monoceros blogsI've never been a fan of Claire Danes, not since she wailed her way through "Romeo and Juliet." She was tolerable in "Stardust," glowing quite prettily as Yvaine, the star. But it's in this one scene in "Evening," another film adaptation of a splendid novel, that she impresses.
She surprises with her singing - tender, untrained - but it's the way she gazes at her friend (played by Mamie Gummer, Meryl Streep's real-life daughter) as she sings that really makes the scene. By turns, she is nervous, thrilled, brimming with happiness, love, and hope for Lila, especially in the opening strains of the song. Of course, Mamie Gummer's Lila Wittenborn looking uncannily like a college friend of mine made it that much more poignant for me. And then the palpable emotions among the four main characters. What a story they tell in those three minutes.
The first day of autumn arrived yesterday with the September Equinox. I wasn't paying attention, thinking it would be today instead, because the Equinox fell on September 23 last year. But then, there haven't been reminders or signs of the season approaching anyway.
When summer comes round, the newspapers here feature holiday destinations, the latest swimwear, and the perennial debate about whether children should have homework or extra classes during school vacations. In December, we have Christmas decorations, fake snow, and bells on every corner (occasionally tiresome but better that than the crucified Santa Claus in Japan where they sometimes get Jesus Christ and Father Christmas mixed up, or so I'm told). Around March, talk of spring arrives with the fashion world's new designs and makeup colors. But there's hardly any mention of fall in Singapore. No major festivals, no lengthy school vacations, and okay, Singapore does have fall collections in the retail world, but those have little to do with what the season's about.
Autumn...I think of carved pumpkins, leaf piles, shorter days, warm white chocolate in tall mugs, the first sightings of scarves and hats, the rich scent of the woods, the way a cemetery looks and feels different in the evening. I also remember scrambling to write papers or grade them, and falling asleep in my windowless office in the English department after holding office hours; buying hazelnut steamers before going home for the night.
Today, half a world away and years from my last autumn, I was inexplicably tired and fell asleep in my "office" at home. Because I was too weary (or lazy) to walk to my bedroom, because my desk is so cluttered that there's no space on it to rest my head, I slept on the floor beneath my desk, which turned out to be less uncomfortable than I'd expected. Unlike those days in Michigan, this time, I woke up to a humid evening and felt no desire for a hazelnut steamer.
Still, autumn reaches me in other ways, other voices. I wrote this entry in March last year, one that's better suited for a day in September. The article it features isn't really about the season itself, nor was it written during autumn, but it awakens something in me anyway, taking me back to an autumnal landscape somewhere in the recesses of my mind.
Autumn's Here, by Hawksley Workman
Fake Plastic Trees, by Scala & Kolacny Brothers
Last night, I was still undecided whether I'd be able to drag myself from bed at six and cycle to the beach to watch the sunrise. (Yes, it's got "clichéd" riddled all over it, but because I do this so infrequently, I think of it as anything but a cliché.) But at six in the morning, when I turned off the clock and stared at the sliver of light slanting through the curtains, I knew I had to accomplish this small act on this day.
Despite my best efforts, the sun had partly risen by the time I got to the jetty. Some beauty of the early morning remained though. The air was very cool, and a light breeze played upon my skin and tugged at the sea surface until it became a mass of delicate waves.
I put up my feet and put on a playlist that contains many songs I've listened to since I began listening to music, which means it contains an inordinate number of cheesy songs, songs I'm not sure people should know I once listened to. But those songs were a large part of my life, so here's a sample. 30 for my 30 years. To keep the list from expanding, I left out instrumentals, classical pieces, traditional vocals, film scores, and songs in other languages, though I made exceptions for pieces that really defined certain events in my life. (I'll upload a few a day because I'm lazy, and because I don't think anyone would download 30 songs at one go anyway!)
Go here to download the second half of the music; it occurred to me only today (24/09) to have them zipped up for everyone's convenience.
The first half is zipped up here.
