Through gilded trellises
Edith Sitwell, Façade

Through gilded trellises
Of the heat, Dolores,
Inez, Manuccia,
Isabel, Lucia,
Mock Time that flies.
"Lovely bird, will you stay and sing,
Flirting your sheened wing,-
Peck with your beak, and cling
To our balconies?"
They flirt their fans, flaunting
"O silence enchanting
As music!" Then slanting
Their eyes,
Like gilded or emerald grapes,
They make mantillas, capes,
Hiding their simian shapes.
Sighs
Each lady, "Our spadille
Is done."..."Dance the quadrille
from Hell's towers to Seville;
Surprise
Their siesta," Dolores
Said. Through gilded trellises
Of the heat, spangles
Pelt down through the tangles
Of bell flowers; each dangles
Her castanets, shutters
Fall while the heat mutters,
With sounds like a mandoline
Or tinkled tambourine...
Ladies,
Time dies!

"This morning came home my fine Camlett cloak, with gold buttons, and a silk suit, which cost me much money, and I pray God to make me able to pay for it."

Don't we all know the feeling, Pepys.

A Ballade of Theatricals
G. K. Chesterton

Though all the critics' canons grow--
Far seedier than the actors' own--
Although the cottage-door's too low--
Although the fairy's twenty stone--
Although, just like the telephone,
She comes by wire and not by wings,
Though all the mechanism's known--
Believe me, there are real things.

Yes, real people--even so--
Even in a theatre, truth is known,
Though the agnostic will not know,
And though the gnostic will not own,
There is a thing called skin and bone,
And many a man that struts and sings
Has been as stony-broke as stone . . .
Believe me, there are real things.

There is an hour when all men go;
An hour when man is all alone.
When idle minstrels in a row
Went down with all the bugles blown--
When brass and hymn and drum went down,
Down in death's throat with thunderings--
Ah, though the unreal things have grown,
Believe me, there are real things.

ENVOY.

Prince, though your hair is not your own
And half your face held on by strings,
And if you sat, you'd smash your throne--
--Believe me, there are real things.

My good friend, author and singer simonsatori, has posted some intriguing thoughts on atheism, which has given rise to some thoughts on my part.

You should go read his post, first of all, which ends thus:

If god doesn’t exist [...] then I will not just ‘… go and enjoy my life’. I will suddenly live in a meaningless universe. Not only will there be no hope or chance of any higher power guiding or interacting with us but I will have the sure knowledge that there never was and never will be and the infinite universe becomes a smaller and finite one. This is not my definition of enjoyment.

I agree with many of Simon's fundamental points, including that Richard Dawkins is a bit of an arse and that smug evangelical atheists are just as annoying as smug evangelical anything else.

Here's where I differ, though: a universe devoid of deities would not, to me, be meaningless. It would still contain wonders aplenty, and it would still beckon us to search industriously for any theories or systems underlying it all. It would still be expanding, challenging us to understand that. It would still contain the light and radio waves emanating from distant stars, quasars, pulsars and all their relations. It would still contain billions of other planets and their satellites, of which (even within our own solar system) we have sent probes to the surfaces of only two (plus two moons and two asteroids.) It would still contain whales, elephants, great apes and other social animals whose ways of communication and interrelation are largely unknown to us. It would still contain rocks whose crystalline structure the human eye finds elegant, and water droplets whose prismatic refraction the human brain finds beautiful. It would still contain us and our insanely complex biology, about which a hell of a lot still remains to be discovered. It would still contain the silky black cat with white feet currently attempting interspecies communication by arranging herself on my lap and purring. It would still contain the human affection I feel towards the aforementioned black cat, as well as the urges which would prompt other humans to kick her, or kill and eat her. And my desire to punch them in the face.

In short, a definitely-godless universe would still contain all the things previously thought to be evidence for the hand of an omniscient creator, only now they would be evidence that the universe is an amazing, fucking awe-inspiring place. Perhaps, in the absence of gods, we would begin to personify that universe which reveals its secrets so slowly and dangles its veiled areas so tantalisingly before us, daring us to discover it and cheering us on as we do. Within a generation or two, humans might not even miss the concept of God-- or might have redefined it along the foregoing lines.
( Further thoughts below )

Music I am working on right now:

Erda's aria from Das Rheingold
A whole bunch of Handel
Schubert's Winterreise
Mahler's "Du bist der Welt abhanden gekommen"

...and today my singing teacher asked to hear Eboli's Veil Song from Don Carlo. Surprising. I remembered the words, but forgot the cadenza. Eeesh. Thankfully, the top As no longer present a problem.

Confusingly, I'm getting the Veil Song ready to audition for Amneris, because Amneris has no arias. It may well be the only audition at which I ever perform the Veil Song, since Eboli herself is sadly out of my reach (seriously, if I ever tried to sing O Don Fatale I'd end up splattered over the orchestra pit).

There are few things I love better than singing music with long, sustained phrases. To me, it feels like the vocal equivalent of speaking in complete sentences. Also-- I don't know if this is oxygen deprivation talking or what-- but there are times when those phrases make me feel this sort of expansive, wing-spreading euphoria, as if borne aloft on a tide of fire. It's a good feeling, and a salutary reminder of why I do this.

It has been a sad, barren year in terms of finding work, and the most high-profile job I had was in extremely difficult circumstances. I coped, because I am a warrior, and because the alternative was nothing-- but the end product was nowhere near as good as it could have been, had I been cast six weeks from opening night and not two.

It's hard to keep faith during the lean times. I mean, it's easy when one's mood is positive-- those times of "Rrrraaah! I am Elizabeth Oakenpiano, sole heir to the Kingdom Beneath The Stave! Fear my semiquavers!" I have learnt to recognise the negative moods and try not to introspect overmuch during them, or make any permanent decision while feeling lousy.

