clarahsu – Page 16

My Bed

A mattress made of horse hair—historical, flammable. A grandmother’s hand-me-down but she was not my grandmother. There was no sentiment to keep this ancient artifact when it began to deteriorate.

I tossed it out for a Sears mattress, three times as thick as grandma’s with a pillow top and an equally high box spring to match. It proofed to be somewhat a mistake. The old bed frame was a tad too narrow for the new boxy-box so four planks were lain widthwise to keep the whole thing from tipping.

Compare this delicate balance to James Broughton’s short film, The Bed, upon which various vigorous activities were performed: Broughton’s bed rolled down a hill, was used as a trampoline, a celebratory altar of love, sex and its progeny. The bed is a place for birth and death, the womb we go back to every night, a magic carpet that takes the sleeper into the dream world. I think of Broughton’s bed when I go to bed. Sometimes when the planks are out of alignment and the mattress tilts it might well be that it is taking off.

The Education Of…

A passage from Henry Adams’ The Education of Henry Adams: “From cradle to grave this problem of running order through chaos, direction through space, discipline through freedom, unity through multiplicity, has always been, and must always be, the task of education, as it is the moral of religion, philosophy, science, art, politics and economy; but a boy’s will is his life, and he dies when it is broken, as the colt dies in harness, taking a new nature in becoming tame.”

James Broughton’s memoir, Coming Unbuttoned: “Although I was born cheerful, my mother did her utmost to beat the cheer out of me.”

If I had read these passages when I was a young parent, I wonder what my attitude would be toward my children.

The Quirky Side of Things

Kids get sick. They sneeze and cough and wipe their noses with the back of their hands and then come into the piano studio and play on the keyboard. It’s a miracle that piano teachers don’t get sick more often as they should. Perhaps the constant exposure to germs help in strengthen the immune system.

Neither do piano teachers go to the toilet like normal people do. “We can hold it like nobody else,” said one. It’s true. They cross their legs and beat the time and five hours later their legs are still crossed.

Not that these subtle observations would bring insights into the quality of teaching, but sometimes a student wonders about the indestructible quality of his piano teacher, how she counts, one-and-two-and, how she throws herself passionately on the piano to demonstrate a phrase, and just as he thinks she is going to have a nervous breakdown after listening repeatedly to his miserable wrong notes, she calmly asks him to please play the phrase one more time.

Image from Peas and Cougars.

Ideas Are Cheap

It is easy to come up with ideas. I have ideas for others: Do this. Do that. What about? How about? And people have ideas for me. Mostly, these ideas come in one ear and go out the other.

An idea is a thought, a possibility. It is not exclusive and doesn’t worth much. “That person stole my idea.” is a common lament when an idea becomes reality and profitable. We can all dream, but the one who succeeds does the grunt work.

To have one idea is to have many ideas. The creative process allows us to keep coming up with new ways of doing things. Isn’t that a great idea!

Artists in Love

brownings — Elizabeth and Robert Browning

The movie Sylvia portrayed the stormy relationship of Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes. While Hughes received recognition, Plath felt trapped as a housewife and unable to write under her husband’s shadow. A sad tale, and I wonder during the peak of their romance whether there was a time when they were able to influence and elevate each other’s writing.

Love and art merged for sculptors Rodin and Camille Claudel (she died in a mental hospital), composers/pianists Robert and Clara Schumann (he committed suicide and she raised eight children), and poets Robert and Elizabeth Browning, and each became formidable in their own right. The synthesis requires humility and trust; and love, which does magical things.

Poison

Something sinister and internal and wicked is at work. Poison. Such a fine word to describe an evil act, or a despicable character, or a vile situation, etc. It wakes the listener up when “poison” is mentioned.

Christine Dior knew the word sells. According to Google: Launched in 1985, POISON is classified as a luxurious, oriental, floral fragrance. This feminine scent possesses a blend of amber, honey, berries, and other spices. It is recommended for romantic wear.

Spray into the air, step into the mist, let Poison permeates your hair, skin and clothes (instructions on how to wear perfume). Instead of paying close to a hundred dollars for a bottle, I need only to go down the street and get sprayed by car fumes. It’s not romantic but it’s the real deal.

Limu Omani

Visiting a halal market in Berkeley, I was looking for Persian dried limes. The store lady led me to the shelf and pointed. Wrapped in clear plastic bags, the limes were small, brown and hard to the touch. I wondered what these little shriveled things could do for me.

My experimental urge drove me to these limes. I saw the ingredient mentioned in several Persian recipes. Back at home I chopped up the vegetables and herbs and threw them all into a pot. The limes, when I pierced them with a knife, gave off drops of juice and fragrance. They too went into the pot . Slow fire. Always slow. It has a way to draw out the flavors.

After an hour I’m drinking the soup and writing my blog. The aroma and the sweet taste of vegetables and lime flavored broth overwhelm all other thoughts and senses. A success! But more than that, the body is gratefully nourished.

Photo by Robyn Lee.

To Write a Fugue

My piano students give me sour faces when I mention J.S. Bach. With good reason. Even his simplest pieces are deceptively difficult. The more advanced students grind their teeth when they have to tackle his fugues. They usually start out strong, but by the middle of the piece they have used up all their energy. I can feel their lead-weighted fingers going into spasms and the music would sag like a corpse being dragged to its final resting place.

There is a sense of playfulness in a fugue, where different voices “chase” each other, constantly morphing and colliding, appearing and disappearing. When Jack Foley talked to me about “multiplicity,” my mind went to the fugue, where a single entity spins and splits and manifests into different elements.

It must have been six months now since I told Jack I wanted to write a fugue—not a music composition, but a poem. Sometimes the brewing period does take that long. Friday (3/16) I sat down and wrote Fughetta (little fugue).

“I can’t help but think this is my break-through poem.” I told Jack.

He agreed.