"The Bard-like passages caused a peak in brain activity."

According to "Your Brain on the Bard" (Prevention, July 2007), "Parsing [Shakespeare's] work may help sharpen your smarts." I think some of us knew that already, though, right?

Also in that issue: a better flip-flop. I don't ordinarily wear flip-flops, but these seem sort of neat -- supportive, effective. You can find them here.

For the cat-lovers in M-mv's readership: "A Brief History of House Cats" (Smithsonian, web-only exclusive).

Jersey boy
Actor Ed Harris provided some of the narration in the BBC documentary Jackson Pollock: Love & Death on Long Island. As I listened to his frank, salty, un-actorly narrative, I realized, He must be from Jersey.

Sure enough. Born in Tenafly, New Jersey in 1950.

As they say: It takes one to know one.

Square eyes

Mr. M-mv and I watched Devil's Playground yesterday afternoon. While it was not nearly as disturbing as Jesus Camp (which, as I've mentioned before, is a horror movie masquerading as a documentary), it did make both of us a little — for lack of a better adjective — uncomfortable. Yes, the images of Amish teenagers attending what amounts to rave parties fueled by copious amounts of alcohol, drugs, and bad music are, as one reviewer describes it, "jarring," but it was the reminder that if a child returns to his church community following rumspringa (and ninety percent do), he is, in effect, denying his sense of self: Amish religious convictions are predicated on the erasure of self.

SHUDDER.

We watched Compulsion last weekend. That Orson Welles was brilliant is indisputable, so why isn't his understated portrayal of Jonathan Wilk better known? It was perfection. (Aside: Surely, Welles is Vincent D'Onofrio's greatest influence, right? Has anyone ever asked him that, I wonder? Added later: Ah, yes. I remember. D'Onofrio played Welles in Ed Wood. This, of course, is not proof of any sort, but it does lend a hint of credibility to my musing, no?) Compulsion, a 1959 film, is a fictionalized account of the infamous Leopold-Loeb case; the Wilk character is based on Clarence Darrow. And, yes, watching the film led to two titles now on my nightstand: Leopold and Loeb: Crime of the Century (Hal Higdon) and Clarence Darrow for the Defense (Irving Stone), the latter of which I acquired for less than a dollar at our local used book store.

Jonathan Wilk: In those years to come, you might find yourself asking if it wasn't the hand of god dropped these glasses... And if he didn't, who did?

One of the trailers on the Compulsion DVD was for The St. Valentine's Day Massacre, a 1967 film about the struggle between Al Capone and Bugs Moran to dominate the booming bootleg business that defined Chicago in the twenties. Master M-mv, a history buff of sorts, has a particular interest in this period of the city's history. He was delighted to learn that Mr. and I scheduled a 5'7" and up film and snacks evening to view this movie.

And this afternoon, Mr. and I will watch a biography of Jackson Pollock (related entries here and here). Next weekend, we've decided to watch Pollock.

Speaking of the nightstand...
(And I was, a paragraph or two ago.) During swim season and two deadlines, an unwieldy stack of magazines had accumulated both there and on the trunk at the foot of our bed. After music lessons yesterday, I spent some time flipping through the "easier" titles (e.g., Prevention and Entertainment Weekly). Today I hope to catch up on Smithsonian and National Geographic. (If you're interested in our subscriptions, visit this display in our store.)

What else? The Misses and I are reading The Penderwicks (Jeanne Birdsall) together. Beautiful. And I'm glad I waited until they were a little older. They will remember this well.

Master and I are still making our way sloooowly through The Story of Art (E.H. Gombrich). Wonderful. Master also recently read The Sparrow (Maria Doria Russell), The Long Walk (Slavomir Rawicz), and Gotcha! Tales from a Black-Belt Bounty Hunter (Joseph Laney, Cyn Mobley), the latter of which is not great or even "all right" literature, but it was an entertaining poolside read for a certain black-belt-turned-lifeguard.

There are more titles for all of us but not enough time left in my morning. Next time, then.

