Opus 2, Number 2, for Clarence

 Early Beethoven is surprisingly tricky and should be memorized. It should be perfect. And though I started out gifted, now I am just about average, words stolen from a song by my husband, the truly gifted yet under-appreciated by the world member of the household. Go read one (or all)of his books: https://www.amazon.com/stores/Atthys-J.-Gage/author/B00RYJWHGK?ref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share&isDramIntegrated=true&shoppingPortalEnabled=true

Opus 2, No 2 is counterpointy, athletic, whimsical, with some moments of head-banging thrown in. Full on metal interrupts the graceful theme in the 4th movement. The first movement tries some counterpoint that is like jumping from rock to rock at full speed on the edge of a steep cliff. The third movement a lark, a dance, like a palate cleanser after the heady second movement which could be a string quartet with the cello doing this amazing pizzicato bass, and before the fourth which reintroduces the fact that Beethoven was one of the great improvisers of all time. He could just sit down and spin out a theme in a million different ways, each time more intricate or more funny or more serious or more outrageous than the last. Only to end the whole thing in a soft tip of the hat, a nod to his own genius and a laugh at the sucker who sat through it, weeping or laughing but definitely amazed.

I mean Beethoven was a bit of an arse, drinking too much, criticizing the friends who helped him most and  must’ve been the uncle from hell for his nephew. If Facebook or whatever people are using these days was around, Ludwig would’ve made cringy posts, though in the current world of meanness as a badge of honor, maybe his followers would be legion. I would like to think he would be on Strava, mapping his long country hikes where he did a lot of his thinking about music. How cool would it be to see the route where he composed Opus 2, all 3 dedicated to Haydn, and all 3 brimming with nature if you listen just right. 

Clarence, the dog, has a very recognizable bark. He is the neighborhood curmudgeon who doesn’t suffer fools, but is head over paws in love with his main person. Anyone else might want to watch for the shiv he keeps tucked in his adorable fur. Maybe Beethoven kept one tucked in his mane of hair too. I can relate to this-not the shiv part as I am a pacifist at heart, but the part about things being stored in my hair. After a romantic dinner with my gifted better half the other night, I realized I had 2 large redwood fronds in my hair the entire time. It may be he did not notice, but knowing him he just liked them being there. 

The Redwood Forest is hard not to take along with you. It is the fog and mist that fills a mind overawed, it is the seasonal dust or mud, the ferns unfurling like a heart cracking open and letting in light even if it might get burned. It is the creaking branches that could kill you in one fell swipe, reminding you each day is precious and asking you what your plans are regarding that fact. It is neon yellow slugs, wedding dress white trillium, unashamed iris purple like the old ladies who might wear it in defiance. It is the sense of a mountain lion nearby, which is a good way to describe the anxiety of parenthood, or the anxiety of playing all 32 Beethoven Sonatas in a world where Lang Lang also lives.

For about 25 minutes there is this escape into a world called opus 2, number 2, that is oddly a slightly different planet each time it is visited. Music is like that, a science fiction, science of tonality and reactions, of gravity and rate determining steps, with hypotheses and alien life forms popping in with their double sharps and crossed hands. The fictional aliens fit right into the world-building done by @LVBeethoven, which was his sci fi handle. And holy shit things just get weirder the deafer @LVB gets, until the science fiction in the late opuses is almost too mind-blowing to fathom. It is possible Opus 106 is a space opera. I’m gonna need some serious calisthenics to ride that particular flying saucer.

But I get ahead of myself. Next up is opus 2, number 3 which is one of my very favorites. While I try to get that one reasonably under my paws, please reach out if you know a canine music savant that wants to run around, snooze, chew a bone, fart or bark madly while I play it for them.

For today, thank you King Clarence, for giving 25 minutes of your one precious life, and for letting your person film the video. Incidentally, she was specifically instructed not to focus on my big ass, and if you make it to the end of the video, I am pretty sure she decided to defy me and do an actual close up of my derrière. For what it’s worth, I imagine Beethoven liked a good butt joke, though maybe not quite as much as Mozart did.

