105

At least it started like an ordinary day, however much it did  not last.  The toes dampened as one kicked the grass, and sparrows trembled happily in the pools along the wayside.  You could breathe the air without fear because it held the promise of something good or delicious.  Mourning doves sang while here and there neighbors greeted one another pleasantly.

And then the sun in his summer boredom must have decided to wander.  He drew closer to see what there was to see as though to be a consulting partner to everything even though all anybody wanted was for him to be a disinterested observer.   He smiled down menacingly on the busyness of earth. Nary a cloud interrupted him.  He reached out with a finger, flicked the land as if to hurry along a dilatory bug. Hot winds swept the fields and villages. Trees burned, grass shriveled, neighbors retreated to dark cellar rooms, the birds stopped singing, streams dried up.

It could have been an incantation, or some masterful distraction, or business elsewhere that sent him along his way.  It was probably only more bored wandering.  Whatever it was he moved on.  And in the relative cool of the evening, life revived as children, dogs and birds returned to the streets in laughter and play.

Word has it, he'll wander back this way tomorrow.

Today's Influences and Soundtrack:
J.R.R. Tolkien, Tree and Leaf
J.R.R. Tolkien, Leaf by Niggle
G.K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy
Antonio Vivaldi, The Four Seasons
Conni Ellisor, Blackberry Winter
Michael Hedges, Aerial Boundaries

A Smear of Lights

One of the largest solar flares of the decade exploded out from the sun just last Thursday.  Tons of solar particles shot into space directly at earth, and with that speeding shower came the promise of Aurora.

Aurora!    They never fail to take my breath away.  They are one of the magical and mysterious phenomena of our world.  Solar particles get trapped in the magnetic fields around the planet, and then ionize in those high and rarified regions of the atmosphere to form glowing curtains and waves that keep deep northern and deep southern sky-watchers fascinated for long night time hours.  The resulting fire in the sky is sometimes colored lights that shimmer and stream and shift. 

Reports from this last event were promising.  Even the scientists at the south pole were excited.   Aurora australis is more rare than borealis because of the way the magnetic fields are shaped there.  By Saturday, a brilliant Aurora australis was taking its place above the horizon, holding great promise for a striking borealis in the north.

I've seen northern lights perhaps six or eight  times in my life, and the memory of them is indelible.   I once saw them as far south as the greater St. Louis region, which was my hope this time.   It's been 14 years since my last Aurora and this was a strong enough solar flare to push them into the mid latitudes. 

But alas, the city lamps and humidity were too dominant.   I looked six or eight times at various hours of the night for the past week and disappointedly saw nothing . . . nothing but a smear of high pressure sodium lights against the horizon.

Today's Influences and Soundtrack:

Ralph Vaughan Williams, Norfolk Rhapsodies

Lyles Mays, Lyle Mays

. . . ruthere?

Fog.  Yes, definitely fog.   Drifting in and settling like a thick, mind-smothering film. Obscuring vision, dampening the ears, suppressing the olfactory, anesthetizing thought. Slipping, slipping, slipping into a dumb and useless dormancy.

But it wasn't sun that cleared the senses. Nor a fresh breeze. It was an owl, rather two owls in conversation, during the late evening hours that penetrated the shroud. And a dog over on the next block. And the promise of northern lights (which was a stupid anticipation this far south, actually) while remembering past displays in other parts of the world.

A yawn.  A stretch.  A shake of the head.  I feel like a 25-year-old.  "Huh?  How'd I get here?"

Today's Influences and Soundtrack:
Cornelius Plantinga, Not The Way It's Supposed To Be
James Blaylock, The Rainy Season
Hector Berlioz, Symphonie Fantastique
Will Ackerman, Past Light

Strained Synapse

I'm really tired of Post-Modern deconstructionism. It's flat and tasteless; and attempting to make something of it is like chewing straw and ice cubes hoping that the flavor of steak and good Shiraz will come forth. The Po-Mo's think they are being clever and shrewdly insightful, but they have nothing to offer that brings any beauty to the life around them.

The Saint Louis Symphony performed brilliantly the other evening. Wagner's Flying Dutchman opened the program and Sibelius' Symphony No. 1 closed. While No.1 is my least favorite Sibelian symphony, it was a far cry better than the American premiere of Philippe Manoury's 30-minute violin concerto "Synapse", performed by virtuoso James Ehnes. Ehnes and the Symphony were superb in presenting the technical demand that the concerto required, but the piece itself was tedious and irritating and pushed hearer's endurance to the furthest boundary.

Hence my comment about Post Moderns. Whatever makes a Po-Mo composer think that he is producing anything of timeless value if there is no recognizable musical form to it? Music is a language that is intuitively understood, yet there was nothing in that piece that was speaking. It strained my synapses, reminding me more of traffic noise than anything else, and to date, traffic noise is not musical. If the Wright brothers had attempted to build their plane utilizing the principles displayed in the Manoury concerto, they would still have a collection of bike parts laying around on the floor, and nothing that had any hope of flying.