Gratitude
Amazon's switch to monthly disbursements has found me thanking you more freqently — three times as frequently as years past, in fact. Well, let me thank you, then, for the following:

As You Like It (pre-ordered)
Hamlet (pre-ordered)
The Story of Science, Book Three: Einstein Adds a New Dimension (Joy Hakim)
Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky (Patrick Hamilton; this one is winging its way here from a third-party seller in the UK)

This leaves me with a pleasant balance for any whims that strike in August (because it seems so unlikely that I will manage to hang onto the remaining amount until the end of August when associates are paid again). So, again, thank you to all of you who make your purchases through Mental multivitamin.

And thank you to the smart women who maintain Magnificent Octopus, Pages Turned, The Sheila Variations, Surface-Mined, Book Moot, and Semicolon. Many of the email messages I receive are from folks thanking me for book and movie recommendations. Well, when I exhaust my own devices for uncovering worthwhile titles, you six represent my most reliable sources of recommendations and inspiration, so thank you.

Question
Some of you wondered about Master's tuition bill. Why are you paying it? a few have asked, referring to this post. Again, Master is a high school senior. The family-centered learning project is an all-expenses-paid package; in other words, we will pay for any college classes our students tackle birth through high school graduation. In fact, so excited are the Misses M-mv by the idea that they can take college courses at fourteen that they have already talked about what courses they may choose and how this will set them up to have a college degree by the time they complete high school.

Smart girls.

Mr. M-mv and I will not, on the other hand, accept responsibility for their tuition bills after high school graduation. But these are bright kids. They have already realized that the key is to do well in their studies from the beginning and take college courses while in high school. They also know that if they attend an in-state school, they will have no room and board concerns.

It's all good, folks.

Practice does not make perfect.
It doesn't. At least, practice does not make my pieces perfect. Practice does, however, make me happy, and it renders my pieces recognizable and, later, expressive. This gives me joy.

As the recital drew near, we set aside most of our extra pieces to focus on preparation for the performance and slow but steady progress in our lesson books. "Moonlight Sonata," therefore, was untouched for two months. In the last lesson before the recital, though, we tugged it free from the music bag and began work on it afresh. Two pages of it are now mine — recognizable and expressive. How remarkable is that?

Read. Think. Learn.

Practice.

At about 1:15 p.m. today, I wrote a check for Master M-mv's first semester of college.

As some of you know, he is technically a high school senior (which is why we're paying this tuition bill), but he will attend the local college as a dually enrolled student this fall. As it turns out, he will attend fulltime.

Two neat things happened in the hour before I signed my name to the check:

1. He aced the college's math placement test, an accomplishment that, yes, to be frank, did come as a delightful surprise.

2. He earned admission into the honors English comp/lit course. This wasn't a surprise, of course, but it did serve as a validation of sorts -- for both the student and his teacher.

So.

My seventeen-year-old's reading-thinking-learning days will take on a new look on August 20.

And I will miss him.

I will miss him very much.

You know, it's all over in a couple of math textbooks, museum visits, cocoa breaks, and trips to the library, folks. Enjoy the Frog and Toad Were Friends moments, the starfish hands, the nature walks.

I know I did.

And yet... here, at my desk, where none of the kids can see, I'm crying just a little.

Just a little.

Whatever the outcome is going to be, let it be. And then things would turn out all right. It looks like some good came out of it. (Nobel laureate Alexander Solzhenitsyn in a recent interview.)

For a moment -- or, to be honest, several moments -- there, in the middle of it all, I wondered if I would make it through the summer swim season. A little like the animated Grinch, I wanted to grab both sides of my head, wailing, "Oh, the noise! Oh, the noise, noise, noise, NOISE!" (Actually, I did do that while in the privacy of my home a few times, while I was recounting my myriad "pool stories" for my husband's amusement.)

And now it's over.

As is my most recent deadline.

And here, in the warm July morning, I sit, looking at birds, nursing a large mug of coffee, and smiling. It's true, apparently. Whatever doesn't kill you -- or a wide swath of your soul, anyway -- makes you stronger.

Can you hear me roar? It's ooooooover!