If you would like to listen, and meet Clarence, here you go: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qvLFNY4WqMs

Opus 2, Number 1, for Monk

 My dogs, through the years, were often runners. My Reverend father named the childhood dog the Rabelaisianesque “Brandy”, make of that what you will. Brandy never needed a leash, always at one’s side. He equally enjoyed parental walks, cross-country running obsessed trots and sprints alongside my skateboarding brother. As he aged, sometimes I’d notice he wasn’t at my side and instead had joined an old jogger neighbor some ways behind me. I mean she was probably at least 45 years old. In our small home he laid near the piano when I played (probably used to my siblings loudly begging me to stop). Maybe he too was begging me to stop. 

But I think all dogs appreciate music. Zoe, a neurodivergent, stunted golden doodle, actively sought out music. I had impulsively picked her out from a breeder in Washington state who had their puppies listen to classical music. When I finished reading to the kids at bedtime she would trot click click click down the hall and sit at my feet gazing up while I sang „Müde bin Ich“ and “ You are my Sunshine”. She preferred music no later than Brahms. When anything in the 1900’s started up on the piano, and God forbid the 21st century, she click click clicked upstairs in a huff. But she also frantically did what one friend called the “breast stroke” on leash to try to dine on horse shit. So I am not sure she gets the last say on modern music.

Buster the border collie had no opinion about the piano but was completely devoted to me, he wore his black and white tux to every practice session. He had class.

Shasta really didn’t like me very much and the piano was just another confusing part of the universe she was thrown into when we brought her in after her owner had died, near the end of her life. Which turned out to be 4 years later. By the end she tolerated me and really that’s all I can ask of anyone.

Moving into the jazz era. Miles took over Buster’s fierce devotion immediately upon his Christmas Day death, a Christmas Day spent in a hospital shift after laying on the floor hugging old Buster all night. As I lay weeping later, Miles tucked right up next to me and sort of just stayed there for the next 10 years. When Our favorite violinist or a string quartet came to join me for music adventures, Miles would quietly stand in the middle of the group just being a witness, like someone quietly swaying in church during an especially fiery sermon. Though if the beach had not been visited before a long music session, he would head-butt my hands off the keyboard. When I met him as a puppy he seemed the most chill of the litter and I thought he was cool jazz. He went through several phases though, not unlike his namesake. He always knew how to use silence, and that it was at least as important as the woof woofing.

Monk has an old soul, a goofball presence, and never fears mistakes. At 9 months he already outweighs Miles (may he rest in peace). He is a lab so EVERYTHING IS AMAZING AND MIGHT ALSO BE GOOD TO CHEW ON. Somehow he knew chewing on the Steinway was the antithesis of joy. As he matures I believe he finds chewing on the tasty chords that fly through the air quite satisfying. He told me once that there are no wrong notes on the piano. Or maybe that was his namesake who said that but either way, I am in.

I wanted to be a concert pianist who wore tails. I decided that when listening in the dark to the LP of Horowitz playing the Moonlight Sonata when I was 5. We didn’t even have a piano, but THAT was my future.

When my cervical spinal cord was all messed up in 2023 I couldn’t quite walk in a straight line. Then I couldn’t pick up a jigsaw puzzle piece. Then I couldn’t play a scale. Which finally made me stop gaslighting myself and seek medical care. Thankfully it was mechanical and a neurosurgeon just fixed that thing. The dexterity hasn’t quite returned but since there are no wrong notes on the piano I don’t sweat it too hard.

I am so grateful to be able to play. And here is a secret: I love Beethoven. It’s beyond reason but probably there is some neurohormonal attachment from that 5 year old girl sitting under headphones with Horowitz at the helm of an 88 key mind-blower. Before my spine surgery, I played through all 32 Beethoven sonatas in a few days. It occurred to me that the very slight possibility that something could go wrong could leave me unable to play at all. Over the years, from music school days as a teenager to the years not playing much at all during medical training to a reengagement with grace to my diminished stature as a musician, I have always come back to LVB. 

