Friends, Cello Music, and Poetry

We had dinner this evening with a great friend of ours, Va. Good food, good company. What's not to like - as the saying goes. At the end of the meal, we stepped outside for some moon-watching, on this eve when the moon appears larger than usual.

Va reads my blog and noted my fondness for the cello. This evening she brought with her a CD of improvisations on the cello as inspired by the Tao Te Ching. We listened to it when we arrived back home - you would swear, were you one to swear, there was a cello, cellist included, in the living room. The CD is wonderful.

The 14th track had/has a repeated phrase that caught my ear - and, clearly, started wheels turning.

When they'd finished, the following presented itself:


A voice cries...

What is this place?
Where is this place?
I strike the doors
     the walls
Nothing yields,
I've never seen this place.
Why am I here?

Someone tell me!
Won't someone tell me?

Another voice cries...

I've always been here.
Never able to leave.
I strike the doors
      the walls
Nothing yields.
I've never been elsewhere.
Why cannot I leave?

Someone tell me!
Won't someone tell me?

Both voices - mine.

As I was walking down...

There is an advantage to not visiting the City each day - you get the chance to see it with fresh eyes every time. A different perspective to those who live there - or who journey there every day.

Even mundane annoyances like Muni breaking down before reaching my station at the Embarcadero become, on a rare visit to the City, a pleasure. The air was clear, the sky cloudless, the early morning sun holding the promise of warmth.

Palm trees lined the street and curved away along the Embarcadero as I walked, looking around tourist-like, towards Market Street. The Bay Bridge, the sun behind it washing out all details, stood gray against the blue of sky and water, arcing over the Bay from San Francisco to Yerba Buena island. The eastern span was lost in the light to my dazzled Irish eyes.

Joggers loped by the waterside, off to my right towards Fisherman's Wharf, perhaps as far as the Marina. I wished them well on their way in the cool of the early morning.

Around me the city was awake, tides of people flowing along its arteries, each to his or her place. I let the tide wash over me. There was time. A day-long conference, breakfast would be provided.

I have often said that I like the fact that I've never really lived within a city. I've always lived with one nearby, within reach. Dublin, Geneva, London, San Francisco. Paris was three hours away by train and, while I dearly love that city, that was too far to call "nearby".

San Francisco, on such a day as dawned yesterday, well...it made me wonder what it would be like to wake up within such a city.

For this reason, Kansas City represents something new. There, we will be within the city itself. I look forward to a change in viewpoint.

--o0o--

In other news, yesterday turned out to be the birthday of two new first cousins (once removed) of mine. So, greetings Zoe and Emily. Glad you made it safely.

And welcome.

May...she will stay...

...with all due honor to Simon and Garfunkel.

Some years ago I came to the realization that I had a sort of Seasonal Affective Disorder. Just the reverse of what's considered normal.

Such a surprise.

Others find the dull gray of Winter problematic. I recall endless weeks of overcast skies in Ireland (and that was Summer! - I'm joking, honest.) My father found Novembers and beyond...difficult.

For me, it's May.

I had noted over the years an unaccountable melancholy that colored my Mays. It took me a number of years to puzzle out the why of it. I finally labeled it "homesickness". Not, I assure you, for a place. "Home" for me...is where I am. And very much where I am now.

But homesick nonetheless...for people.

May is a month of birthdays. In general I imagine that's true. In specific, it is very much so for my family. A sister, a father, a mother - this very day, a daughter, a son and she who regards me as her twin, and I her mine - the Lady C.

That's a lot of people, none of whom are here, here where my home is.

And so, an unaccountable melancholy - not so "unaccountable", I suppose.

To help, I turn my face to the blue sky and warm sun of California - and remember.  It helps...somewhat.

And so, Peggy, on this day you are thought of. You are not forgotten.

Basso profundo...at least for a while

The clouds parted and...my brain started to work again (more or less).

The latter part of the week just ending was spent in a fog of cotton wool-filled head, sore throat and a marvelous voice that sounded like it had dropped an octave and a half. Not all bad, I suppose...

The previous week ended on a much higher note(!)

We went to New York City. My brother was having one of those "decade" birthdays and my sister-in-law thought our arrival from the West Coast, and my sisters, brother-in-law and niece arriving from Ireland, would add to the festivities.

She was right. A high old time was had by all on Friday the 4th. And well into Saturday the 5th, for that matter. And dinner with the entire family together on Saturday evening was a food and laughter-filled event.

A great time - enjoyed by all.

It was a good trip, despite almost being crushed (while still in our car) by an 18-wheeler! Not to mention the creative cab driver my sisters had the misfortune to select - he reversed down an entry ramp to a highway. This while on their way to the hotel from the airport.