The Rainbow Connection, by Kermit the Frog
Gummi Bears' Theme, by The Brown Derbies
Longer, by Dan Fogelberg
Now that I'm a Woman, by America (from "The Last Unicorn")
Once Upon A Time in the West, by Ennio Morricone
Don't Cry Out Loud, by Melissa Manchester
Dancing Queen, by ABBA
Keeping the Dream Alive, by Freiheit
TubThumping, by Chumbawamba
If You Wanna Be Happy, by Jimmy Soul
The Scent Of Love, by Michael Nyman
Daydream Believer, by Mary Beth Maziarz
Run, by Collective Soul
Sway, by Bic Runga
Here's To Life, by Jacintha
Piano Solo, by Ennio Morricone (from "Love Affair")
She, by Elvis Costello
The Only Living Boy In New York, by Everything But The Girl
10,000 Miles, by Mary Chapin Carpenter
Calling You (Bagdad Cafe), by Jevetta Steele
Windmills, by Toad the Wet Sprocket
This Is The Life, by Wendy and Lisa
Both Sides Now, by Joni Mitchell
Waiting for My Real Life to Begin, by Colin Hay
Chocolate, by Snow Patrol
Falling Slowly, by Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova
And So It Goes, by Sara Gazarek
Come Out Of The Shade, by The Perishers
Soul Meets Body, by Death Cab For Cutie
Bibo No Aozora/04, by Ryuichi Sakamoto (from "Babel")
疼憨人, by 楊佳盈
By the time I was ready to go home, I still wasn't sure how I felt about what lay ahead. I was ambivalent about the day, thinking of what I was leaving behind and what sort of life I was beginning, or continuing. Well, I'll find out in any case. Robert Frost once said, "In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on." And oh, it does, it does.
"I get the feeling
I get the feeling yet again
that I am but a connecting stop"
from "Terminal" by Sam Holtzapple
Oh You Delicate Heart, by Hawksley Workman
Last week wasn't a good one, but I felt infinitely better yesterday night when I attended the first performance of the YST Conservatory orchestra series. My friend, Peiming, who has been pregnant for the past two years (a few months after bringing sweet Paige into the world, she became pregnant again with Mitch, due in December), performed for all of ten minutes on the harpsichord to accompany The Conservatory Orchestra. She'd given me a complimentary ticket, which I would gladly have paid for because the music selections were simply wonderful. Faculty members also performed, so that meant I was treated to the T'ang Quartet playing Edward Elgar's sublime "Introduction and Allegro Strings, Op. 47." To my amateur's ears, the performance was spirited and evocative, and I had to resist the storm of emotions welling up within me. And then there was Richard Strauss' "Mondscheinmusik" from the opera "Capriccio." By the intermission, my heart was in pieces.
After the performance, we went for a late dinner (for her) and dessert (for me) at PS Cafe. We had a delicious salad with seven kinds of mushrooms and a generous slice of cheesecake with berries and chocolate. We talked of many things - music, books, books about music and the mind, teaching music to toddlers, my writing, her paper that she'll present in Houston in October (which I promised to help proofread), her children, my journeys, the startlingly youthful appearance of the T'ang Quartet members (whom she promised to introduce me to), and the mushroom salad. I went home full - of music, food, memories, dreams.
Introduction and Allegro, Op.47, by Edward Elgar; performed by the Allegri String Quartet and the Sinfonia of London, conducted by Sir John Barbirolli
Today, I read a special column by Cary Tennis, the only advice columnist I read, whose thoughts and ideas are so well formed, replete with literary references; so full of emotion and sensibility that I often print his letters out to keep in a folder. Today, he answered no specific letter, only the ones he could not answer before, the ones he imagines, the ones from ages ago, and the ones that will come.
His words made me think of many things, among them the faceless and voiceless people who appear in news reports only as statistics or phrases like "the people of XX village could not be saved" or "thousands of women struggle to find food for their children." I also thought of the people who left this world with great sadness, people who live with sadness, who know they will die alone, perhaps without anyone caring, or knowing. And I recalled the film, "Contact," especially the words that Jodie Foster's father tells her when they meet again (in the only manner they can - I won't say more for fear of giving anything away) - that humans are "capable of such beautiful dreams and such horrible nightmares. You feel so lost, so cut off, so alone..."
And increasingly, I've been thinking about how lonely people can be, struggling for company and affection, but never really connecting with each other. In such moments, when little can rid me of my moodiness, I watch "Contact," a personal ritual I began a little over two years ago. The film moves me like no other. When the film ends, I'm always left reeling from the sense of the world, or rather, the universe, something so much larger than my mind can ever comprehend. There are few words - or none at all - that truly capture the awe surrounding the most enormous concepts or the beauty in the most quiet, intimate language between a girl and her father. And Eleanor Arroway has always impressed me, no matter how many times I've seen the film - her fierce curiosity, her courage, her determination to stand by what she believes is true, her sense of wonder.
I may never rid myself of these thoughts and feelings; they come and go, and when they come, there's always "Contact" and music and words like Cary Tennis'. Small things, small comforts, small moves; all of them means of self-preservation.
From the film score of "Contact" -
No Words, by Alan Silvestri
Small Moves, by Alan Silvestri
Cary Tennis' special column comes after the jump.
Sept. 12, 2008 | Dear Reader,Today's column is a little different. Today's column is an answer to all letters and all questions voiced and unvoiced.