I haven’t ever been a concert pianist who played in tails. But I like to make others wag their tails. And in however long I have left on this spinning rock, I am finally going to learn all 32 Beethoven piano sonatas reasonably well enough. In fact well enough to entertain the purest of all critics, the best boys and girls in the universe, the chewers of the bones of the repertoire and the inhabitants of a world where open hearts is just wagnificent.

Thus begins the Beethoven Project. If you know a dog needing some Beethoven, give me a holler. The first one though is for my best little brother, my current zen master and the loudest snorer in the universe.

If you’d like to watch Monk watching the first Beethoven Project performance, click below!

Let’s start at the start, little Monk. 

https://youtu.be/DndQqkktMl8?feature=shared

Tree Magic

 While running through the old growth redwoods today, the older adult redwoods, the elders, the sages, sensei masters, maestros of the girth of a Mahler symphony, while running among them on the paved path inserted by people in order to allow us to see and be among the trees, I thought about community. I touched the bark and moss and burls as I loped past, in gratitude and like all of my species, in an attempt to take with me some of the mystery, the tree magic.

16 months ago, I was not sure I would ever run again. Myelopathy had me walking askew and unable to do the things that come easily enough to me, like playing piano or lifting a puzzle piece with my fingers. Turning pages of a book and walking in a straight line required a connection no longer being made. All my skepticism about modern medicine had to take a hike for the relinquishing of control to an anesthesiologist and neurosurgeon, all standing in a row with nurses when I entered the operating theater. 

Good fortune, skilled and attentive physicians and good old fashioned fear of what was happening to me spurred me to take the leap and have led me to be a good deal better than I was. Including, today, running the marathon again.

I heard someone around mile 18 say “did she just touch that tree?” But around mile 10 when I did a little leap up to tap Sir Redwood, someone else shouted “Yeah! Tree magic!” Either way I might be weird but besides the tree magic the people magic has me thinking that our world is on the okay side of disaster. While we are seemingly surrounded on all sides by rage, the hundreds out running today had smiles and good wishes. A 3 year old handed me a cup of water with bright eyes gazing upwards and a huge smile. James Washington and a multitude of volunteers fed, watered, herded and cheered on the racers. 

I reached out to some friends before the race to help me build a playlist. Earth, Wind & Fire made a couple of appearances. David Bowie, AC/DC, Jenny Scheinmann, John Coltrane, Jon Batiste, Beyoncé, and of the 3.5 hours of music, there was only one duplicate (Batiste-Freedom), and only one that I picked myself (Boom Boom Pow). One of my favorites was Femininomenon. Right at the half was Mountolive and of course, Journey was there, Not stopping believing just like they didn’t let us stop believing when we boarded the bus to a high school cross country meet at 6am on an autumn Wisconsin morning in the 1980’s.

So What, you say? And no, Miles Davis did not get on this list, but I will make sure he is represented next time. A friends’ playlist through bone conduction headphones while doing something you aren’t sure you can actually do is a huge gift of community. I could identify who had picked what song, and Monica, did you hear me laugh when East River came on? 

On Friday an angry patient yelled and swore at me. But I still believe in community. Our local university campus is closed after demonstrations, but I still believe in community. My middle child is in prison but we talk almost every day and I still believe in community. We do not have to navigate alone the crazy fact of being alive in this broken world (thank you Mary Oliver). Michelle, who ran (SMOKING FAST) the half marathon today hung around to see me finish and make sure my weak, donut ass got safely into my car with my incredibly thoughtful husband after the race. 

Regarding donuts, I binged on them at work on Friday. See above re angry patient. Coping mechanisms are a work in progress, likely till the day I die. And when that day comes, I know the community will turn their hearts to my family and friends, and will make sure my patients are cared for. I don’t plan on a celestial discharge anytime soon, but, again with the Mary Oliver: one precious life can zip by faster than Yuja Wang can play a Chopin Etude!

We do not have to be alone. Just ask the Redwood trees who have all sorts of interesting chats over intertwined roots plugged into the Mycorrhizal network. Chats that maybe started 300 years ago. Tree magic.

Driftwood

 I have not surfed for several weeks. Aside from the size of the waves, beyond my ability, I might get clocked by a redwood tree.

