It’s been a few months now since I stopped blogging. I don’t know that I’m refreshed or afire with ideas for new posts, but I still seem to have things to say. I keep thinking that I should have something new and exciting to contribute in light of what’s been happening in the world while I’ve not been here. But, look around! Really. The confusion, the eeriness, the world gone mad!
Every day I find my e-mail full of political and economic description and analysis, so much of it important, even vital, and still I don’t really understand what’s happening to the world. Surely, somewhere in all those words there must be an answer to my bewilderment. Where did these so-called Tea Party people come from? These odd people who are so certain government is the enemy that they’ll do anything to bring it down? Why didn’t I know they were out there in these numbers?
Anyway, more on that another time.
While I’ve been away, summer has come and gone, and given way to brilliant color and beautiful light. Late summer brought flooding to Vermont and I felt proud of this little state. No doubt about it, it’s a gutsy place. Summer droughts hurt millions of other people. The floods and drought may have to do with global warming. Probably. Still, the people who want less government won’t agree to try to do something about it. They’d rather let corporations make it worse. Hard to take in.
Despite all, things are looking up with “Occupy” which, for me, is all about hope.
I finished writing a book, a light entertainment that I’ll push on this blog in a few weeks time. Don’t worry. I’ll try not to be obnoxious about it.
I played my rather tenuous piano with Tom and Genna, he on the viola da gamba, she on the recorder. If Handel could have heard us, if Telemann had tuned in—oh, the pity of it! Oh, well. Maybe later.
I spent some time in California which meant hikes to the sea and Picasso.
The Picasso show at San Francisco’s De Young Museum was an exhibit of work that the artist never sold. On his death, it was placed in the Picasso Museum in Paris. The Museum is being renovated this year, hence the traveling exhibit. It was an exuberant and passionate look at the twentieth century and its art.
In the meantime, Doris, in New York City, sent back a book she borrowed from me thirty-something years ago. I had no idea where it had got to. The pages of the little gray paperback are yellowing, the binding is coming apart. Entitled “The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge,” it’s full of powerful words from the young Rainier Maria Rilke.
Over the years, on occasional rambles through used book stores, I’ve looked for another copy, but to no avail. Now I can look again at what moved me so deeply when I was young. And see if it still does.