Yes, I am closing in on this month's deadline, which, for a while there on Friday night, seemed all but unmeetable. But I believe I have thought, "I'm never going to finish this in time!" at least twice before every deadline I've ever had, and I've never not met one, so... there's that, anyway, right? I'm a researching, writing, and linking fiend today, unable to offer my regular readers much more than this image of me working my fingers to, well, bloody stumps. (Hey, it's a living.) I'll see you on the other side with something more edifying than this animation, I promise.

On parenting teenagers

1. Encourage their pursuit of a sport that challenges and exhausts them (e.g., cross country running, swimming, rigorous martial arts training).

2. Connect them with meaningful work and support their efforts.

3. At the very least, treat them with the same regard that you would tender an office associate. You would never, for example, shout at or disparage or lecture someone in an office scenario -- not even a subordinate, right? Well, approach the training of the young people in your life with -- at minimum -- the level of respect you would accord fellow employees.

4. Give them all of the food and rest they need when they need it.

5. Well before their teen years, subtly guide them toward an interest or two that you share (e.g., birding or carpentry or flying or whatever). This way, no matter what, you'll have something in common.

6. Even if they grow to be your friends, never forget that you are their parents.

From the archives: Mr. M-mv rose at 5 a.m.

to shower and make coffee. Master M-mv rose fifteen minutes later. He ate his breakfast in less than five minutes. They each brushed and rinsed their teeth for the requisite two minutes (brush) and thirty seconds (rinse). Mr. M-mv prepared and packed his son's lunch in less than seven minutes. Master fussed with his hair for three minutes. They each dressed in less than two minutes. As the men in my life, they were bustled out the door early in order to arrive at the field house ten minutes before the bus to the distant conference meet was scheduled to depart.

They sat in companionable silence for most of the wait, although they did consult the Blackberry about weather and reviewed contact information for the long day ahead. The bus pulled in three minutes late. Master lingered with Mr. M-mv; school-bus seating is no friend to a 6'7" frame. Finally, he loped over to waiting bus, which pulled out of the parking lot four minutes late.

Mr. M-mv waved to its retreating form, and Master stuck his arm out the window to return his father's gesture. Each continued shaking his hand long after the other could actually see him.

Mr. M-mv arrived home seven minutes later.

In one hundred and twenty minutes, he will head out to the same distant town. He will drive at least eighty-eight minutes to see four events -- a total of perhaps eight minutes that will punctuate an eight-hour conference in exclamation points.

But unlike a son's events in a season conference meet, most of the content of our lives arrives and departs not in exclamation points but in commas and semicolons and periods -- in the ordinary, in the morning rituals, in two- or five- or fifteen-minute intervals.

Mark the softer punctuation. Mark it well because enfolded in the swish of the sponge on the breakfast dishes and the sound of the crows discovering the meatballs you set out, in the companionable silences and soft murmurs the quotidian comprises, in the commas and semicolons and periods is, well, life.

So life isn't the time he made in the 50M freestyle or the trophy he will bring home. It isn't the raise his father received or the art contest his sister won. Life isn't birthdays and vacations and a deafening line of exclamation points. No, mostly life is the drive to the field house and the lonely practices and the hard but good work and the family book club and the drawing pencils scattered about the living room and all of the small moments that beget the exclamation points.

Don't miss it.

Note: This entry ran one year ago. The ritual was repeated today, right down to the weather consultation. The Misses M-mv have swapped some sort of bug, and Miss M-mv(i) caught it full on, including a fever over 102, so the women are home today. But the men? The men have another chance at blue -- at taking first in the conference in the 50M Free.

Think of them... in between chapters of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

No party for us.

Amazon will deliver multiple copies of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows tomorrow morning, but we must leave early, early, EARLY for the divisional meet, so I suspect that we'll just pick up a copy en route to the obscure corner of the state in which we'll find ourselves for most of the day.

I'll read aloud a bit, but, honestly? All of us are consumed by other books and projects right now.

Our memorable Harry Potter moments were much earlier than this. For example, my son still has the receipt dated December 1998 from Marshall Field's on State Street. One of the clerks in the bookstore in the basement of that once-upon-a-time-ago store pressed a hard copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone into my hands, saying, "This is supposed to be wonderful." Later, of course, these words would seem prophetic.