Humboldt style driftwood is not for the faint of heart. As with almost everything else in this far Northern California blend of the sublime and the ferocious. This ought to segue into a long discussion about Beethoven, but I shall spare you.

Buster, the second dog love of my life (after childhood pal Brandy, named by my pastor father after his color, not as his porn name, no offense to Brandys everywhere as it is actually cool name), used to bring me beached trees, actual trees, dump them at my feet and say “you strong, capable woman shall now throw this tree and I will then fetch it for you.” Buster was bewildered by my declaration that I was not actually the princess warrior he was picturing.

A few weeks ago Miles (current dog love, bless his 13 year old heart of gold) and I were on a beach walk when a sudden storm blew up. The wind was scary in that “is this a freaking cyclone?’ Sort of way and it did not rain, rather it hailed ice stones that actually hurt. Being exposed on the beach, the first place I dove for with dog in arms was a great big log. We huddled there, still getting pelted but less fearful of being blown into oblivion when there was a fantastical lightning strike and beach-shaking thunder. Miles, who is cachectic and relatively hairless after a grumpy groomer decided he needed to be stripped naked, was shaking and we locked eyes for a second, maybe both thinking it had been a nice life… 

I scooped him up again and scrambled up a dune and God seemed to have deus ex machinaed a hole covered by a bush right over the peak of the dune where we rode out the rest of the storm. When we could finally walk back to our car, me pretty much blue lipped frozen at this point, a sassy rainbow appeared. Nice one Mother Nature! 

Before storm

                                                                        After storm

Today, as we walked among the wood drifted upon the beach, we managed to just miss the rain. January has been making up for our relatively dry winter. I was obsessed with the sky and the way the wind blew eddys of sand. Sneaker wave weather for sure so we hugged the cliff, always with an eye out for an escape route. Rip tides apparent. I miss being in the water, substituting the pool after long work days. Still healing but not the same.

Sky like a paint by number masterpiece, and the strong smell of cow dung. I kept checking my shoes but it was just the way the wind was blowing, exactly picking up the scent and spreading the news, or perhaps spreading the moos.

Diagnostically speaking, it’s been a good week. Just when the dysfunction and drama of modern medicine has me down, I remember the joy of noticing something with my eyeballs—not needing a fancy scan or a blood test—-just seeing the malady and knowing. It’s especially great when there is something that can be done to heal, to help. Pondering the way my brain works, I seem to have a knack for patterns. Reading music, reading EKGs and seeing/feeling/noticing a subtle sign on physical exam. Just don’t ask me to remember a name, a part of my brain woefully underdeveloped, or to remember all the brand names of the millions of medications now available for type 2 diabetes mellitus.

Though if you want to know my super secret memory device for this:

“Some guys are losers” =SGLT2 inhibitors (the -lozins)

“Good looking people surf”=GLP-1 agonist (the -tides)

Driftwood has been useful to humans over the ages, as a supply to build boats and other stuff. It has this lovely, twisty, water-polished surface that elevates it to almost-art. It isn’t unusual on our beaches to see driftwood forts, some elaborately designed. Driftwood is a place of refuge when surprised by a storm next to the not really all that Pacific Ocean. 

And don’t even get me started on the magnificent fact that we are alive, all entangled in the wildness of a universe that produced Bach, the surfboard, Miles the dog, Miles Davis and the warm bath after the beach. Just at this very specific right now moment, things are ok.

Well Tempered

 Johann Sebastian Bach probably wrote some of the well tempered clavier during his month in prison. He snubbed a royal who didn’t want him to go work somewhere else. 

Some of the well tempered clavier was thus written in his head in likely miserable conditions. If you’ve never tried writing a fugue, under the best conditions it’s sort of like being asked to thread a needle seven different ways while blindfolded and standing on your head. 

The well tempered clavier was written before there were pianos. Purists might play it on a harpsichord or clavichord. Glenn Gould plays it like an alien who was actually Bach on another planet.

The 48 pieces come in two book volumes, I’d say 6 eight track cassettes, 4 CDs, 8 LPs and just a blip on Itunes. Each piece has a prelude and fugue demonstrating, yes indeed, a well tempered keyboard. If you start on a C and do it in major and minor and climb up the scale by half notes till B (then back to C again), all those guys sound in tune. It’s math, it’s art, it’s engineering. It’s like that scene where the Von Trapp children sing about deer and sewing. Threading a needle.

