The Silly Season Starts Early

I don't remember when I first heard it referred to that way, but some pundit somewhere started calling the election cycle the Silly Season. Wikipedia says it's a British term for the slow late summer news cycle, but it would appear the term has been re-purposed on this side of the pond.

Just like Spring, its heralds are brightly colored and often blustery-- and rarely mistakable. Strident public discourse, sniping among differently minded friends who, in saner times, get along swimmingly, the wholesale retiring of senses of humor, gotcha political cartoons and commentaries (although, what one considers "gotcha" depends, really, on whether or not the item in question supports or denounces your view, right?).

Really, this quadrennial's (?) silly season might be deemed to have begun with the debt-ceiling debate. (Actually, debate is far too grown-up a word for what was essentially a mud-pit tug of war with both ends tied to tractors, but I digress.) It was certainly here by the time the GOP started their primary debates (again, a strong word for a bunch of people trying to sell you different brands of the same cereal. I was going to say corn flakes, since they are the most generic of cereals, but I would not wish to be misinterpreted as casting specific aspersions upon the GOP aspirants. And, again, I digress.). No matter how you slice it, we are in full silly season mode more than a year before the General Election.

Who I want to win and why I want him to win is likely apparent, but also irrelevant. It is as irrelevant as the facts that are and will continue to be trampled in what my friend calls fact-free rhetoric; as irrelevant as the straw-man arguments that will continue to draw attention away from our real and pressing issues. You know, the ones where people-with-way-more than-most try to pit the various flavors of the have-not-so-much against one another for blood sport, hoping we won't catch them absconding with our nation's promise. That was definitely not a digression.

Anyhoo, looks like we're in for the longest, ugliest haul of our Union. I really hope our better angels take flight. But I am also a child of the 70s who had a Magic 8 Ball:* "Very doubtful."

*FYI, Mattel has an online Magic 8 Ball here.

Remembrance of things past

Ten years have passed and people are asking once more, "Where were you when it happened?" No need to qualify that question with "when the planes hit," or "when the towers fell."

On that freakishly bright, beautiful September morning, I was listening to NPR and getting dressed for an audition when the first plane hit. I listened to the report, incredulous-- certain that it was an accident. Secure in that certainty, I went on to First Pres, where I was meeting my friend and pianist, Joby Bell. We had just gotten to the media control room when the second plane hit; we were sure, now, that it was no accident. While we were sure that something horrible had happened, we were not yet sure what it all meant; whether or not our worlds were meant to stop-- whether tasks and errands planned for that bright, beautiful day were to be given over to disbelief and stunned numbness.

Because we weren't sure, we went to the audition at Houston Baptist University. We drove down US 59 under a bright, blue sky absent of the contrails that usually betrayed the presence of the (usually) ever-present air traffic of the country's fourth largest city. We drove, wondering what would happen next-- unaware of the planes bound for the Pentagon and that field in Shanksville, PA. As we drove, we wondered: would the music faculty of HBU still be there? Were we still expected? Whatever could be the use of auditioning for a teaching job when the world could end at any minute?

We were met at the University by the (still) calming and beautiful presence of Dr. Ann Gebuhr, who has since become a treasured friend and colleague. She shared our sense of being unmoored, of going through the motions in the absence of... of the right-side up, unassailable country we lived in when we woke up just a scant few hours earlier.

I managed to get through the audition; sang a few of my favorite things, worked with a student, and got the job. Much later, Ann (and one or two others) told me that my singing that day had been a balm for the confusion we were all feeling. I don't recount that to toot my own horn in any way. There is a long piece by Karl Paulnack, his 2004 welcome address to the Boston Conservatory. In it, he argues for the singularity of music as the one thing we use to relate to and express those things we can't necessarily verbalize. It's an amazing piece; you should read it. He writes, in part:

In September of 2001 I was a resident of Manhattan. On the morning of September 12, 2001 I reached a new understanding of my art and its relationship to the world. I sat down at the piano that morning at 10 AM to practice as was my daily routine; I did it by force of habit, without thinking about it. I lifted the cover on the keyboard, and opened my music, and put my hands on the keys and took my hands off the keys. And I sat there and thought, does this even matter? Isn't this completely irrelevant? Playing the piano right now, given what happened in this city yesterday, seems silly, absurd, irreverent, pointless. Why am I here? What place has a musician in this moment in time? Who needs a piano player right now? I was completely lost.