Aside: I often think of those old men and the one old woman among them. Those book clerks were misfits in a store of beautiful people and even more beautiful wares. And, as much as one can be said to love a stranger, I loved them; I loved them all. I knew that I could, no, would likely be one of them when I grew up -- well read, poorly dressed, opinionated, cranky, smart, and surrounded by books. They were, of course, the first to be let go when Marshall Field's began gulping for air.

SIGH.

I liked that, for a time, we were the ones telling Master M-mv's fellow martial arts students and their parents, "Get this book!"

Our neighbor in our first Chicago home ran marathons all over the world, so he brought our copy of the second title back from the UK. We ordered the third from Amazon UK, and then they began being released in the UK and here at the same time.

We tried to attend a party for the fourth book, but none of us are crowd people, and the Misses M-mv were still so young. After vainly trying to have fun at one party, we drove to a bookstore that must not be named in an slightly funkier neighborhood. We were the only customers in the store! Picked up our copies and tons of party favors and souvenirs. Seems that a HP party wasn't on the top of the social calendar of the folks who usually patronize the store.

Books Five and Six were delivered to us first thing on the morning of their release by Amazon.

And that's what feels most like us -- the rumble of the UPS truck and a box from Amazon.

Do not miss this one.

Fun Home: A Family Tragicomic (Alison Bechdel)

Bookslut interviews Bechdel here. NPR's Lianne Hansen talks with her here. A bio can be found here.

It's said, after all, that people reach middle age the day they realize they're never going to read Remembrance of Things Past.

The corner of my desk pictured above is much more interesting than the corner of my mind I've left to devote to M-mv, so I'll share the former. Let's see...

:: Shakespeare & Company (Sylvia Beach) hasn't gotten much attention from me since this entry. In fact, I haven't had much time to "read read," if you know what I mean -- to settle in with a wonderful book and forget everything else -- in the last two weeks.

:: The Daedulus Books catalogue arrived either just before or just after I espied this entry. Four books shouted my name, and at those prices, who can resist?

:: The Three-Way Pad was an impulse purchase. You know you want one, too. You'll find them here.
__________________

The Misses M-mv and I have been entranced by Seabird (Holling Clancy Holling), which was published in 1948. We are likely the first to have checked this book out in quite some time -- it smells like old, old school books and disuse.

It smells like a treasure... and an adventure.

Highly recommended.

The recommended daily allowance

Who the #$&% Is Jackson Pollock?

From the Amazon review:

Ex-60 Minutes producer Harry Moses made Who the #$&% Is Jackson Pollock?, a favorite documentary film at festivals in 2006. Like an extended 60 Minutes segment, the film presents all aspects of the drama surrounding San Bernadino resident Teri Horton's ten year crusade to certify that her thrift store art purchase is an authentic Jackson Pollock painting worth $60 million. The story, hilarious because of Horton's vibrant, spitfire personality, and because of the absurd lengths she has gone to prove skeptical Pollock experts wrong, extends into a larger sociological discussion of art historical fraud. Gathering forensic evidence to battle art critics and collectors, Horton's attempt to buck the system, which requires provenance and a paper trail to qualify artwork, seems lame. Early on, for example, she claims that the painting was made in a bar at ski resort Mt. Baldy, where several movie stars were snowed in and forced to make artwork together culminating in Pollock's signing the painting with his [member]. Interviewed, she explains why she's declared war on the established, discriminatory "art world." As the plot thickens, the viewer chuckles at its absurdity, but also sympathizes with this clever woman who, if anything, deserves some payment simply for her dedication to the cause.

For more about Horton, check out this November 9, 2006 NYT article, "Could Be a Pollock; Must Be a Yarn."

Mr. M-mv and I loved this movie and talked about for hours during and after. (Yes, we paused to discuss.) If you're familiar with this entry, you know I have an abiding affection for Pollock.

Highly recommended.

The recital is here... and gone.

Again, many thanks for the well-wishes. The Misses M-mv were remarkable: poised, expressive, accurate. Just a delight.

