Archive | Music Matters

A Place So Hard To Find

Last night at Westchester’s Emelin Theater, I lectured on RBG, a new documentary about Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg. It was beyond reassuring to discuss this well-mannered, succinct, intellectually rigorous, even-handed, courageous, tenacious, and scrupulous woman. Even more reassuring to watch scenes of her working out vigorously with a trainer at age 85.

We need the Justice to live to a biblical age—200, even 250. Maybe clone herself too. But right now, she’s still a key cog in the U.S. government, the ultimate antidote to  this political climate of hot air, hot heads, (not) hot messes. As I zoomed back into the city, the traffic a mere trickle at that hour, I looked at the spiny diamonds of the city skyline and just grinned.

It’s still ours.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. The world–especially the United–is still going to hell in a handbasket. But I am starting to think my prediction that Trump and his cronies will exit the White House in cuffs will be realized. Better yet, every day I continue to work on a book I’ve wanted to write for decades. Today I already have penned 1,600 words, and now am swilling an extraordinary spicy turkey sandwich and a post-work glass of vino. On my speakers Marc Dorsy is crooning: “Somewhere in life there’s a joy to be/Between the hope and reality.”  I feel the extraordinary solidarity of my girlfriends far and near, foremothers alive and dead, and Miss Grace, sitting pretty on my legs. O, if money didn’t exist, I’d be the happiest 47-year-old in all the land.

Survival Instincts at Their Coziest

I wake from the river of a dream and buoy myself with the sweet structure of a Haydn piano sonata, the tidy spill of the many blues of my bedroom. Pad into the kitchen with hungry permakitten at my heels, settle back into bed with coffee and the novel I was reading before I fell asleep. Through my window it’s cool and still; Grace leaps and lands, so softly, on my feet, where she fastens her green gaze upon me. I put down my book so we may engage in our ritual exchange of blinks. I love you. I love you too. I flash on a quote by Freud, of all people: “The organism wishes to die only in its own fashion.” I, the organism, on its own terms on this quiet Saturday morning, freedom in its gentlest form. An elusive luxury for most humans through time, especially for women. I will take it gladly.

February Rains

I wake and for the third morning in a row hear Joan Armatrading singing these lyrics in my head:

If you’re gonna do it do it right
Don’t leave it overnight

Also for the third morning in a row–more like the sixth, who am I kidding?–the rain is pounding against my window. I can tolerate this much rain in the spring–there’s a point to it, even a gift–but in February it’s just mean. Cold and wet and mean. Which is how I’ve been experiencing everything, including myself. Take the dream from which I’m waking. It’s as rough as the weather. Continue Reading →

"All, everything I understand, I understand only because I love."
― Leo Tolstoy