And then I, along with the rest of New York, went through the journey of getting through that week. I did not play the piano that day, and in fact I contemplated briefly whether I would ever want to play the piano again. And then I observed how we got through the day.

At least in my neighborhood, we didn't shoot hoops or play Scrabble. We didn't play cards to pass the time, we didn't watch TV, we didn't shop, we most certainly did not go to the mall. The first organized activity that I saw in New York, on the very evening of September 11th, was singing. People sang. People sang around fire houses, people sang "We Shall Overcome". Lots of people sang America the Beautiful. The first organized public event that I remember was the Brahms Requiem, later that week, at Lincoln Center, with the New York Philharmonic. The first organized public expression of grief, our first communal response to that historic event, was a concert. That was the beginning of a sense that life might go on. The US Military secured the airspace, but recovery was led by the arts, and by music in particular, that very night.

So, here we are- here I am, ten years later. Ten years of teaching and "raising" singers at HBU; a tenure that began on a hugely momentous day. I have always believed that what I do is important and necessary. I try to teach my students that what they are learning is important and necessary. I think, sometimes, that my sense of the importance of what I/we do is heightened by the backdrop of 9/11, of having begun this journey with these people while it was still happening and being able to use music to minister to frayed souls in those shattered moments.

There is a balm in Gilead, to make the wounded whole.
There is a balm in Gilead to heal the sin-sick soul...

Time in a bottle...

If I could save time in a bottle
The first thing that I'd like to do
Is to save every day 'til eternity passes away
Just to spend them with you
[...]
But there never seems to be enough time
To do the things you want to do once you find them...
- Jim Croce

I used to love this song when it was out. Well, still do.

What is the point, you ask? I recently purchased a new computer. My first new desktop in 8 years (laptop is 5 years old). This thing is beast (as the kids say). Anyhoo, my soon to be excessed desktop has a 3.5 floppy disk drive. Some of you have no idea what that is. I had to add the drive, even in 2003. Not even an option now. So, this is literally my last chance to clean out the box of old floppy disks. This box used to represent the high point of technology. 2 MB high- density floppys. Wooooooo...

As you might imagine, the files on these antiques date back as far as 1992. And what a treasure trove it is. Some highlights:

- June 1995: Made an invitation to a friend's son's 11th birthday party
- August 1995: That same friend and I ran into Clyde Drexler in the Downtown Tunnels and he actually stopped to talk to us. So I sent him a thank you note.
- May 1996: My apartment on Castle Court was burglarized and my fancy new (then) cell phone was stolen. Required the cancellation of my account with GTE Mobilnet (anybody even know what that became/was absorbed into?).

Now, I'm on the 1994 disk. One of the first things? "30 things to do to relieve stress from Jon Mittelhauser's personal page on the NCSA Mosaic." So many archaisms in it! For one thing, web pages were still called personal pages. Another? Number 30: Do your assignments in binary code. (Yes, I know all modern computer applications boil down to binary code.) Also found the funeral bulletin for the friend of a dear friend. Whose cremains would ultimately spend an inordinate amount of time in my trunk— a story for another day.

1993: Apparently, I did a lot of typing for friends. I found complaint letters of all kind (from me, as well as from said friends) and several REALLY old recital programs. One letter I composed for a colleague was an application for her son to "Moo Montana's Posse." A letter to an old friend overseas– who is still overseas and still a good friend. Very chatty, that letter. My bill-paying schedule (before the mortgage, if only I knew then how good I had it...). The proof of an interview I gave to the UT Health Science Center staff newsletter about being a desk jockey by day and opera chorister by night. A letter I wrote to my mother while recovering from a vocal fold hemorrhage (I couldn't talk, so no phones– this was before widespread home use of the interwebs).

1992: Recipes! (Didn't cook then, don't cook now) Ratatouille enjoyed with Shepherd School buddies. Italian Nut Balls from my friend Claire's fabulous mom, who also made a mean Pineapple Stuffing.