I wish I could say the same about my own time on the tiny stage, but somewhere in the middle of my final piece... something happened. I recovered and soldiered on, but I couldn't help but think (and doesn't every musician or speaker or actor, every performer who has flubbed, do so?), "But it sounded so wonderful at home."

Do you know what I did when we returned home from dinner? Yes, I sat right down and played all of my pieces again.

Flawlessly.

And then I began practicing this week's piece.

That'll do.

Because I am not steeped in the notion that if I can't excel, there's little point in the pursuit.

It's all about the pursuit for me.

I do have to wonder, though, Was a flub-free performance too much to ask?

Oh, dear Lord! You made many, many poor performers. I realize, of course, it's no shame to flub, but it's no great honor, either. So what would have been so terrible, if I had been given one good performance?

Heh, heh, heh.

Bet you didn't know that Fiddler on the Roof is one of my favorite movies.

Ever.

Tomorrow is our recital. Many thanks for the messages of encouragement, interest, and/or support. I've shared each one with the Misses M-mv. We're all looking forward to the performance.

Things may be a little sparse here for one more week as we bring an exciting (and, yes, exhausting) swim season to a close and as I crash into my next monthly deadline), but I do appreciate how many of you continue to stop by even when I'm short on words.

I'm also amazed by and, as always, thankful for all of those M-mv readers who purchase through my Amazon links -- even when I'm (uncharacteristically) quiet. I pressed the last gift certificate into service on multiple copies of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (and an audio edition, too), as well as Shakespeare & Company (Sylvia Beach) and Little Heathens (Mildred Armstrong Kalish).

:: An aside to those of you who acquired Jim May's The Farm on Nippersink Creek on my say-so: Little Heathens was recommended to me by someone who read my recent entry on May and thought, "Hey! She'd probably like this, too." I'll let you know.

See you on the other side, folks.

From the archives:The Brian Hamman Fan Club

The following entry first ran two years ago today. Mr. Hamman, we remember you still.
_________________________

Who? you're asking.

Brian Hamman, whose Chicago Shakespeare Theater (CST) credits include Benvolio in Romeo and Juliet, Florizel in The Winter's Tale, Percy in Richard II, Puck in Short Shakespeare! A Midsummer Night's Dream, and Dromio of Syracuse in Short Shakespeare! The Comedy of Errors.

Yes, Family M-mv announces the launch of the unofficial Brian Hamman Fan Club.

"And his eyes, Mom," says Miss M-mv(i), "talk about his eyes."

They're blue, I think. But what Miss M-mv(i) fancies is how expressive they are. You see, she fell hard for Mr. Hamman's rappin' Puck last May. Imagine her surprise, wonder, thrill when she realized yesterday that Dromio of Syracuse was Puck in disguise.

The production was a delight, framed by the idea that a company of traveling actors who had intended to stage Timon of Athens resolves to perform The Comedy of Errors when half their troupe and many of their props are delayed. The choreography of the key dances of physical comedy was, quite simply, amazing, and Brian Hamman is the lord of such dances (as anyone who has seen his rappin' Puck can attest).

Terrific stuff.

Why so many in the audience streamed out of that glorious theater after the final bows, I have no idea, because a post-performance discussion with the cast is one of the sparkling gems in the CST crown, and it was announced prior to the performance.

Ah, well. Their loss, I suppose.

Our gain.

Several times during the Q&A, Miss M-mv(i) made to raise her hand, only to fold into herself again, watching while trying to appear not to watch Mr. Hamman. At some point, she determined to meet the actor -- that day, that afternoon. She had, after all, spoken of him at least once, usually more often, a week, every week since May 2004. To be true, it was Puck about whom she spoke, but I think craftsmen allow children this self-deception, no?

I wonder if Mr. Hamman and his fellow players would understand that she wept after that May performance of A Midsummer Night's Dream, her first live-theater experience. "It's over already," she cried softly into my ear. "It was so. wonderful."

Oh, I know, sweetie. I know. It almost always is.

She was able to meet the fine actor who portrayed Bottom following the post-performance discussion last spring, but a crowd all but blocked Puck from sight, and Miss M-mv(i) did not enter it.