If they hope to have lasting significant influence, the Post Moderns need to start constructing something that points to the beautiful.

Today's Influences and Soundtrack:
C.S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory
Maurice Ravel, Bolero
Stevie Ray Vaughan, Little Wing

Check

I have a Bucket List.
Of course, I have a Bucket List.

You recall what a Bucket List is, don't you? It is a list of things you really want to do before you "kick the bucket", before you die. My list has included seeing the Olympic Peninsula, hugging a Giant Redwood, reading a portion of the Bible on Mars Hill in Greece, hiking a section of the Appalachian Trail, sipping a glass of wine in Tuscany, biking a portion of the Blue Ridge Parkway, seeing the Book of Kells, taking Glider flight lessons, among other things. You might not actually get to do anything on your list, but that's not the point, really. It is intended for dreams and inspiration. And in my case, I've had the rare privilege of getting to do much of what's on my list.

I first moved to St. Louis in the summer of 1988 and became immediately captivated by hot air balloons. They weren't very common in the northern suburbs of Chicago from which I hailed, so there was something richly romantic about seeing a colorful balloon in flight in the early morning. Drifting along quietly against a clear blue sky, with the warming sun against the skin, and no sound except what is carried up from the earth gave me a sense of longing, a hunger for a kind of participation in the sky that an airplane doesn't permit. And so, twenty-four years ago, a balloon flight was added to my bucket list.

This morning, that part of my list was satisfied. What a morning! It was wonderful. The flight was everything I'd hoped a balloon flight would be. The sky was clear except for some river fog, quiet (except for the occasional burst of the propane heaters which kept the air in the balloon hot) and bright. The sun was warming on the skin and gentle. There were exceptional panoramas of the region. I cannot say enough how much confidence came from the skill, experience, and expertise of Balloons Over The Rainbow. They were phenonmenal!!

In addition, I learned about air movement, flight rules governing balloons and the peculiar circumstances that proscribe a life's calling. As an experiential add-on the passengers are "conscripted" to help in getting the balloon ready for flight and putting it away after flight. A ton of fun.

It may not be anytime soon, but I hope to do this again.










Today's Influences and Soundtrack:
Michael Ward, Planet Narnia
Geoffrey Chaucer, Canterbury Tales
Ralph Vaughan Williams, Organ Preludes to English Hymns
Ronnie Earl and the Broadcasters, Grateful Heart

Remember Me?

I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."

Today's Influences and Soundtrack:
Percy Bysshe Shelley, Ozymandias
Quoheleth, Wisdom
Daniel Keyes, Flowers for Algernon
Gabriel Faure, Requiem
Richard Souther, CrossCurrents
Toad the Wet Sprocket, Dulcinea

Summer Fling

I haven't hidden it at all. It's probably nothing serious, but it's fun while it's lasting. Upon the first indicator in May, my wife looked at me, raised her eyebrow, and simply said, "Really?" Remembering an outdoor cafe near a cobbled town square, my only response was a smile, a sigh, an apologetic look, and a shrug of the shoulder.

You see, after 37 years, she knows me well. I'm a red wine kind of guy. I prefer Shiraz in general, but am also partial to Napa Valley Cabernets, New York reds, 2005 Merlots (not a lot of those left), and Argentian Reds. I really like Australian Shiraz, Italian Muscatino and an occasional rustic Tuscan Chianti. And I do recall a marvelous estate Compangolo that was so complex it kept my taste buds confused for a few days.

But when she gave me that look, I had just asked for a glass of Pinot Grigio with my salad and sandwich lunch. For three months now, I've had a fling with Pinot Grigio. It's just a summer time thing.

The seeds of this little affair were planted 3 years ago during an educational tour to Italy. We were wandering Florence for a day, migrating between the Duomo and Piazza della Signoria. Our group stopped in a little plazaside cafe for lunch. One of our colleagues ordered a Pinot with his pizza, and it sounded so good that nearly the whole rest of our group joined him. The sun glancing off the awnings in the piazza, the heat radiating up from the cobblestone walk, the constant bubble of water at the Fountain of Neptune, the red tile roofs, Italian men wearing classy Italian shoes walking lovely Italian women wearing flowery Italian summer sundresses, the David, Perseus holding Medusa's head in victory in a pavilion across the square . . . it was all so very intoxicating. We needed a glass of Pinot to stabilize our heady afternoon.

But that began an association which would grow into a summer affair. Pinot and fresh fruit. Pinot and sweetbread. Pinot and cheese. Pinot and good conversation. All mingled with afternoon warmth and jazz and the wafting fragrance of White Alyssum. Pinot and sweet memories.

Some of you reading this, will remember that afternoon. Just know this. I miss you today as I recall with deep fondness those few days traversing the cradle of Western civilization with you. I raise my glass of Pinot to you in love.

Today's Influences and Soundtrack:
Homer, Odyssey
Stephen C. Meyers, Signature in the Cell
Goldmark, Violin Concerto
David Benoit, Heroes
Anna Vandas, All I Thought I Knew
Paramore, Brand New Eyes