When the world is falling apart, I usually rest in the well tempered clavier. Some call it the Old Testament of music. Like “in the beginning” there was Bach. But in the same way the well tempered circle has no beginning nor end, there was music encircling our ancestors. Maybe we sang before we grunted coarse words. 

Bach just happens to tap into my own primordial goo, which seems to be located in the liminal electrical space between my atrium and ventricle and between my motor cortex and my fingers. If you notice I’m well tempered on any given day, thank Bach. 

Prison Bach especially. The guy who threw him in prison was a monstrously rich megalomaniac-JSB actually got off easy compared to some other employees who didn’t wear the proverbial red hat for the Duke of Haters. It’s a good reminder that mean people in power is just a part of the human condition. They might win a little sometimes but in the sense that not a single soul can hold back the long arc of beauty and justice, it’s a hollow victory. A deep well tempers grief with compassionate waters. A well that welcomes all. Please notice who usually gathers at the wells of the world, to tend to the thirst of their children and their community.

Please notice the helpers.

https://youtu.be/HZ_muo3BzI8?si=FNS-CCA2f2LALsYE

The Other Mother

A Poem, or Something, About Mother's Day, Neil Gaiman and Carnivals

I want to shrink inside of myself. I walk slightly askew and my waist has thickened. I gave birth once and parented thrice, I doctored entirely too much. Let me give this advice. 

Don't take me advice, but rather crawl into the hole in the wall leading to the Other Mother where you might find better, button eyes. You might find weird and wild and wise women in disguises. Women baking magic cookies. Aromatic bread rising. Enterprising

Women make poor mothers. Clara Schumann, for example, always had other things to do. The fact is your career and ovulation peak together. And even while neglecting their children, women physicians make two million dollars less than men over their time in the profession.

I will make the concession that being a doctor is not an excuse for prison kid. I did the best I could but it was never enough and Other Mother, the one I dream about, would've put the lid on the drugs and the drugs and the drugs pervading our child's beautiful body. Invading their heart.

Though they say it was not because of us, still we are broken apart. 

Other Mother might have breast fed longer, not rounding on the wards or taking exams. Time off to tickle toes. This mother's mother died just shy of 4 months of first baby's new life. Breast fed at the side of Oma's hospital bed.

So I fled from grief. Running five steps in front of sorrow, its hot breath on the nape of my neck. Big love thrown to baby, baby and baby. Happily ever after in our house by the big trees.

Mighty Other Mother in her perfection, much better than I at protection, I paled in her reflection, my kids demanded an election. Unseat the one with the screaming pager! Real mother, Shoo!

But let's keep her chocolate chip cookies and that one song she sings is pretty good too. You know, "Müde bin ich, geh zur ruh..."She is less than we expected and more than we knew. She took us to see Beyonce. 

And plays piano much too early and too often. Demands perfection but never asks enough. Too white, too worried, too hurried, too busy, too 

Unlike Other Mother. The one with just the right stuff. Like the astronauts in that movie. Like s'mores or peanut butter cups. 

Three points from mid-court, all net, no drama, Other Mama

And yet this is what you get, the one with a stenotic spine, a love of Beethoven, a wish for more and more compassion and kindness, naive and not ever influential in the way, say

The Pioneer Woman is. Or that Perfect Mother on Instagram. @OtherMotherIsBest #ButtonEyes

I would do it better if I could do it again, be the mother that the Other Mother could only dream of being. The mother my three would seal up the wall to magic for, just so they could sit in the solid world of us, made of real eyes, stinky dogs, loud pianos, parents dancing, redwood-fronded, scratched, quarter sawn oak floors for sock sliding. Like some kind of carnival ride of love. Like the Scrambler or Tilt-a-Whirl:- thrilling, nauseating, with your companions shoved up against you with the gravity of life. 

Viaduct Kiss

 Recurring dream: a viaduct from my childhood town appears, I drive over it and something magical happens. One side of the viaduct is safe (the side that goes to my home). The other is some kind of slightly off Terabithia, magical but not always in a good way.

