THOUGHTS ABOUT LOVE

 While my weary soul is still resonating with fragmented thoughts about Valentine's Day, I'll offer a few disjointed (and trivial) observations about love.

My favorite quote about love?

To love oneself is the beginning of a lifelong romance.
 -Oscar Wilde  (who else?)

Perhaps one of the most apt sentiments is Goethe's observation that true love isn't domination - - it's cultivation.

What are my personal thoughts on the subject?
Never believe anyone who says "I love you" while they're having an orgasm. 

Don't be offended. That's merely experience talking. 

I'm a staunch believer in love, but true love is extremely rare. Infatuation and lust are most often mistaken for love. I've been infatuated (and in lust) hundreds of times.
I've experienced true love only a few times. And, unfortunately, I've rejected the possibility of true love more times than I'd care to remember.

I've always had an intense fear of commitment - which thwarted some golden opportunities. Perhaps I had a subconscious fear of attaining happiness and/or fulfillment..... Who knows? Let Freud figure it out.
Ironically -  the only person with whom I was totally committed and would have spent the rest of my life with is now dead. Tragically, a death much too soon.

Personal lesson learned:
Never try to replace a lost love. Especially hastily. Your efforts will yield disaster. Do I ever have stories to tell on that subject....

Despite my exterior indifference, I am  extremely romantically inclined - - sensitive and sentimental to an annoying fault.
Candlelight, the scent of midnight gardenias, moonlit walks, secret whispers in the cradling shadows before dawn, the redeeming purity of a sunrise.

My definition:
Love is a spiritual sensation that ignites the heart, nourishes the soul, elevates the senses beyond mere physical realms. It is the poetry of life.

As an accursed aesthete, I find the undiluted purity of love in music, literature, art - where it is manifested in countless variations:

In Wagner's mythological operatic masterpiece Die Walkure -  the great god Wotan vows to severely punish his daughter Brunnhilde for disobedience, but wrath is softened by his unabiding paternal love for her - which is superbly expressed as he sings the tender, passionate, heartwrenching final scene....

.....in Adolphe Adam's 1841 ballet Giselle.
Giselle dies of a broken heart because of her errant lover Albrecht.

She returns to earth in the spirit of one of the vengeful Wilis - - disgruntled women who were deceived by their earthly lovers. They get revenge by materializing, seductively luring the men, and dancing them to death.

Giselle has a change of heart when she encounters Albrecht. She forgives him with a blessed embrace and returns peacefully to her grave.
Love conquers all. Or so it seems.

 Margo Fonteyn and Rudolph Nureyev

in their electrifying 1962 performance of Giselle

Forgiveness. Forgiveness is an essential component of love.

Movies, anyone?

When it comes to love, I prefer the romantic classics. If forced to choose from multitudes, my favorite is the 1939 classic tear-jerker Wuthering Heights.

 Laurence Olivier and Merle Oberon

Another one of my favorite love-themed films is the little-known but superb 1959 Russian movie Ballad of a Soldier.

 Zhanna Prokhorenko and Vladimir Ivashov

in Ballad of a Soldier 

(it's available with English subtitles on dailymotion.com)  

Novels? 

The subject of love in novels is, of course, maddeningly endless. One of my favorites, which explores many aspects of the all-encompassing  subject of love, is A Prologue to Love, the 1961 novel by Taylor Caldwell.

I first read the 600+ page book when I was thirteen and was completely blown away. It still remains one of my all-time favorites.
(I wrote a letter to Taylor Caldwell back then and still have her kind reply).

This blog post is becoming maddeningly endless - like the subject of love itself. And I haven't even scratched the surface. I'm starting to annoy myself - - which isn't easy to do.

Signing off, with love. 

I didn't respond to your comments this time but I greatly appreciated all of them!