I may have picked up some bug or other there because, by Wednesday, I was not feeling well at all. The past few days have been difficult - I am not known for being a good patient. This requires patience from those around me. And it is lovingly given - I am more fortunate than I deserve (thank goodness).

Today is better, but I have work, that was let slip, to catch up on. No rest for the wicked. I should never rest again so. :-)

On a completely different note, I was unaccountably saddened to read that Nokia changed direction and decided to produce phones with Microsoft's new mobile phone operating system. I know I'm a geek, but I really have to stop getting so caught up with devices.

Breathe, Kevin. Well, right now, with this cold an' all, that's a little harder than usual. Ya'know?

Novel writing course progress...inter alia

Sometimes I wonder if "progress" is the correct word. I'll go with "yes" for the moment.

At least my Instructor didn't turn back my second pair of novel ideas with "let's try that again." So, chalk that up as real progress.

Now I have to supply a scene of my protagonist interacting with some other characters - I have quite a choice here as this is the first of my NaNo novels - there's a lot of mud with which to make bricks.

One scene, and a couple of character sketches - one of the protagonist, one of the antagonist (plus a request from the Instructor to deepen/sharpen the antagonist), and for me to consider folding two of the supporting characters into one. That last only if the two are not really separate. I think they are, so no, for the moment they remain two.

What the Instructor's questions in her letter, and her markup of my story idea, have done is make me consider each part of the story and the characters. Things still hang together, but I can see where I can make this, quite fictional, universe more real to a reader.

That can't be a bad thing.

***

Apropos of nothing at all...while we were driving back from the South Bay yesterday, on a dreary gray day I might add, we recalled a snippet of conversation I had with my brother a decade and a half ago. 

'Twas at our wedding and we had provided wine for our assembled guests. While buying same, we decided to lean more towards white than red - "people seem to go more for white than red," said we, with great confidence in our knowledge of people's proclivities.

Naturally - but of course - the red was a great hit and the well began to run dry.

I was talking with my brother and bemoaned the fact that we seemed to be running short of wine. My brother - who is a carpenter - deadpanned, "There's never a good carpenter around when you need one."

***

And, finally...Happy Birthday yesterday to N and G. Two relatives, one a young woman finding her place in the world and the other, a woman who has seen San Francisco grow and change - from the twenties!

Will write for my supper...

Saturday evening was very pleasant indeed. Good (very) food around a table with our friend, Va.

She is an excellent cook, and an even better storyteller - and they're all real-life stories of her friends, relatives, life. Much fun, laughter, the warmth you get from deep friendship (not to mention well-prepared edibles and chocolate cake).

Garage sales are among the many things Va enjoys and she has a fine eye for beauty. The "old lady's" watch - platinum and diamond encrusted - a very fine buy.

Knowing my fondness (fetish?) for fountain pens, she presented me with two. With the aid of a magnifying glass (the eyes aren't what they used to be) I was able to determine that the black one was an Esterbrook, the green (with a translucent barrel) a Recife.

The Esterbrook dates from the late 1940's and the ink bladder is still supple and holds ink.

You can see, in the photograph, the lever used to load ink. It is a very long time since I made use of such a pen.

I was able to find out from this site:
Esterbrook.net, that the pen is (may be?) a J-series pen, which date from around 1948.

I checked the pen, testing it with water before ink, and it works very well. The pen is slimmer than many of the others I own, but fits well in the hand.

The nib is in excellent condition. This pen was well looked after.

I need to further investigate the Recife. It looks like a "demonstrator" pen, given the translucence of the barrel. But it has no converter, nor reservoir within, so I am not certain what to do regarding inking it. It is possible it can take a Waterman cartridge.

Below is an example of how the Esterbrook writes. It is a pleasure to use.

Many thanks, Va.

Time - the simplest thing...

Clifford Simak will, probably, forgive me for making use of his story title: Time is the Simplest Thing as the title of this entry. It just fits.

There's another title that might do just as well. More of that later.


I have used the photograph to the side of this text before. It is a photo of the clock that hangs on the wall beside the desk where I write. Who knows what it says about my writing, or my writing process. There is the risk that it explains many, many things.

I had thought, up until recently, that it was just me and Dalí sharing a passion for odd clocks. Not so.

My sister, her husband and daughter, visited recently (for a few days before and after our home was actually presentable). My sister took one look at the clock and said, "you too?"

I am the furthest away, out, let's go with furthest west, of all my family and so did not immediately understand her question. It seems we all have likings for strangeness when it comes to clocks.