In real life, the viaduct bridges over railroad tracks. Under this viaduct I once kissed a self-identified dirtball. "Why are you hanging out with a dirtball?" said he. I was a practically invisible nerd with braces and hair I did not yet understand how to manage. It was actually a nice kiss, all clandestine. Have you ever been under a viaduct where the slope meets the underside of the bridge and you can tuck yourself in behind a pillar and hide? 

At the beach today there were truck tire marks all over, by the water, on the dunes. THE truck in question was stuck in some impossible position in the sand, truly I do not think it will be able to be extricated unless a crane is involved. The hair on the back of my neck stood up when Dog and I passed by them, as they were doing some maneuver with a rope to try to, well, try to do something that indicates they slept through physics class. We went along our way and spent an hour by the ocean on this luscious day. September on a Northern California beach is a balmy, gentle time. Today was a good day for a beginner surfer, with small, organized sets of waves pealing in regularly. Dog is almost 12 years old and he cannot really run like he used to, but he enjoys this beach as much as anyone can ever enjoy anything. Like joy with a fluffy top knot and 4 stick legs. 

We were passing by THE truck, still stuck ass backwards in the dune, and in that way that any woman on earth can understand, I took a wide berth around it with Dog on short leash. Still, I was surprised when the dog of THE truck rushed us and attacked my old boy. THE people of THE truck screamed at the attacking pup and finally pulled it off, and I just got the heck out of there as fast as I could, in self-preservation mode. I did not even realize till we were part way home that Dog was injured, and bleeding.

A vet visit, $300 and some antibiotics-Dog will be OK. 

This past week a governor enticed some traumatized immigrants onto a plane and dumped them at Martha's Vineyard, then laughed and crowed about it to a rally of supporters who cheered out loud, in public. This is America. Grown ups take joy rides on a serene beach and have animals in their care they cannot handle. People taunt women and children and men who have literally walked hundreds of miles at risk of death to reach our country. Little girls are raped and forced to carry the subsequent baby to term. This is America.

I am nearly 53 years old. I was thinking by this point in life I would have a grasp on what's happening around me. That somehow it would all make sense. But I still do not understand why people are mean. What is the point? And why is it so often worn as a badge of honor? 

When I was 8 or 9 years old, a man called our home and I answered. He said "I'm going to come and kill your Daddy!". Apparently this was related to Dad allowing a group of gay men to meet in the church where he served as pastor. In my dreams, the home where I grew up represents the safe side of the viaduct. But in reality, it was where 8 year old me was introduced to the way someone can assault your space with hate. My parents died long ago (of cancer, not wing nuts, though perhaps their cells mutated in response to the stress of trying to be kind in a fucked up world). The childhood home has had many other owners since. It is reported someone has even cooked meth in my mother's old kitchen. Where we used to eat our breakfast cereal, and bake cookies, and where you could stand at the window over the sink and watch the deer eating my father's garden. 

In my dreams, the viaduct has led to Zion National Park, where I was trying to take a run and kept getting lost. Once it led to a VA clinic that I had to work at and for some reason deliver babies. In reality it still leads to the IGA and from the top you can see my old high school, just sitting there and still demoralizing new generations of teenagers. I never graduated from high school, so maybe the viaduct dreams are the deep anxiety that someone will pull me over on this road of life and require me to complete my PE classes. In my old uniform.

The Terabithia I seek probably doesn't require driving over the viaduct where a dirtball kissed an invisible nerd. Might be that all the magic I need is accessed by paying kind attention to the people around me. That's pretty much what my parents taught me. How we respond to the constant assault on serenity, otherwise known as being a human on earth, is a choice we make. You can cook meth in my Mom's kitchen, but you cannot diminish the lovingkindness she brought into this world. You can want to shoot a man of Christ for being kind to others, but it won't heal your own despicable despair. You can drive over the beach crabs and make a perfectly nice dog whimper in pain, but you cannot take away his pure joy that only seems to increase even though the beach trip has happened a million times before.

You can be mean. I wish you wouldn't be though.