable, and the new passages I'm working on come much more readily and smoothly than the parts that I'm revising. Of course, it's great when I can dump a large stretch of the old draft into the new with only minimal change, as that gives me the sense that I am making quick progress.

I've made the mistake of loudly advertising to friends and family my goals and objectives in the past, making me feel foolish when I don't follow through with them. Apparently, I'm not going to stop this habit. I plan on finishing my third draft by the end of the year, and then work on getting some readers for it and submitting it to publishers and/or agents.

-Brian

P.S. The following quote is the most helpful single piece of advice I've ever come across for anybody engaged in a creative enterprise. It's from an interview with Barry Moser, a wonderful artist and writer (check out his illustrations for Moby Dick).

"The most important advice I can give anyone--and forgive me if this seems glib--is to work. Work. Work. Work. Everyday, at the same time, for as long as you can take it--work, work, work.You can't depend on talent. I've taught for over thirty years and never met an untalented student. Talent is as common as house dust, and--in the long run--about as valuable. But nothing is as valuable as the habit of work, and work has to become a habit.

I advise anyone to listen to music. Listen to Bach's Art of the Fugue and The Goldberg Variations. Listen to them over and over, everyday, day after day until you begin to sense, if not understand, what Bach is up to. Then implement what you intuit from your listening into your own work. I don't care if you don't like classical music, or if you feel that it has nothing to do with what you do. Do it. It is invaluable. Let the music fill your mind. Let it flow over you and into you until you are aware of nothing else. Bach and others of his ilk will teach you form and structure and rhythm and all sorts of things you've never imagined, especially about the unexpected element--if you will only listen.

What else? Experiment and fail. Move on. Always keep in motion and finish the job, even if it's not exactly what you hoped it would be or not as good as it could be. The fact is that it will never be as good as it could be, and that's okay because it's all part of the never-ending, self-perpetuating growth process--and failure is the foundation of that process. I've done over two hundred books and not one of them is perfect. But I'll tell you this: I would rather have the two hundred and fifty-six imperfect books that mark the vectors of my journey through my art form than to have one perfect book that marks nothing but its own perfect self.

More I can't advise, except (as corny and prosaic as it may seem) to put love first in your life: love of your work, and of other people, and of yourself, and of whatever things of the spirit move you. Have fun and maintain a fierce sense of humor. There are few things so serious or important that they can't be laughed at, or even poked a little fun at.

And lastly, a short litany of dos and don'ts:
Avoid the cute, corny and obvious in your work.
Read Ben Shahn's The Shape of Content--a few times.
Don't be afraid to do better work than you already do.
Bathe and brush your teeth before an interview.
Never underestimate the value of luck.
Practice safe sex.
Don't do heavy drugs.
Don't get drunk and drive a car.
Get plenty of sleep.
Eat your greens. "

-Barry Moser

Word to Your Mahler

Yesterday my orchestra, the Arlington Philharmonic, performed our Fall concert. We always close this performance, full bore, with a big symphony. This time we did a symphony by Kallinikov (No. 1 in G minor), that I had never heard before, or even heard of. Somebody mentioned that it was a popular symphony with youth orchestras, which may be true, but it was nonetheless challenging for our players. However, Kallinikov's #1 is not the subtlest of symphonies, allowing us to hash through its often long-winded and grandiose gestures effectively. I don't really mean to disrespect either the symphony, which certainly has some stirring passages, or our players, who are always spirited and committed, but I must admit that this symphony is just not one my favorites.

We also played a series of five songs by Gustav Mahler scored for orchestra and voice based on poems by Freidrich Ruckert. Our voice was supplied by the wonderful young soprano Dana Schnitzer. I've never performed orchestral lieder like this before, and it was a great pleasure to do so and to learn these wonderful songs. The songs are not really linked, and as such are all quite distinct musically and textually. "Ich atmet einen linden Duft" ("I breated a gentle fragrance") is spacious and surreal, "Un Mitternacht" ("At Midnight") is powerful and heavy, searching and challenging. Best of all is the moving "Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen" ("I am lost to the World"), a slow, restful song about death, about moving past the living world into a realm of peace and serenity, a subject that brought out the best in Mahler. (It also is a theme that the great mezzo-soprano Lorraine Hunt-Leiberson excelled at, and there is a great recording of these pieces, though just with piano accompaniment, with her at the helm). Playing these pieces with a talent like Dana's was a real pleasure, and I found the experience quite moving.

Though I often complain about my orchestra, about having to go to rehearsal when I'd rather go home and vegetate, about our often gloriously amateur performances, about feeling unprepared because of my unwillingness to practice adequately, it has always been an enjoyable and rewarding part of my life, and of my week, and has only grown so over the years. Yesterday, while playing the last movement of the Kallinikov (not my favorite piece) for a very small crowd (Pats - Colts game on the tube) I realized how much I was enjoying myself, and how much I was putting into my playing, how focused I was (at least until I started thinking about how much I was enjoying myself...) even as I was faking it through some of the more challenging figures...well, I don't really know where I'm going with this, but God Bless Music. Writing and storytelling may have taken over my more worldly aspirations and much of my creative energies of late, but music is still...music is...