Lots of memories, good and bad. Some are now permanently disapparated; others live to fight another day on another storage medium.

G'Night Hobbit Fans!

Ah, youth (and other non-terminal diseases)!

It's been far too long, Hobbit Fans! I confess that some of the itches this blog was meant to scratch have been soothed by the beast that is Facebook. I can fire off a bon mot or some trifle that catches my attention soooo easily with a link or a status update. But I haven't forgotten you. And yes, the dissertation is yet unfinished. But soon, my pretties, soon!

Facebook also has a blog-ish function called Notes, but that doesn't go out into the wide world (which is what I call the 4 of you still paying attention). These posts go there, too, thanks to the miracle of RSS. I guess what I'm trying to say is, sorry for leaving you to languish.

What Facebook has also afforded me is a glimpse into the hearts and minds of friends and acquaintances. I think a lot (vs. alot) of people forget that what goes on the 'net stays on the 'net and that privacy doesn't always mean what you think it means. So, people say what they mean and it's sometimes something they wouldn't say if they know who all was reading it.

Today was a prime example. Someone I consider a friend has a friend I would never consider a friend. I don't know this third party, but I know what's in his heart, since he used a word I find abhorrent to describe someone I greatly respect and with whom I share an ethnic heritage. This is not the first time this has happened and it probably won't be the last. Were it not for Facebook, I would not know that this person even exists and certainly would not know what he thinks of uppity black people. Because of Facebook, however, I was assured that other people I know and respect (and even love) also find not only the word, but the uncouth discourse, as abhorrent as I do. So it's not all bad.

Another time on Facebook, I commented on a Houston political issue that also concerned issues of LGBTQ equality. If you don't know, I have pretty strong views on it and am wholly supportive of it. Especially as LGBTQ rights equate to the Civil Rights movement.

Now, I know a lot of young people. I'm even related to some. One of them jumped into the fray with both feet, perhaps being unaware that I have a lot of friends who are well-versed in the art of rhetoric. They kind of ate my young friend alive, perhaps being unaware that he was a young person. I didn't agree with his standpoint, of course, but I found this to be a teachable moment.

What I (later) told him had less to do with his views and beliefs and more to do with the fact that those things can and do change with experience (experience also, hopefully, allows one to make more elegant arguments, but I digress). So here's what I said:

You kinda jumped into it over there on my status. No hard feelings. I applaud the fact that you have a strong faith that guides you.

What I want for you, though, is to entertain the notion that things are not as black and white as it is convenient to believe they are.

As you grow and get older, you will find that it is in the gray areas that we need to forge who we are and what we stand for. I have learned so many things and had so many of my beliefs and assumptions challenged. It is in those challenges that I was forced to look at my beliefs and assumptions, really examine them and their foundations. Then I was able to truly own them as my own— tested and found to stand.

Please do not ever allow fear and misunderstanding to guide you. And if you find yourself challenged, do not hold tight to a position just because it's the position you've already held— or because others have given it to you.

Fear is just that, and usually it comes from not knowing that which you fear. Believe me when I say being black and being gay are very much the same issue. Go back through your history books and look at the reasons— some of them Biblical!!— why white people said blacks were not full members of humanity, why servility was the only thing we were good for, why we were genetically inferior to whites, why we were demonized, and why, even in 2009, you can scare some people by even inferring that a black person could be in charge of them and theirs.

No human created by God is wrong, inferior, or bad. You may not like some peoples' actions or behaviors, but their personhood is a gift from our Creator God and born to His glory.

Just like you cannot assume what people will do because they are a different race or gender from you, you cannot assume (and therefore fear) what they will do because they are not built with the same sexual orientation as you.

I think my counsel applies to a lot of issues— and probably to a lot of people. So I'm sharing it.

Now, back to that dissertation...

Oh right, this thing...

Yes, I disappeared again. It happens, apparently.

I attribute it mostly to the quick and dirty allure of the ubiquitous social networking behemoth that is Facebook. I can dash off a little bon mot of a status and thereby unburden my soul of that which I would have heretofore left here.