Today my thoughts and prayers are with all who are voiceless and would cry out if they could; and with those who have shouted their troubles into the canyon and still await an answer; and with my friend Karen Novak, who is in Ohio awaiting answers of the most urgent kind; this column is a humble answer to all the questions posed by our existence and a thank you for all the gifts acknowledged and unacknowledged that we have been showered with and that fill our lives; this is a salute and a prayer to all who are suffering and living in fear, to all who lack what they need, and to all who are wrongly imprisoned for crimes of weakness and addiction, and those killed and buried in shallow graves for sectarian or religious differences, and those living in hovels and swamps unable to afford shoes, and those imprisoned in cubicles preyed on by monstrous bosses, and those in high silent offices overlooking empires empty of soul and cold to the touch; this is a word of courage to those fearing for their lives and the lives of their families, and this is a word of clarity to those unable to sort truth from fiction, and this is an ear to those in possession of truths they cannot utter or cannot get published or cannot make heard, and this is a hearing for those playing melodies of impossible brilliance and those uncovering the secrets of life, and this is a gift of blessed quiet to those unable to sleep and unable to grieve; this a prayer and a song for everyone including those who work for the IRS which was kind to me today, and those working at the 76 station to fix the electrical problem in my truck, and all those who've recently been in auto accidents and live with broken bones, and those fighting and dying in Iraq and Afghanistan, and those shivering in the mountains of Pakistan and starving in the plains of Rwanda and suffering at sea and suffering at home and suffering in the desert, and those living with parents who shout at them and call them names, and those locked into relationships that give them no peace, and all those drowning and driving and crawling and screaming and fighting the flies and the vultures of a ravenous future, and all the imprisoned and all the broke and addicted and unfortunate and confused, and all the dead of 9/11: This day, my birthday, is for you.
This is my column today. This is an answer to all unwritten, unanswered and unsent letters -- hypothetical letters of the wounded heart, imagined letters of the questing mind, all letters that are possible in the future and in the past, including questions long buried in the sands of Egypt and the mountains of Peru, questions that will not even be heard for centuries to come. This is an answer to all that is unvoiced, because what is voiced is only a tiny, faint cry on the surface of the ocean compared to what is not voiced, what swims unseen throughout the vastness beneath, what lies at the lightless bottom of the ocean, unclassified, unexamined, undreamed of. This is a reply and a prayer to all that is unvoiced and unseen and unsaid, whether unsaid because it is taboo or because it is unconscious or because the gleaming words of fantastic machinery fine enough and sensitive enough to say it do not yet exist in our world. This is a reply to the unvoiced anguish of our tribe, our species, our family, our race, our order, our phyla, our solar system, our category, our idea, our being. This is an answer to every letter never written and every letter written but never sent and every thought never said and every letter sent and read but never answered.
This is my column today, written on 9/11, the day of my birthday, to all the dead of 9/11 and all the living and all the travelers coming and going, those who are departing and those who are arriving, those we will catch up to when it is our turn, those we will find one day sitting on a rock by a stream and say hello to once again. This is for all the kind well-wishers on Facebook! This is an answer to everyone to whom I feel I owe an answer. This is me returning your call, wherever you are. This is my long-delayed thank you card. This is an answer to my parents, too, whose lives now seem like one long question, whose impassioned whim so long ago created this moment. This is for all of you. This is my answer. This is my column today.
I had a drafted entry for my final day of CELTA, but I never got round to it, never got round to putting up pictures of our celebration at Red Dot along Dempsey Road. All I can say now is how relieved and exhausted and thrilled and sad I felt that day. Relieved because I'd finally made it to the end of a rigorous course; exhausted because I'd started teaching at the university again a week before and the last day of CELTA was caught between my assigned days of teaching; thrilled because I couldn't believe it was the end of CELTA (it'd always seemed so far from reach); and sad because I knew I would miss my CELTA days and my teaching practice group. Despite my best intentions to go home early that evening, I was one of the stragglers, staying till nearly everyone had left, drinking more beers than I'd planned. I did things I don't do often - talked for a length of time to people I didn't know well, told a relatively new friend personal things about myself, and drank more than one glass of beer. It was a good night.
And today, I received my provisional grade (the finalized one arrives in a couple of months). I started out hoping for just a pass, so it's nice that I got a little more than that.
CELTA was good for me in many ways. I never thought I'd say this, but I think I'm going to miss it. Some day I may find myself in an ELT classroom again but it'll be different. I'll be on my own, thrilled and terrified (as I usually am), and remembering all the trying and wonderful things I learned when I was a CELTA girl.
Bookends, by Stacey Kent
