Cracking Up

A night of cacophonous rain woke me and made it difficult to fall back asleep the night before last, but the weather today is gorgeous helping ease myfoul mood. Foul, not like the waterfowl in the lake at the bottom of the stairs for those following the ongoing swan story, but foul as in filled with grief and disappointments. Two memorial services in one week is two too many. Additionally, as the adage correctly holds, we are only as happy as our least happy child. So, foul. And the world is not helping. There is the everything wrong war in Iran. There is the no satisfaction in saying, “I told you so,” Middle East. There is the destruction of the environment. The crazy president. And one unhappy thought leads to another unhappy memory, So, foul again.

But birds chirp outside the window like in a Disney movie. They are trying to work their magic on me. Now, it is unlike me to simply say, “music improves mood.” Almost without thinking I start googling how does music improve mood? And down the rabbit hole I go. There is something delightful about being able to satisfy my curiosity without leaving my desk, but I will put aside the cognitive studies and focus on two or three experiences of the last week or so that are shaping what I feel like writing about today.

First, on a whim, I went to the opera. I said to myself, I talk to myself continuously, often out loud. I can’t be the only one who does that, but maybe one of the few who admits to it, “You’re in Manhattan, you’re leaving for the shore in a couple of days, do something cultural.” Through a tiny bit of research, I learned that same day rush tickets for the Metropolitan Opera go on sale at noon. Here’s the important bit. They go on sale online. You can buy them from the comfort of home. I gave it a shot and won. $25 for an orchestra seat at La Traviata. Schmaltz heaven. Lush music, costumes, set and a manipulatively sad story. What could be better. My mom studied singing opera at Hunter College. I cried my eyes out.

The next is largely in the foul category. Did everyone watch the last episode of the “Late Show” with Stephen Colbert as I did. I thought it was a strong finale. I make no pretense of being objective. Colbert lives in Montclair, as I did for 41 years and will, in some ways, always think of as home. It was not unusual to see him around town. His wife chairs the film festival. That connection made the show seem more personal. The cancellation by CBS seems beyond petty to me. Makes me angry. Coming back to the finale, I loved the quartet of him, Elvis Costello, John Batiste and Louis Cato singing Costello’s song, “Jump Up.” That reminded me of how Elvis Costello I have listened to over the years. I used to have a very, very long drive to Trenton, NJ, every day to a series of stressful jobs. I wore out a cassette tape (Yes, that long ago) of Costello’s album, “Imperial Bedroom,” playing it repeatedly. This week I went back and listened to Elvis Costello for hours again. His music does not disappoint.

Since I had begun a musical trip down memory lane I decided to listen to some other artists I had not listened to for a long time and made my way to Paul Simon. Like many of us, I can remember the first time I heard certain songs. With Simon and Garfunkel, I clearly remember the first time I heard “Sounds of Silence.” 1964, 6^th grade, in my bedroom in Inwood, NY, listening to AM radio, before getting older and switching to FM. The song matched the moody preteen I had become. It’s not my favorite Simon and Garfunkel song, that’s, “The Only Living Boy in New York.” It’s also Roseanne Cash’s favorite I learned in this wonderful, new to me, audiobook, “Miracle and Wonder,” a series of conversation with Paul Simon by Malcolm Gladwell and Bruce Headlam, I discovered as part of my favorite music retrospective. The first time I heard Simon’s song, “Graceland,” I was on my lunch break, driving from my then office in Newark to meet a friend. I stopped the car. As cliched as it is, I literally pulled over and stopped the car to listen to the song. Music can do that. Really. Much as there are other artists whose work I also love, the “Graceland” album is the one I would take on a desert island. And I also found myself thinking about Memorial Day.

I know the song is not about Memorial Day, but take the leap. Paul Simon is still writing. Paul McCartney is still writing. I’m writing. Not music. I can’t write music. Wish I could. Although after his SNL and Late Show performances, perhaps it’s time for Sir Paul to give up singing. The songs are still great, some close to perfect. Anyway, there is something about organizing thoughts on the page, like in these little essays with which I entertain myself, or, more specifically, through poetry, that, like music, enables one, i.e. me, maybe, you, to explore feelings. Some of that has to do with sound, more has to do with rhythm, and some has to do with time. I’m not intending to be mysterious here. I’m thinking. Take a look at Wendell Berrie’s, “The Peace of Wild Things,” or Stanley Kunitz’s, “The Layers,” two completely different poems, and I think you’ll get a sense of what I am getting at.

Speaking of feelings, this feels like a poor time to be celebrating the 250^th anniversary of the founding of the republic. “We the people,” Ha. My heart is broken. I am pessimistic. But I listen to music. I read poems. And last night, the swan’s eggs, four of the six, hatched. There are four fluffy cygnets. If you follow me on social media, and, if you don’t, what’s that about, you’ve already seen a photo. There’s been a crowd of people on the sidewalk all day coming to take a look. Things might get better, or they might not

Photo by Bob Bowne

If, like me, you will be at the Jersey shore this summer, I will be the featured reader at the Cape May County library in Sea Isle City on Monday, July 13 at 6 pm. Please come.