In parts East we are known as the "wacky Mackeys" because of it. Seems someone has a fondness for rhyme.

So, I come by my wackiness honestly it would seem. I never doubted it.

And the other title? Wacky Mackeys, of course. Now, if you'll excuse me, it's somewhere between 8 and 5 past whatever...

Take a left at memory lane

Sunday dawned bright, sunny even, and clear. We'd wanted to visit Glendalough and the weather was perfect for it. Years ago we had been there. A wet, wet, wet day. This could only be better.

My sister drove. I was intrigued that she took "the long way around" as I had on the previous visit. We drove by many scenes from our childhood. Tradition counts for much with us, as does memory

Our Summers, growing up, were spent in the Wicklow mountains. Two months, at least, each year in a cottage of which I've said "think of anything - it didn't have it". Electricity, running water, that kind of thing. But it had a huge hearth around which we heard stories, lots of space without for children to burn off energy and access to the beauty of "the garden of Ireland", as Wicklow is known, just outside the red front door.

When we were a little older we hiked, my father, my older sister and I, over the mountains and down beside the waterfall, past the mining village - mine and miners long gone - into the valley of Glendalough.

The valley of St. Kevin - no relation - and a monastic settlement dating back fourteen centuries. Even with all the tourists and a "€1 for a photo with an Irish Chieftain" - who was playing brave Scottish airs on a very Scottish bagpipe, but let's not quibble - there is a peace to the place.


The graveyard, near the iconic Round Tower, sports gravestones worn smooth with time. Only the fact of their existence attests to the final resting place of some soul. Yet the graveyard also holds within its embrace members of families who are but recently dead.

Some things continue to serve their purpose. Some things do not change.

The upper lake is still there, quiet, serene. My sister and I can still skip stones on its surface.

The silence still seeps into your bones and the weight of time lies heavy all around.

She had a very good run

My friend, the Lady C, had some bad news for me. The Lady C is a breeder of Papallion dogs - show dogs, no less.

Someone, however, when she started in the business, forgot to mention a breeder is supposed to sell her children.

Not something the Lady C could countenance. And so it was that she could, and did, refer to helself as a "mother of forty". But she couldn't bring helself to sell them.

Vanda was her first. A show dog if ever there was one. Bright, intelligent, beautiful. And 17 years old when she finally died. A good age for a dog that size.

I was there when Vanda first came to her. A beauty, and she seemed to know it.

She was loved, and she returned it.

You will be missed, Vanda Heartgatherer.

And so, on to June

We're already heading for the longest day in the year. Somehow, it seems far too short a time ago when the longest night was with us. We must be having fun, time is flying so.

But yes, last week did bring fun with it. Our house is still in quite good condition. 'Twas even better when our friends from KC, MO dropped by. Music in the background, munchies available, wine, wide-ranging and good conversation - for hours.

The cats came to investigate - even Sonja put in an appearance, to the pleasure and amazement of everyone.

All our work cleaning up was worth it, and Jane and Pat were kind enough not to notice where we missed. Good friends.

Then out to dinner - they're gourmet cooks, the two of them. We're not stupid.

That week also provided the opportunity to bury the Lady C in flowers, for her birthday. This elicited a voicemail complaining about all the weeds taking up every available vase in her home. Worth doing for that alone.

The weekend brought a pot luck on Saturday at the Emmaus Community in San Jose. Again, friends gathered around a table, sharing food and time with one another.

Can't think of any better way.

Easy day

Good friends, all along the peninsula.

A friend-filled day today. Monica in the morning, or early afternoon. So, given she is a hairdresser, we both look our best. (Don't worry, it won't last).

We came back from the South Bay in the afternoon. We ate lunch down there, while our car was getting a much-needed wash. Lunch was at the Aroma cafe - the first place Dick and I almost met (a story for another time).

Then to Pacifica, on the Pacific(!) Ocean. Friends going back to the days of Harmony Software in San Mateo, or earlier yet to Syntex Pharmaceuticals just across from Xerox PARC, or even earlier yet to Apple Computers (as they were then) in Cupertino.

Not a quiet time. Rather more riotous than that, given the energy of the people involved. Great food, even if I took abuse for my aversion to olives. I suppose it wouldn't have happened if I had not loudly proclaimed said aversion. Ah but, as they say where I hail from, where'd be the fun in that?

Good people, good friends and quite an international grouping - and I learned that the Tagalog word for table is lamesa (which, in Spanish, would be la mesa - the table). It never harms to learn.

And, happy birthday Brendan

Equal parts day and night

I could have been born a Gemini. That would be a simpler explanation of the facets. I know one such - and a twin she is (all by herself).