Yeah, that's it.

Wellll, there's also the incredibly wild year that commenced right about the time I stopped visiting with you all, which hasn't quite ended-- even though it's been over a year.

There's the school thing (pesky little as-yet-unwritten dissertation), the ballet thing (for which I more or less forsook the dissertation thing until fairly recently), the teaching full-time thing (which is by no means new, but seems to take more time these days. Is that a good thing?), and just the overall too much in my head to get some out thing.

Rest assured, a full accounting of all the wonderful things you missed will find a place here. Right now, though, I have a proposal revision to attend to...

Hope your (almost over) 2009 is/was everything you wanted it to be. There is still time, but not much!

A little something for your trouble. The first Halloween costume I actually planned in some years:

Peace, be still...

So, every once in a while, the Big Guy leaves a message on my inner answering machine. This is one of those times.

If you know me, you know that I am a little bit of a control freak. Pretty much the worst thing you can hand me is a situation over which I have absolutely no control.

For those of you not currently residing on Planet Earth (or admittedly, someone outside the US bereft of the blessings of CNN International), a GINORMOUS hurricane by the completely non-threatening name of Ike is bearing down on the town I call home, Houston.

As Pops Sanford would say, "This is the big one, Elizabeth!"

A little bit about my current nemesis, Ike. He's a big guy, around 800 miles across, runs a 11-12 minute mile (give the guy a break, he's HUGE!), and a big wind bag. One hundred mile an hour winds, to be exact, and tipping the scale at Category 3. He plans to party on the Galveston Sea Wall tonight. After he trashes that, he's gonna come see about Houston.

Aaaand as luck would have it, I am in Brussels. As in Belgium. As in 5000 miles from where I'd rather be, putting up my dukes against this unwanted visitor.

Hence my celestial voice-mail. Once I got the text message saying that British Airways had cancelled all flights to Houston for Friday and Saturday, September 12 and 13, I was in overdrive. Trying (vainly) to get in touch with BA to see how close to Houston I could get (should I fly west of Houston and bypass Ike? Or fly to the east and try to outrun it? If I stay in Brussels, when will I be able to go home? Home? What about my house? Who is going to watch it? Omigodomigodomigod what am I going to do???

It quickly became clear that nothing could be done until the morning, since the European offices of BA keep banker's hours and the US and UK offices have toll-free numbers that, alas, can only be dialed from the US or the UK (there's something vaguely wrong about that, but I digress).

After a fitful night full of tossing, turning, and dreams of storms and missed flights, I awoke at 9 today (Friday) to see what I could do.

The short version is, sit my generous butt down and wait it out.

BA was more than willing to fly me anywhere they flew, which helped me not at all. Sure, I could go to Phoenix, Chicago, NYC or LA. But then what? Whilst some of those options came with free couches on which to pass the night(s) until I could get to Houston, none came with free tickets to Houston or the nearest alternatives, San Antonio or Austin. And then what?

I realized I was listening to the light packer's panic over running out of clean underthings and daily meds; at which point cooler heads reminded me that access to both was likely readily available in the first world capital city of Brussels.

Which left me to accept BA's offer of a rebooking to fly on Sunday and pray that Houston isn't closed down for too long.

From which the careful reader would then infer that the aforementioned sitting and waiting is now in force.

In my 40 (almost 41!!!) years on this earth, I have been "involved" with 2 other hurricanes. I experienced Hugo, my first, also away from home, at a camp in South Carolina in September, 1989. We knew a hurricane was coming, but a) it was forecast for landfall in Savannah, GA and b) even if it hit further up the coast, York, SC (where I was running a retreat) and Charlotte, NC (where my roommate was home alone) were several hours inland and not considered to be in the path of the storm.

Like my boy, Ike (can it be a coincidence that I comes after H?), Hugo had his own plans. He came onshore at Charleston, SC instead and ran full bore through both York AND Charlotte.

I never want to endure another hurricane with nothing between me and nature's fury but a log cabin. Really!