Rather, she simply thought about him. ("Does he always do that play? Who gave him the idea to act that way?")

Occasionally dreamed about him. ("I had a dream with singing, dancing Puck in it, Mom. I want to be an actress.")

And often talked about him. ("Does that man act in movies, too? Television? Does he know Kenneth Branagh?")

Yes, with no crowds to fight yesterday, the young drama queen decided to wait Puck-now-Dromio out.

And she was rewarded by Brian Hamman's gracious appearance.

"I just love those movies you do."

Movies? Well, forgive her. The waiting was hard. And the being right there? Next to him? She looked not unlike a horse dancing in its stall. At one point, I thought I could see white all around her eyes. But for all that, she was reasonably poised, asking for Mr. Hamman's "name on my book" (autograph) and telling him in no uncertain terms that he is awesome.

I know nothing about Brian Hamman other than my experience of seeing him twice dazzle as Puck and once shine as Dromio of Syracuse. This is as it should be. He is an actor; I am part of his audience. But I gathered this much from our family's encounter with him yesterday: He is a fine and entertaining actor who appears to love his craft. And whether it was genuine kindness or another fine bit of acting that made him the model of sweet patience as he accepted a little girl's gushing and that little girl's mother's photographing, matters not. Brian Hamman was the picture of how adults can respond to children without condescension, without a wink and a nod to the others in the room, without a peek at the timepiece.

He was awesome.

So, again, Family M-mv announces the launch of the unofficial Brian Hamman Fan Club. I nominate Miss M-mv(i) president and myself recording secretary.

Mr. Hamman, you rock. Break a leg tonight, tomorrow night, Saturday afternoon, every time you take the stage.

And thank you for your time yesterday afternoon.

Semicolon hosts "The Saturday Review of Books." Consider participating this week.

Only four more days...

until our recital.

The gal who blogs at "A New Song" sent me this lovely image of her daughter. Apparently, all of the reading, thinking, and learning tuckered her out. I can't guarantee you will look as beautiful as Miss New Song in your M-mv gear, but if you're interested in trying, you can find our products here, here, and here.

Semicolon hosts "The Saturday Review of Books." Consider participating this week.

Click to enlarge.

It's not the finest image of a cardinal, but it's the finest I've ever taken.

And I like it... nearly as much as I like the cardinal, a regular visitor to our yards.

Sisters

Is solace anywhere more comforting than in the arms of a sister? ~ Alice Walker

A sister can be seen as someone who is both ourselves and very much not ourselves - a special kind of double. ~ Toni Morrison

I, who have no sisters or brothers, look with some degree of innocent envy on those who may be said to be born to friends. ~ James Boswell

Fine Art Friday

You know, of course, how much I love crows, right? Visit this online exhibit featuring fourteen plates from Washington State University's Audubon Collection.

Susan thinks I rock.

It's no secret that I think Susan rocks, too. (If you haven't already bookmarked Pages Turned, please do.) The idea is that I should now pass on the love, so here are five more rockin' blogs written by women:

Magnificent Octopus
Literary responses to good and great books.

Semicolon
Book reviews, "Lost" talk, film recommendations, and a voice I enjoy "hearing."

Surface-Mined
Links, adventures in digital photography, good books and articles -- all from the original member of "the best and perfect audience."

The Sheila Variations
Unabashed opinions on books, films, and life.

Quiet Life
A gentle spirit garden.

Practice

From Bachelor Brothers' Bed & Breakfast (Bill Richardson):

Many people have had this experience, I think, especially where music is concerned. We become steeped in the notion that if we can't excel, there's little point in pursuit.

In October 2006, I began studying piano. In ten days, I will smooth my new dress over my capacious bottom and take the bench in front of the grand piano at the small church hosting our music teacher's recital program. I am listed as the penultimate performer in a modest musical offering to the friends and family of the teacher's several students. (Miss M-mv(i) will close the program, as it turns out, and one student separates Miss M-mv(ii) and me.) I will play three pieces for the tiny audience, which is three pieces more than I could have played nine months and one hundred and nineteen pages ago.

