Further concert drama

So this concert thing. I grant that I'm a foolish bitch for trying to put together a concert. Arrogant, self-centered jerk of a guy. No doubt. There's no question that my music is unworthy of public performance. That I can't write for horns (already knew that) and that nobody writes symphonies anymore. String instruments are declasse. Classical music is dead. Orchestras are a historical artifact. Audiences are uninterested in new music.

Yep. I know all of that. Every bit.

Not going to try to compete with Beethoven. He's better than me. I like the guy. Not even trying.

But see? My sister is dieing of cancer. It's real honest to god killer nasty brain cancer. Not the play kind. This is for keeps. And well, I'm a poor starving artist who thought that maybe teaching people that Beethoven really is a god might save the world somehow. Seriously. I believed that. So I went back to school. And started starving more. And along the way I learned to write music.

Badly.

But still . . .

So what do I have to give my sister?

Money? . . . Ah . . . nope.

Stuff? . . . Nope again.

A cure for cancer? . . . Lord but do I wish I had that one.

But I do have symphonies. And a ballet. So I'm giving her a ballet. It's neat. Its fun. And people (real ones, on this very site) like it. To that end I've found musician friends. Still not quite as many as I'm hoping for, but quite a lot more than I feared. Enough to put on a respectable show. More than you'll see in the pit at your average Broadway show, in fact. And of similar quality in many cases. Perfessionals. That know how to play their instruments. And I've begged a truck off a friend. And large unwieldy expensive instruments. And money. And photocopying. (Thousands of pages of that. No kidding.) Did I mention the money?

Way back in January when this was little more than a feasibility study of sorts I talked to some folks that have a hall. Rather a crucial part of this sort of a show. I said "Hey, I'm a disorganized newby. If there's a question I should ask and don't, please tell me. Here's the date I'm shooting for." And the facility director said, sure, you can use this hall. Got the date reserved. And I asked her if I could hold rehearsals in the hall or if I would need to go elsewhere. She said everything would probably be fine. Asked her how much it would cost. She gave me a price and said she needed to check it with the board. Told her how many musicians were coming. Mentioned large expensive instruments. She said no problem. You can put them here and pointed to a spot. I talked to her a couple of times later, going in to the hall, as e-mails kept falling into the void. (Or at least going unanswered.) She said the price was fine. In March I went in to try to pay it, she said come back later, no rush. Pay it after the show. Asked if the rehearsals would be okay. She said sure, no problem.

So I e-mailed musicians. Told them where we would meet and when. Begged and borrowed things. Generally arranged stuff.

Sent an e-mail regarding unloading and tuning of equipment and instruments.

Wednesday I got an e-mail saying she was resigning her position and needed me to confirm dates and times to pass along to the new person. And here's a contract for you to sign so it's all legit.

Okay. Sorry to see you go, but we all need a change sometimes. Sent an e-mail. Here's the rehearsals and the show. And of course I'll come a little early and leave a little late to set stuff up and tear it down for you to keep it out of your way. And by the way, did you get the e-mail about the loading tuning business? Will it work?

Called her yesterday morning just to check and to let her know I'd be by with the contract. She told me she hadn't gotten any of the e-mail ere my reply to her time enquiry, but said there was nothing at all going on that week so it should all be fine. Talked a bit about the health of said sister, which is, of course, deteriorating. Said I didn't even think she'd be able to make it anymore, but that I'd still tape it for her, since that's all I can do.

Went to print the contract and sign it and what do I find in my inbox?

. . .

Roughly: "Oh god this is ballooning into something much bigger than you said and there's nothing in it for the people that own the hall and I'm not going to be here and the new person won't be here until after you're gone and the board doesn't like this and your sister can't be here anyway you should just cancel!" This four days before the first rehearsal.

How does hell no and we had a deal strike you?

You're worried that your "legacy" in the hall might be negatively impacted. That people might not like you because this crazy musician guy is imposing too much on the hall. Well, who exactly was it that said all of this would be okay? I grant that you thought that my three hour rehearsals would be two hours long. Not sure where you got that idea. Certainly not from me, as I've e-mailed some fifty or a hundred people telling all of them they would be three hours. And why on god's green earth would you think that there wouldn't be set up and tear down time before and after when you yourself told me you would need things cleaned up between rehearsals? Okay, I suppose I might have mentioned that, but it didn't even occur to me as mention worthy. What part of "I'm a disorganized newby and I'm winging it because I've got no choice" escaped you? Why would you assume that a show involving three rehearsals and thirty musicians would be small and uncomplicated? I know you knew about the large expensive instruments. You told me where I could put them. Did you think they would simply materialize? That they would tune themselves? Heck, I asked you about the loading zone. About parking. About the bloody kitchen sink.