My second, Rita, was more of an epic journey of futility. In September, 2005, coming right on the heels of Killer Katrina, she had the attention of the entire city of Houston when she led the National Hurricane Center on and made a date to tango on our turf. So I left town, along with a million of my closest friends. It took 11 hours to make the 3-hour trip to Austin (a long story I would have blogged about had I been blogging then), where I watched Rita make a late-stage shimmy to the East and pretty much miss Houston entirely.

Did I mention that both the hit and the miss, like Ike, fell on or around my birthday? It really is enough to make one wonder. If nothing else, about mid-season hurricanes.

(For the record, Gustav's Labor Day near-miss threatened to delay my departure for Brussels. Hmmm.)

All that to say, I am personally very well aware of what can happen. I would like nothing more than to be hunkering down in my cute little house, waiting for the inevitable and being at the battle stations should defensive action be required.

But I'm here, in Brussels, in a 4th floor walk-up apartment (evilly considered 3rd floor here on the Continent), on a borrowed laptop, scanning news websites and...

...waiting.

Be still and know that I am God. - Psalm 46

I am so working on that.

A Flemish Postcard

[This title makes me giggle, thanks to an old opera chorus inside joke from HGO's Don Carlo that would take too long to recount. It has to do with Flaming Flamingos.]

Greetings from Ghent, which I am told is in Flanders!

While I have mentioned that this summer is essentially a European tour, I've posted no dispatches, and am correcting that situation prontissimo!

Just for a sense of perspective, I remind you that I had my surgery on 4 June (see? I'm being all European with my dates). On 4 July, I left for Belgium I. Returned to Houston on 14 June, left for rehearsals in Austin on 17 June, left Houston (via Austin) for Copenhagen on 21 June and returned to Houston on 27 June. Then, on 3 August, I returned for Belgium II, from whence I will return on 9 August.

Are you tired yet? I am...

The first thing I have had to orient myself to (since I essentially don't get jet-lag-- don't hate.) is the keyboards. In the US, we have what we call QUERTY keyboards, which I vaguely recall were developed based on letter usage frequency. I never completed an actual typing class; as with piano, I suck at memorizing fingerings and dropped my high school typing class before I failed it. That said, on a QWERTY keyboard I type pretty quickly and mostly accurately, having essentially memorized the keyboard layout and can quickly navigate it.

Here's what the letter layout of a Euro keyboard is:

a z e r t y u i o p ^ $
q s d f g h j k l m ù µ
w x c v b n , ; : =

Additionally, all the numbers and symbols on the top row are flipped: symbols are default and numbers require the shift key. To give you an idea of how slowly this is going, I will type this sentence with my "keyboard memory."

To give you qn ideq of hoz lsozly this is going; I aill type this sentence zith ,y £keyboqrd ,e,ory;£

Yeah, like that.

Anyhoo, back to the (slow) dispatch.

GHENT
Ghent is lovely. It's about 35 miles from Brussels. The best way to get here is train; about 50 minutes and only about 15 bucks (no dollar sign on this puppy). Since I was on various restrictions during the first trip, I took a cab. That was about 200 bucks (thank God Les Ballets is so generous with its singers!). Once I arrived at the Hotel Astoria, Frank, the very lovely proprietor said a cab ride could be had for more like 100 bucks. When we arranged one ahead of time for the return trip, it ended up being 150 bucks. Ah well.

The hotel is not in the center of Ghent and there is little in the way of restaurants without going in to town (tram ride: buck-fifty. food choices: priceless), but there are a few. Places in the area where I have dined during my two trips:

- Kam Kwok (Chinese). OK, nice waitress, fairly inscrutable menu in "Engrish," German and Dutch (the lingua franca). I ordered a crab pancake, sweet and sour pork and lemonade and received an eggroll, the pork and a sprite. Now I know. The rice was excellent, by the way.

- The Rambler (standard euro-american fare). Meh. This one had an English menu (many do). Forgettable meal of shrimp scampi with a cute baby waiter.

- Casteel (decent restaurant of a 2-star hotel). Nice barmaid, excellent house-made sangria and a nice prix fixe steak dinner for 40 bucks. Odd cut of beef, but tasty, and the dessert was a plate of chocolate goodies: mousse, ice cream, cake and whipped cream.