But no, on the cusp instead. Of water and fire signs. Of personal and universal signs.

At a time in the year when seasons change, when day and night are matched in length.

It all means nothing, of course - and everything.

There is a poem of mine, echoing one of my father's, that contains the following:

perhaps a mirror cracked

which would explain the many reflections that are mine.

I'm not sure the second line scans as I might wish it to, but it tried to capture the feeling I have of being an assembly of images.

We all have facets to ourselves. I make no claim for uniqueness, beyond the uniqueness we all share (a wondrous contradiction in terms). There is not one of us (oh, how true that is) who is a simple and singular personality.

Some come closer than others. Some are more integrated, a refreshing what-you-see-is-what-is-deep-within (not what-you-see-is-what-you-get nor the depressing what-you-see-is-all-there-is).

The more integrated are few and a joy to know.

But, there is beauty in quicksilver and I have known those with that quality.

And me - on this day of ending and beginning, two fish chasing their tails on the cusp of becoming a hard-headed ram - I'm glorying in the multiplicity of symbols.

That very multiplicity is the best symbol of all.

The High, Holy Day

Beannachtaí na Féile Pádraig oraibh - or the blessings of St. Patrick's Day on ye.

Dinner this evening, as has become tradition, was provided for us by our great friend Va. Potatoes, cabbage, soda bread and corned beef. We'll, in charity, make no mention of the horseradish.

One of us not dressed in green - but I was wearing an Irish Linen guayabera (an authentic Mexican guayabera made from pure Irish linen? Don't ask).

We did bring a green liquor as we were certain, correctly so as it turned out, that Va had not tasted green Chartreuse. It turned out to be a very good way to end the meal and added to the already mellow feeling that good food and finer company had already engendered.

I've never been fond of green beer - or beer in general, to be honest. But this drink, the only one ever to have a color named after it, is quite something. Those monks in the French Alps know what they are doing!

The red S is - sexy

It's really not what is done but, far more, the attitude with which what's done is done.

So, one might not regard a Toyota Corolla as sexy - even if it does have a red S on the back. But then, such a car can take you down the coast, off to see friends and relatives, birding or into the mountains.

And such an attitude is sexy, red S or no. Because excitement is sexy, possibility is sexy, living itself is sexy.

On a note entirely unrelated to the above, except of a piece with it because of the attitude shown, I ran across the blog of a young woman who recently dedicated her life to others, those who are her neighbors, as a member of a religious congregation.

On her first mission, before anything else, she had to deal with the minutiae that we all have to - form filling, driver's license, applying for jobs and, because she was in a new place, getting her library card and a membership at the local video store.

Instead of mailing all of these things in, she decided to go in person, to interact with as many people as possible, to get to know these neighbors to whom she had dedicated her life.

She is a nun so I hesitate to ascribe the adjective sexy, yet connections, human contact, the reaching out to other - this is life, real life, real living.

And, as I mention above, living itself - is sexy.

Around a table

Most months we get to eat with a friend of ours, Va. She was out of town, as were we, much of last month and part of this so our usual 2nd Friday had to step to the side.

So 2nd came 4th this month and, on the Friday just passed, the three of us ate in downtown, Sunnyvale. Tempura, in a small Japanese restaurant - staffed by Japanese no less. We all ate the same because it was so good and Va told us about her adventures over the Holidays. Philadelphia and Florida- very different weather.

She brought us homemade brownies!

Saturday evening, a different kind of meal. It's been a while since we were with our church group so it was time.

Always good, always sustaining.

It is the same event really. The gathering around table. The sharing of a meal. The giving of thanks. In greek - eucharein. Eucharist.

Friendship is a sacred thing.

Fifteen is a nice round number

The silliest grin on my face this morning. Sorry, can't help it.

I've been thinking back over the last decade and a half. I blame it all on Jane Campion myself. And her piano.

And possibly the pizza.

Or else it was just the perfect Friday evening that led to an amazing weekend that led to, well, fifteen years.

And counting.

And as we proclaimed from the rooftops some years later:

I set you as a seal on my heart

Where you go, I will go

What you are or will become is all I want of you

I will surround your life with love

I will share your life with joy

Kansas City recap

The trip to and from Kansas City, MO involved delays. But, given the weather many other travelers had to cope with, we got off lightly. And hour and a half, or so, each way. Nothing to write home about.

Though you can write about it in a blog it seems. :-}

The weather in KC was cold, the friendship warm and the food, given the artistry of two couples with whom we ate, and some of the finest eating establishments to be found, was wonderful. All diets - start next year.