AN ALMOST FATAL ATTRACTION

Note: this is a re-post from my old blog Lone Star Concerto
 
When I was studying music in college, I practically lived in practice rooms. I practiced the piano several hours a day - - while also balancing a frenzy of rehearsals with orchestras, chamber groups, and soloists. As if this wasn't enough, I was also a student piano teacher for several semesters. To say that my musical life was full would be an understatement.

One of my piano teachers was a former Julliard professor named Raymond Jones. His wife also taught at the college. My practice room was adjacent to her classroom and she would often chide me for practicing too loudly. Bursting into the practice room in a breathless fluster, she'd demand me to "play quietly" and admonish me for "seriously disrupting" her class.

On good days Mrs. Jones always acted a bit peculiar. On bad days she was downright bizarre. Eventually it was discovered that she had a brain tumor, which she succumbed to within a year.

Fortunately, my playing didn't annoy everyone. Curious people often stopped by the practice room to hear me play. One of these music aficionados was a young woman named Linda, who was the niece of actor Tyrone Power. She would share stories about her famous uncle and show me family photos. Linda had a small baby who contracted pneumonia and she dropped out of college to care for him. I never saw her again.

Another admirer who frequented my practice room was an attractive "girl" named Janice. She was studying singing and had a decent voice. I knew that Janice was smitten by my irresistible charm (hey, what can I say?) but I didn't initially realize just how serious she was.

One afternoon I drove her to her tennis lesson. She assumed that this innocuous gesture meant I was interested. Despite the fact that I gave no encouragement, her admiration for me increased.

A short time later, a fluke of fate tossed us together again. Janice was giving a solo singing recital at the college. At nearly the very last minute, her accompanist cancelled for some emergency that I can't recall. Major panic ensued and a very flustered professor accosted me, asking (begging) me to take over as pianist.

I (reluctantly) acquiesced and was immediately handed a pile of music manuscripts. The concert was to start in less than half an hour. I had never seen any of the music before and had never previously accompanied Janice anywhere except to the damn tennis lesson.

The only preparation that I had came from a bottle of whiskey that I kept stashed under the front seat of my car. I took several generous swigs for courage.

I made my way to the stage and sat at the grand piano. Janice began singing. I began sight-reading and faking my way through the likes of Purcell, Brahms, and Vaughn Williams. Incredibly, the concert went off without a noticeable hitch. I was lauded for involuntarily saving the day. In a surge of effusive romanticism, Janice assumed I was her hero. She was enamored. We'd made beautiful music together!

After our haphazard musical debut she began following me everywhere like a homeless puppy. Constantly calling me, sending scented notes, eventually sending daily letters of endearment (this was before the advent of email). Her enthrallment escalated into stalking the living hell out of me.

I was admittedly sweet and charming back then (you'd never know it now, would you?). And I was not only congenial, but also easy. To some extent I might have possibly slightly encouraged the girl's rapture. Inadvertently, of course.

Fortunately, I didn't have to worry about being stalked for long. It all came to a surprisingly abrupt end one afternoon at the college.

It happened in the main auditorium. During a rehearsal with the college chamber orchestra. I was the harpsichordist for a performance of Handel's oratorio Samson. We were in the middle of the overture.

Suddenly one of the auditorium doors burst open. A burly-looking guy in Army fatigues stormed in and strutted right up to the harpsichord. I could hardly believe what was happening but I could definitely smell his wrath.

His shouting reverberated throughout the room with perfect acoustics and his message was like a venomous bite.

"You better stop screwing with my wife!" he shouted at me. He didn't actually say "screwing". He was a little more graphic.

"What?" I was in the advanced stages of shock.

"Janice is my wife, you bastard! If you go near her again I'll kill you! I mean it!"

I believed him.

I'm actually politely paraphrasing what he said. I can't remember the exact words, but the killing part was permanently etched in my mind.

Holy shit.

As the irate Army dude haughtily huffed out of the room, I could hear a collective gasp from the orchestra. Nobody knew what to do. I tried to gather my shredded wits.

"Next time we rehearse, I'll wear a bullet-proof vest."