- Salt & Pepper (Indian). Quite nice. Was craving veggies by this point and had sag paneer (creamed spinach) and calamari (very red and very spicy). Nice white wine.

- Cafe Parti (my favorite, thus far). It's a "slow-food" restaurant; locally obtained, organic where possible, cooked to order food. Couldn't get in the first time I happened by, but managed to eat there twice more that first trip as well as tonight. And tomorrow. My two favorite offerings? A cheese croquet (think fried cheese, only better) and minced pineapple with minted sugar.

[Note: that may seem like a lot of variety, but that was 85% (give or take) of all the possible eateries in a 3-square mile area. A similar type/sized area in Houston would have double that, I'm sure.]

I managed a few meals in town too: Amadeus (an all you can eat rib place, but they serve the ribs BY THE SLAB so there's not so much second plate action) and Passion (basic European- they had Belgian specialties, so I had Waterzooi- a creamy chicken stew).

We did a lot more than eat, though it probably doesn't look that way! I've been here rehearsing a show, "Pitié," with Les Ballets C de la B (The Contemporary Ballet of Belgium). There are about 12 or so dancers and a band (drums, bass, trumpet, violin, accordion, alto sax, cello- I think that's all). The music is a remix of sorts of Bach's St Matthew Passion for soprano, mezzo-soprano and counter-tenor. Hard to describe, but it works. Fabrizio Cassol arranged the music and Alain Platel choreographed. This production opens at the end of August and tours through next June. Three casts of singers (including one of my faves, Laura Claycomb and a new fave, Maribeth Diggle) share the singing duties. (Curiously, there are several American singers in this production, although I am the only one living in the US.) We rehearsed in a lovely Art Deco theater called the Vooruit from April till July and not are in Minnemeers, part of the Ghent municipal theater from now till opening.

Haven't done much more than rehearse and recharge, but I did stroll through town one Saturday and almost saw the Van Eyck bros.' "Adoration of the Mystic Lamb" at St. Bavo's Cathedral. It had closed for the day, but I'm planning to return tomorrow.

COPENHAGEN
I think I mentioned in the previous post that Conspirare sang at the 8th World Choral Symposium, which is why I was there. We sang our own program twice (to general acclaim, I hear) and also premiered one of the Symposium commissions, a Light Mass by Lithuanian composer Vytautas Miskinis. From what we hear, he's a big deal in Europe. We performed in the Royal Opera House (LOVELY venue) with a jazz trio and our own Faith DeBow playing the other piano part. We sang it well but there were mixed reactions to the piece itself. It had a homogeneity of sound and texture that apparently wore on some listeners.

Once again, accommodations were outside of the city center. This time though, they were outside of the city itself, in a suburb called Kastrup, near the airport. The hotel (I think they left the "s" off of hostel") is a budget chain called Zleep Hotels. Not recommended by this traveler (don't be fooled by the sunny website). While I freely admit that my idea of roughing it is a Motel 6, this was um, sub-basic. Teeeeny tiny rooms and beds and a "power-shower:" basically a combination toilet/shower/sink. Breakfast was nice though!

By this point in my travels, I was quite tired, so I did little more than was required. I managed to see a little bit of Copenhagen. One day I'd love to go back when I can better cope (hahahahaha).

I am also grateful for our two amazing Symposium hosts, Martin and Carsten!! They kept us sane and amused...

I loved spending time with my Conspirare buddies, especially as this upcoming season is pretty much all Les Ballets. It was the same old, fabulous crowd with one exception. One of our regular members had a death in the family and had to cancel at, literally, the last minute. He was ably seconded by a new friend, John Proft, who is my new hero. Our rehearsals started in Austin on 18 July. John got the call on 14 July, got the music on 15 July and managed to arrive virtually completely memorized AND with a brand, spranking new, theretofore nonexistent passport. On top of that, he had to travel alone on his first trip outside of the country. He rocks; basically.

Sigh, I've abused your eyes (and the backspace key) for long enough. There are more tales to be told and I'm sure they'll end up in some future dispatch from your favorite Yankee Hobbit.

If Europe is in your travel plans at some point in the next 11 months, check the website and come see the show...

Later, peeps...