Two views of the Country Club Plaza, one at night showing the famous Plaza Lights, and the second showing a very cold figurine in a fountain. The sidewalk was treacherous underfoot that day as I recall.





A different Christmas vacation than of recent past and also different to those stretching back more than a decade for me and much longer for Dick. No trip to and from St. Louis now Rosemary is gone. And the eve of Christmas, usually spent with her whether in KC or St. Louis, different.

But she was not far from our thoughts.

And, during the celebration that marks light shining in the darkness, the thought of lux perpetua luceat ea is comforting.

...and the darkness did not overcome it

On and off today I have come across references to the lunar orbit of people from Earth that gave us the "Earthrise" photo below. The themes of light and dark and their interaction form the foundation of so much literature, cultural reference and religious expression.

From the old monuments that celebrated, and measured, the return of the sun to the expressions of light emerging from darkness in many religious texts to the image of the Earth as she rises from inky darkness over the Lunar horizon.

Powerful, powerful images.

The images apply as neatly to the current situation in the world as they did to the builders of Newgrange in Ireland. That is, imperfectly and through the lens of our own beliefs.

Some, such as a commenter on a news site today who felt it necessary to say that the image did not display a "rise" because the Moon was off to the right, cannot see the image at all. They are mired in the details and focused on what isn't.

For others these themes have a distinct religious flavor - with more or less focus on light or dark depending on how apocalyptical or transcendent their religious flavor is.

My father was a pessimist in many ways - with one shining exception. He had a profound faith in our ability to work our way out of our difficulties. By "our" I mean the race, we wonderfully flawed humans.

At times I have caught myself almost planning for the self-destruction of the human race. Not hard to do with the gloom and darkness to be heard and seen all around.

I prefer my father's faith - and most often share it.

As so many of our belief systems have always proclaimed - the darkness does not prevail. This, for me, is a fundamental strand of belief in ourselves. So fundamental that, for me, it is truth.

Merry Christmas to all and, from the depth of Winter in the Northern Hemisphere, may the returning light warm you to the core.

A quiet Thanksgiving

I called Suzanne to remind her of her American traditions - being so far from the land of her birth can cause her to forget. But, friends such as she, a good reason to give thanks.

When I came down this morning there was music from the time of the Crusades playing. The new speakers allow the music to pour into a room. One could get absorbed in it.

Text messages ran back and forth between here and Ireland, between here and Long Island. I recall an old British Telecom commercial that exhorted the population to "say it with words". I am not sure text messaging is what they had in mind. But Thanksgiving wishes were still received and sent.

Dinner out together, a traditional turkey dinner, complete (replete?) with cranberries and followed by pumpkin pie. A little late in the year for such a harvest-time dessert but, again, it's tradition.

A pleasant evening with one another and then, for me, continue writing. I'm closing in on 45,000 words - meaning that 50,000 is well in sight.

Looking back over the day - much to be thankful for, this day and every day.

This remains my favorite holiday - a gift from the American people.

Thank you.

Music, creativity - and reflections from the black pool by the wattle ford

Friday found us at Davies Symphony Hall in San Francisco.

What happens when you take the full choir of the San Francisco Chorus, add in the San Francisco Girls Chorus and the Pacific BoyChoir, arrange seven(!) soloists around the conductor with another placed elsewhere in the concert hall, fill the stage with musicians of extraordinary calibre and the rest of them, equally talented, behind the audience in "the gods" and stir it with the verve and vigor of an MTT?

You get Mahler's 8th Symphony, the Symphony of a Thousand, and you get transported for something under two hours to a place of beauty. And it stays with you.

As it turns out, the concert was recorded and will be released as part of the Mahler cycle that the San Francisco Symphony has been producing over the past few years. I look forward to sometime next fall being able to buy it. That said, even with the music system we have, reproducing the experience of Friday evening will be impossible.

Dick had not been well earlier in the week so we drove to the City, parking in the Performing Arts parking lot - on the level adorned with pink Viking Helmets! Made me feel quite at home.

...

I continue with the novel I am wearing out the nib of my fountain pen on. If I look at the number of words I have written and the number of words I should have written by now, I could become discouraged. But, I have fewer to write than I have already written to reach the 50,000. And the 33,000+ I have already written is far more than I have ever written in such a short space of time. So, everything is possible.

I'm even enjoying the story.

...

May his memory be eternal. So goes the prayer of the Eastern Catholic Churches. Eternal may be difficult but a good, long while yet, that I can manage.

Four years ago Saturday Dad died, on a trip to New York from Dublin - the town by the wattle ford near the black pool. So goes its full name. It was he who taught me that. Other things he would have taught me but listening was, then, not something I was good at.

We learned that together later.