Joyful Sorrowful

I'm so happy. I had a nice weekend.

I am happy, but I was sad. Her name was Anna, and I saw her on Tuesdays. She believed in cognitive-behavioral therapy and recommended The Feeling Good Handbook, written by a man who is not afraid to look like a Presbyterian minister. My blues came from automatic negative thoughts, it seemed; all I had to do was logically deconstruct such thoughts as, "You suck at everything; why are you here?" and "Nobody loves you; what's the point?" It worked on some days.

Long before Anna, let me take you to a little apartment in Athens, Georgia. Everyone had died, and I bleached my hair myself. Now I am standing before the window of a one-bedroom flat overlooking a muggy-beautiful street in New Orleans. She is also sad; she is once again in love with someone who cannot see her. But she has something more burning than loneliness. She must prove to her father that she is not worthless. She will become a doctor, and before long he will come begging.

Salt mines

I lied the other day. One of my coworkers, also a temporary employee, asked me whether I liked working there:

Me: Yes, I think so. It's a much larger place than I've ever worked at before. And I'm a little uncomfortable with any place that uses temporary staff.

Him: Yeah. Guess it's kind of a necessary evil.

Me: I guess so.

That reminds me: I sure don't want to go to work tomorrow.

Of course, I'm not supposed to say things like that. They decrease my value. A number of other things decrease my value: looking young, wearing my shirt untucked, having interests outside of work. Certain other things can increase my value, such as having a doctorate, styling my hair like a good Christian boy, wearing a tie, having a greedy/ambitious twinkle in my eye.

I tried to continue that conversation above, but we had reached the elevator and my coworker found someone else to speak to. I don't think he realized that I was in the middle of a sentence.

I wanted to say that I hadn't even been sure I wanted the position in the first place. An eight-month temporary employment with no benefits and only a few dollars more than I had been making? I wanted to say that I realized how desperate I and the rest of the world must have been when over 40 people showed up to take a two-hour proofreading test. Forty people young and old, all dressed up and sporting their fanciest red pens, hoping to use their grammatical talents and love of words to . . .

Several employers seemed completely shocked that my life had not been steadily building toward them.

Trio

Here is the fog that moves
like a ghost of the beloved
on the hills overlooking the bay.
My little car has trouble
with these heights, but I drive
slowly and remember the first time
I drove through cloud.

Tonight the mist hides time
from the house where three have come
to work the old magic. One, two,
three, four, the ritual begins.
Cello warms and purrs like the bear
of a rug it rests on; violin
floats slim and pure like the air
up here. My piano finds a heart
in these vibrations.

This is not for you, but me.
This is my secret moment, which
reaches back to the very beginning.
Let me stay here.

The fog grows thick and from a distance
a hill can be seen to raise itself
and hover, for an unending moment,
apart from all things.

Two translations (Frauenliebe und -Leben)

Last night I dreamt that Sena Jurinac and I were working on Schumann's song cycle Frauenliebe und -Leben. The eight poems by Adelbert Chamisso begin with a woman's first love and trace through her engagement, her wedding, her first child, and her husband's death.

I have been attempting to translate or adapt the eight poems. The first and last songs of the cycle are below.

I.

I believe I have gone blind since I first saw him:
Wherever I look, I see only him;
his image floats before me like a waking dream,
emerging brighter and brighter out of the deepest darkness.

Everything else around me is lightless, colorless.
No longer drawn to the games of my sisters,
I would rather weep quietly in my little room.
I believe I have gone blind since I first saw him.

VIII.

Now you have hurt me
for the first time,
but deeply.
Harsh, merciless man,
you sleep the sleep
of death.

The abandoned one glances around:
The world is empty, empty.
I have loved and lived; no longer am I living.

Quietly I retreat
within myself;
the veil descends.
I have lost my happiness
and you,
you my world.

Note: The first line of the first poem is "Seit ich ihn gesehen, glaub' ich blind zu sein," literally, "Since I saw [in a sense of 'have seen'] him, I believe I am blind." I can't find a happy solution to this line. Can you?

These are my clichés

I tried many things.

I tried keeping busy.
I tried psychotherapy.
I tried self-help books.
I tried meditation.
I tried hypnosis.
I tried moving.

I remained "depressed." But eventually I found something that worked.

What works for you?

Beethoven: No. 8, No. 4, No. 2

We held the first of the casual Beethoven recitals last Sunday. I decided at the last moment to print a few programs. I figured five might be a little too hopeful, but then decided to make it a nice round ten. (Five or six left sitting on a table wouldn't look too absurd.) But as four o'clock neared and then passed slightly, all the seats and couches were filled, and there weren't enough programs to go around.

I felt calm in the hour before the recital, while Gail seemed a little nervous. After we hit the first notes of the first sonata (No. 8 in G major), the situation seemed to reverse: Gail stood and played with confidence, while my upper body shook and my fingers began to sweat on the keys. I had underestimated the effect an audience would have on me.

Especially with a program like this: three Beethoven sonatas, a longer and much more difficult program than I had ever played before. (The Prokoviev and Reinecke flute sonatas may each be more difficult, but I never had to pair then with another substantial work.) The voices appeared and shook down my neck into my arms:

"What are you doing? You're about to mess up. Yep, here it comes. That hard passage you never mastered. I mean, what are the chances that you'll play the right notes? How many notes is it, anyway? Hmm. 24 notes for the right hand in this measure. 12 for the left. Times 100 measures. Times 3 movements. Times 3 sonatas. You'll never make it . . ."

And then eventually the voices are eclipsed by the tunes—and though I may not soon forget the random kerflooey I committed on the last beat of the last sonata on the program, I may still be excited that I found a kindred musician to work on these pieces—indeed, who said, "OK, let's learn another" and "Let's learn another"—when I thought learning even one was beyond me this lifetime . . .