This amazes me.
__________________________

This week, in addition to my performance pieces, I am practicing the F Major scale and "Little Brown Jug," pages 118 and 119 of Adult All-In-One Course: Lesson-Theory-Technic: Level 1. The book has 143 pages, so you can, perhaps, imagine my surprise? delight? satisfaction? at reaching this point. No, I have not even begun to tackle "Gymnopedie No.1" -- my "Traumerei." (If you don't know what I mean by this and if you love the piano, get yourself a copy of Noah Adams' Piano Lessons: Music, Love, and True Adventures.) But in only ten days, I will perform!

Yes, I am measuring my progress in simple songs and small but delightful discoveries because I have decided it is better to play simple songs and make small discoveries than not to play or discover at all.

That is the point of the pursuit, even if I never excel. Song and discovery.

On whatever scale I can manage.

Song and discovery.

:: Adult All-In-One Course: Lesson-Theory-Technic: Level 1
:: Alfred's Basic Adult All-Time Favorites
:: Greatest Hits, Level 1
:: Hanon: The Virtuoso Pianist in 60 Exercises (Charles-Louis Hanon; edited by Allan Small)

Independence Day

Lovely Lady Liberty
With her book of recipes
And the finest one she's got
Is the great American melting pot.

Click to enlarge.

I value my garden more for being full of blackbirds than of cherries, and very frankly give them fruit for their songs. ~ Joseph Addison

I once had a sparrow alight upon my shoulder for a moment, while I was hoeing in a village garden, and I felt that I was more distinguished by that circumstance that I should have been by any epaulet I could have worn. ~ Henry David Thoreau

The bird of paradise alights only on the hand that does not grasp. ~ John Berry

Thumpin' good read

A Good and Happy Child (Justin Davis)

If you're seeking the quintessential beach read, the sort of book that sucks you in and, by turns, entertains and provokes, pick up a copy of A Good and Happy Child.

On the brink of marital disaster, George Davies seeks the help of a psychologist who presses spiral notebooks into George's hands at the conclusion of their first session. Working on the past is something George can do on his own time, he asserts; they'll spend the therapeutic interaction sorting through the present. And what a present it is: George, a new father, finds himself unable to hold, touch, or care for his own infant son.

Using the narrative device of the notebooks to reveal the dark events of George's childhood, A Good and Happy Child blends the elements of elegantly written fiction with the pleasures of a durned fine horror story. The result is an unputdownable psychological thriller.

Pressed into the chapbook:

p. 25
That was Mother the Scholar. Her other face was the Mommy Mother, the fussy mother, harmless ditzy confidante and pal. This was a role she played with more assurance, and, I think, some joy. My mother had a goofy laugh; she plonked big plastic glasses over her elegant features; she packed my lunch every day into the NFL lunchbox (and its predecessor, the Peanuts lunchbox); she shopped for toys and Halloween costumes and kindergarten supplies. She listened carefully; she deflated self-pity and drama with precise observations, followed by practical suggestions. She learned how to soothe, to calm, to pacify. And though I was always grateful for her patience and her care, these attributes sometimes felt studied -- like she was carefully executing memorized steps. At some level I fretted that if she came across a problem to which her tools did not apply -- one that would require her to reach for something deeper and different than her training had prepared her for -- she would be lost.

Weekending

Take a long walk.

Throw rocks in the lake.

Drive with all of the windows down.

Sing along with the car radio. Even (perhaps, especially) at stoplights.

Dream.

Read.

Sleep in.

Buy two weekend papers, a local and a regional. Read more than the funnies.

Let Bob's Service wash the car.

Better, participate in a community carwash fundraiser.

Swim.

Eat cherry or grape tomatoes. Whole. POP! SQUISH!

Let the kids push you on the swing.

Learn something.

Talk about something other than yourself. (Please.)

Read.

Bring canned goods to the food depository.

Dance to your own eight-track. Stop eyeing the room to see what everyone else is doing. Just move.

Live.

Stop thinking about living, planning it to the minutest detail, scheduling it, listing it, comparing to-do lists with any who will listen.

Just get on with the living.

This entry first appeared in a slightly different form 7.16.2005.