But in the practice room, things are going well. Whenever an opportunity comes onto the radar, I trust to be able to meet it halfway.

A whole month since I last posted. LJ is such a ghost town these days.

(What is it with people who apologise for not having posted? Does any response exist other than "That's OK, there's a whole sparkly internet out there that I was reading instead"?

In the interim I have:

--done an avant-garde thing involving a Bach chorale

--started putting a set together with some excellent alternative-musician friends

--had the hideous cold that seems to be going around

--taught, sewn and not done enough practice.

Also, I saw some opera and some theatre. Every director who wants to be all edgy and relevant is inserting a Pussy Riot reference into their show. Obviously freeing Pussy Riot would be a very good and desirable thing, but in the meantime, the performer-with-bag-over-their-head meme is becoming a little tired.
( Thoughts on ENO's Julius Caesar )

In DC. Sitting at my old bedroom window, looking out at the view I grew up with: roof, trees and sky.

Last night, when orkamedies asked about the significance of Labor Day in the US, the following exchange took place:

speedlime: Nobody in this country gives a shit about labor any more. Labor Day is just the official end of summer, that's its purpose.

Me: Argh, stop. This could finally be the year summer doesn't end and just goes on forever. Every year I...

Speedy: SHUT UP. I want the weather to be cool and comfortable. I do not want to be sweaty and overheated and cranky all the time! Roll on fall and winter.

Everyone else: *catatonic apathy*

I'm grateful for scoring a few extra days' worth of summer in DC: a moment more for sandals and cotton sundresses and warm nights full of the singing of crickets and cicadas. It's butterfly season, and any flowering shrub will be full of monarchs orange as embers and tiger swallowtails as big as your outstretched hand. The leaves outside my window are green and glossy; if I look down I can see a crepe myrtle in flower.

In a week I'll come back to cold, rainy, autumnal London with the year darkening towards the equinox. I have six scant days of summer left, to be spent among good friends in my beloved hometown, and I'm doing my best to make these days count.

Or, as Kurt Weill put it:

Alas: after nine years, the Pepysdiary blog has come to its abrupt end. On 31 May 1669, Pepys did some business, kissed a former mistress and lamented the lack of time to do more, and went for a walk in the park with his wife and some friends. Then he writes:

And thus ends all that I doubt I shall ever be able to do with my own eyes in the keeping of my journal, I being not able to do it any longer, having done now so long as to undo my eyes almost every time that I take a pen in my hand; and, therefore, whatever comes of it, I must forbear: and, therefore, resolve, from this time forward, to have it kept by my people in long-hand, and must therefore be contented to set down no more than is fit for them and all the world to know; or, if there be any thing, which cannot be much, now my amours to Deb. are past, and my eyes hindering me in almost all other pleasures, I must endeavour to keep a margin in my book open, to add, here and there, a note in short-hand with my own hand.

And so I betake myself to that course, which is almost as much as to see myself go into my grave: for which, and all the discomforts that will accompany my being blind, the good God prepare me!

With that, his history passes into the hands of others.
( Dickery and PEPYSPERANTO below )

It only remains to convey heartfelt thanks to Phil Gyford for creating and maintaining the Pepysdiary site for so many years. Thank you, Phil, for letting so many people lay their manos upon tu cosa, which you did suffer with tant de freedom. Gracias!

Corinna's Going a-Maying
Robert Herrick (1591-1674)

Get up, get up for shame, the blooming morn
Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.
       See how Aurora throws her fair
       Fresh-quilted colours through the air:
       Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see
       The dew bespangling herb and tree.
Each flower has wept and bow'd toward the east
Above an hour since: yet you not dress'd;
       Nay! not so much as out of bed?
       When all the birds have matins said
       And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin,
       Nay, profanation to keep in,
Whereas a thousand virgins on this day
Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.

Rise and put on your foliage, and be seen
To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green,
       And sweet as Flora.  Take no care
       For jewels for your gown or hair:
       Fear not; the leaves will strew
       Gems in abundance upon you:
Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,
Against you come, some orient pearls unwept;
       Come and receive them while the light
       Hangs on the dew-locks of the night:
       And Titan on the eastern hill
       Retires himself, or else stands still
Till you come forth.   Wash, dress, be brief in praying:
Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying.

Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming, mark
How each field turns a street, each street a park
       Made green and trimm'd with trees: see how
       Devotion gives each house a bough
       Or branch: each porch, each door ere this
       An ark, a tabernacle is,
Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove;
As if here were those cooler shades of love.
       Can such delights be in the street
       And open fields and we not see't?
       Come, we'll abroad; and let's obey
       The proclamation made for May:
And sin no more, as we have done, by staying;
But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.

There's not a budding boy or girl this day
But is got up, and gone to bring in May.
       A deal of youth, ere this, is come
       Back, and with white-thorn laden home.
       Some have despatch'd their cakes and cream
       Before that we have left to dream:
And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted troth,
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:
       Many a green-gown has been given;
       Many a kiss, both odd and even:
       Many a glance too has been sent
       From out the eye, love's firmament;
Many a jest told of the keys betraying
This night, and locks pick'd, yet we're not a-Maying.

Come, let us go while we are in our prime;
And take the harmless folly of the time.
       We shall grow old apace, and die
       Before we know our liberty.
       Our life is short, and our days run
       As fast away as does the sun;
And, as a vapour or a drop of rain
Once lost, can ne'er be found again,
       So when or you or I are made
       A fable, song, or fleeting shade,
       All love, all liking, all delight
       Lies drowned with us in endless night.
Then while time serves, and we are but decaying,
Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.

In which I undertake the Food Meme:
( The Food Meme )