I

Don't

Care

About

Your

Mistakes.

You fix them. This show will go on. You will not screw me just because you resigned quickly so you could start the new sexier job more quickly. It's not my problem. A deal is a deal. And as the experienced party getting paid it was and is your job to make sure you know what's going on with the client. If you can't keep track of your notes I can't help you. I've got literally a hundred e-mails to different people (I checked) all saying the same things. I've spoken to you in person four times. I've called you as many. I've e-mailed you quite a lot more. You never responded, but we always talked about the subjects over the phone or in person. I was never under the impression you hadn't gotten the e-mails. Maybe you might have asked.

Bah. Pay for your own bloody mistakes. If there is acrimony between you and the facility's board or permanent tenants that's the price you pay for your sexy new job. I have much bigger things to worry about. Like a sister who almost certainly won't see another birthday after this one. What part of death is forever don't you understand you damned idiot? I can't fix you. I can't fix your problem. Fix it your damn self.

Sincerely,
The composer.



Addendum: No. I'm not pissed. Not at all. Why do you ask?

NB: It's not personal. I understand that you have your own life. I'm venting. If you don't like what I have to say or understand that I'm a little upset for good reason, go find your grown up pants. I trust you have some somewhere.

Okay universe, am I not busy enough for you?

You might recall that I'm organizing this concert thing. Perhaps as a way of dealing with some fairly heavy psychological shit that I'm going through. (Dieing sister, tempestuously altered 12 year relationship, that kind of stuff.) You can probably guess that finding thirty five of your very best skilled musician friends to help you with DOING SOMETHING ABOUT IT!!!! is kind of hard when you have perhaps two nearby friends, and neither of them play an instrument. You can probably guess that there are time consuming logistical considerations involved surrounding mundane things like what will people sit on and how exactly does one get a piano into an art gallery.

So maybe you can guess that I'm busy. Fielding some dozen or so complex e-mails lately on the average day. Calling people on the phone. Writing parts. (Did I mention writing parts?) And I do still have a job. And I do still have work to do to get ready for this myself. (Seeing as I have no conductor, aside from myself, which means I'm going to have to make sure I can give legible cues to the bass section.)

So what happens? Oh yeah, assorted and sundry of my friends decide to have mental breakdowns to add to mine. Guys, I'm just getting over my own. I cannot pick yours up and put it back together for you. Call a professional. I'm single, so please don't bitch to me about who doesn't love you and how few decent people there are out there. Suck it up, kids. My office is closed. I'm out to lunch. I'm not taking new clients right now. I'm very sorry.

Maybe this is the psychological addendum to the no more medical emergencies clause I wrote into the contract last year.

Sincerely,

Your friendly neighborhood music therapist.

Game on!

Well, I'm in a slightly better place than last time. The show will still happen, thank you very much. An acquaintance even offered to help me find some folks tonight. Still a lot (lot lot lot) of work to do. Still evidence that I am fundamentally insane. But maybe it's at least a useful kind of insane.

What have I gotten myself into?

Or: Oh lord god I'm losing my mind!!!

Right. So all of you no doubt know that my sister is sick. Old hat. Been going through this for far too long now.

Well, around Christmas, on a whim, I decided to give her a piece of music. I sounded some people out to see if I could raise enough money to make it happen. Surprisingly, they nearly all said yes. So I started asking musicians and they too nearly all said yes. So I've been slowly building this thing ever since. Found a hall. Booked it. Edited parts. Worked late nights. E-mailed friends and acquaintances. Everything seemed to be going fine. But then people started backing out. At first it was one, and then later a second.

Well, it's become a case of two steps forward and one back. And this weekend I worry that the forward steps are disappearing. This is an enormous amount of work. No one is bloody willing to help me organize this and let me tell you what a great bloody organizer I am. I still believe I can do this, that together we can make this happen. Hell, I know damn good and well that together we can make this happen. I need forty people, all told, to make this happen. This is not bloody impossible. It can occur. But damn it, I'm going to slit my own throat out of sheer stress. (And no worries to the psychologists out there. I'm not actually contemplating any such thing. This is hyperbole. I'm simply suffering under too much stress and so I'm venting a little.) (Okay, a lot.)

Oh, please god, help me out here. For once in your god forsaken godlike existence take pity on a mere mortal. After all, without us this would be one boring little rock with no decent conversation to be found. (Yeah, I know. An atheist who prays. How odd is that ladies and gents?) So help me. I don't expect much. I don't ask for much. But I want to give this piece to my sister, and in order to render it meaningful to her she has to hear it. (She can't, in the end, read a score.)

Right. Sorry for the vent. Thank you for your patience. Keep me in mind oh my friends. This must happen and thus it will happen. The show MUST BLOODY GO ON. First axiom of theatre. The show MUST go on. And it always does. No matter how many people get ground into the dirt in the process.