It was all I could think of saying. It didn't generate much laughter.

I had absolutely no idea whatsoever that Janice was married. She sure as hell never bothered to tell me. I later learned that her husband had been stationed in Georgia and was home on leave. I have no clue how he found out about me.

So, you're all asking the Big Question: did Janice and I ever have sex?
Hey, I seldom kiss and tell.....and why the hell should I spill it all for free in a public blog? Wait until I publish my memoirs. You'll get your money's worth.

I will say that in those glorious days of my California youth I often attracted drama and generated sexual tension. I'm not bragging or being "self-absorbed" (as my blog critics enjoy pointing out). I'm merely telling the truth.

I was always an equal-opportunity offender.

One time, at the L.A. Music Center, two gay guys had a horrendous very public fight over me during the intermission at a performance of Carmen. No lie. But that's another story for another time.
Maybe some day I'll get soused and be in a generous enough mood to tell it.

Sweet youth......sweeter memories.....

     

EXOTIC MEMORIES

After a month of rain the sun appeared and the sky was blue and hot. The combination of unexpected sunshine and the escapism of reading Death on the Nile have put me in an exotic mood.

Most of us are occasionally smitten by exotic fantasies - whether we care to admit it or not. My current imaginative escape has transported me to Egypt in the 1920's. 

(I figured Cairo in the 1920's was probably more exotic than it is now)

I'm smooth, suave, deliciously young - -  dressed in white summer attire, a custom-made suit that would rival anything worn by Jay Gatsby. I look like a Leyendecker illustration in Collier's Magazine. I'm languishing in a cool corner of a Cairo cafe, sipping a karakadey, smoking a Caravellis cigarette. The distant smouldering sunset is merely a prelude to the erotic secrets of a sultry desert night.....

illustration by J.C.Leyendecker 

I've always been  fiercely attracted to exotic romanticism. When I was young I tried to incorporate it into my life. Now, I only dream about it and yearn for the past. There are times in my past that were intriguingly similar to my Cairo fantasy. I've never been to Cairo, but Southern California was a very reasonable facsimile.

I remember sultry summer nights in Los Angeles, when I played the piano in clandestine bars and cafes. I often wore all white back then (even my shoes), mostly to vainly emphasize my dark tan. I smoked Krakatoa clove cigarettes and sipped Madeira. I wasn't remotely suave but I gave an impressive illusion. Those were the nights when I seldom went home empty-handed......

Occasionally there would be weekend escapes to Palm Springs. At the time it seemed remote and exotic. It's a two-hour drive from L.A. - - considerably less if you're drunk and driving a Camaro.
My memory burns with the image of one spectacular moonless night, near Palm Springs, having a romantic escapade in a convertible, parked near a grove of date palms.

My spontaneous spitefulness sometimes unexpectedly turned into exotic episodes. Most often after the breakup of a torrid romance. 

I vividly recall throwing a volume of Dostoyevsky's The Brothers Karamazov at my soon-to-be-ex-lover and dramatically shouting "I'm leaving forever! You'll never see me again!"

Fortunately my aim was bad. Dostoyevsky hit the wall and shattered a framed document. If it had hit my intended victim, the blow would have probably been fatal.

I disappeared from L.A. and wound up on a beach in Baja, near Ensenada, where I lived for three weeks. That was an exotic odyssey - - at least I thought so.

 Baja

I have other exotic memories to share, but I don't want to overstay my welcome. Well not much, anyway.

Remind me to tell the incredible tale of what inspired me to sail a boat solo to Catalina Island with very little nautical experience (I've told this before on my old blog Lone Star Concerto but it's worth a rerun).

It's hard to believe that my life was once filled with romance and exotic adventures, when now - in the Tennessee wilderness - my biggest adventures consist of falling down the mountainside on my clumsy ass and chasing wayward 'possums out of the house.

Life is a bitch but the memories are sweet. 


link to my new photo blog Cabinet of Curios Treasures:
 
Beautiful Egypt