The Song of a Laundry Gnome

What's the percentage in
Folding other people's
Underwear to the
Hip-hop beats of
Fast R and B?

What's the arithmetic of
Fluorescent lights, cheap
Beer, and
Laundry soap?

Do the fragrances of stale
Sweat, spilled
Perfume, and yesterday's
Dog urine
Multiply to a sum
So closely approximating
Zero as to justify
Discarding them?

But
The
Boy
is Pretty, and

I am young, so I'll
Spend my salvaged minutes on the
Dividend of
Stolen pleasure

While mechanisms spin and whir
Washing away the
Iniquities
of
Strangers' pasts
To the tune of a buck sixty a pound.

November 2009

October Light

Heavy skies dance over my head
As a brittle wind whispers
Tidings of more expressive weather
Lurking past the spiral fold of my
Calendar.

The breeze lends an ominous energy to
This twilight season of the year.
The grey weather washes away the
Contrast painted on the foliage.
Expectation hovers all around me, turning the
Thin atmosphere viscous, like cold gravy, or my own
Blood of a December morning.

Red drops congeal beneath the cold heavens.
A cat pauses near me. She preens herself
And watches the blowing leaves, looking for some
Drab mouse, whom she might make bright
Beneath the sunset; whose hidden colors she might spill
Garish upon the brown earth and her own
White jaws.

There is no season like the autumn. More
Desolate than the frozen marrow of winter,
More alive in its decadence, the
Frenzied tarantala of a dieing year.
Seasons come, pass, and change,
But on a crisp October night, paralyzed in
Fading light,
Autumn is always the same.

10-2008

I drink to you

My landlay died today. That’s not quite true, actually. In all probability, she died several days ago or more, but I discovered it this evening. This has precipitated several events. First, I find myself wishing I had done more. I wish I’d acted sooner. I wish I’d talked to her more often. I wish I knew more of her stories. And wishes can neither breathe nor swim, and thus they do me no good. So I move on to the memories and the drinking. I remember her patience, her tolerance, her love. I remember her hobbies and those that she herself loved. And I drink to her memory. And of course I find myself wondering why it is that we drink to the dead.

In the memory of Dottie, my dearly departed landlord I drink to you my living friends and lovers. I drink to you Kelly, my beloved partner in this brief span of artistic endeavor. I drink to you Ronald and you Sandra who reared me and gave me all that I am and all that I know. I drink to you Milton and you Juanita who sacrificed so much to preserve my freedom, even though you likely agree with few of my decisions. (Rest assured that I decide based on what I believe is right. I do not expect you to agree. Nor do I in any way think less of you for all our differences. I love you. I respect you. I hope that I am worthy of the sacrifices that you have made on some absolute metaphysical scale that neither of us may read.) I drink to my sister and my brother. They have weathered much. They have found good. They have pursued it. I am proud to be cut from the same cloth as they, and I pray that they may find all that they seek and more.

I drink to my friends. I drink to Ali and Pat. I drink to Sidhebaap and Chellery. I drink to both of the Rachels that I have known, and Debbie, and both Joes. (Both are dear to me. The UrQuan lord and the author equally.) I drink to Kelly Ludwig and Ryan Gozer and Jeff Cole. I drink to all my friends: new old and unmentioned. I have known many people over my life. Many good friends. I cannot hope to name them all here, but I drink to all of them as might hope to read this. I drink to a variety of Cats. I drink to an Elizabeth or two. I drink to all my loves: past, and present. Elizabeth, Avril, Amy, George (girl George, you perverts), Tonya, and indeed Kelly, whom I have mentioned before, and should mention again so often as I have breath.

Indeed, I drink to all the living. No, we are no more worthy than the dead. I would drink equally to Kenneth and Jane, to Elizabeth Parsons and to Vernon, George, Ellah, Raymond, Esther, Fred, and all that have gone before. I would drink to all my dead friends and forbears. But we the living poses one special trait that the dead no longer share. We can appreciate the love of our fellows. We can feel the lack of those whom we miss. I drink to my honored dead, yes, but I drink also to the living. Let me not wait until you are dead to tell you how much you mean to me. Let me tell you now. You are wonderful and special. All of you. You Zenkas and Cats that I know only by virtue of mail, and you Michaels and Christels that I know in person, but have not thanked nearly often enough. I drink to you. The wonderful people in my life. And if by misdeed or mischance I have left you worthies that might see this out of the list of accolades, know that I would have included you were I better than a flawed man. I drink to all the living that have affected me. All that have shaped me and helped me. I drink to you in the name and memory of my honored dead, but also in your own names and honors, as you have honor and your memory is cherished. I fight that it may not erode so long as I live. Thank you.