Thoughts on Tim Burton's "The Nightmare Before Christmas" (1993)

Tim Burton’s The Nightmare Before Christmas (1993) is a Halloween classic for many people. Not a cult classic, but a classic nonetheless. While perhaps there is some wariness from the intellectual cohort, whomever they may be at any given time, saying things like “The Nightmare Before Christmas is the most overrated Halloween movie” etc. etc., I think the film deserves some thought. Indeed, much more thought.

I saw the film in the movie theater with my father when I was six years old. I was absolutely fascinated. For one thing, the animation in this film was like nothing I’d ever seen before. Contrary to the flat, two-dimensional animations of Disney’s princess movies, The Nightmare Before Christmas’s use of stop-motion animation added something almost tactile to my experience, really honing in an idea of the man-made, the creation and the creator, and the idea of building, which, I think, are all thematic components of the film itself.

Moreover, the film isn’t quite scary. It is a smart film, and children rarely get to see smart films which draw so much direct attention to the uncanny, and where the uncanny is not directly associated with evil. We all know Jack, the King of Halloween Town. And Sally and the doctor and the Mayor, and all the other citizens of Halloween Town. Although they like to scare people out of their wits, it is not a malicious violence, but something playfully disturbing instead. And furthermore, the story presents these characters as naïve, unaware of any world outside of their own, making them seem innocent and unworldly. To be presented with characters in a film such as this, that aren’t quite aware of the difference between right and wrong, is a refreshing thing for a child to see, especially when it’s explicit content is the ugly, the evil, the menacing, and the grotesque. These are characters disturbing and troubling, yes, but not so much what we can really pinpoint as evil.

It’s important to focus on Jack. Jack, feeling truly depressed after serving as the Pumpkin King of Halloween for many years, begins to dig deep to find out the source of his depression. He sings about it, and from his song we learn that Jack is tired of the sameness every year, the same actions and reactions, the same joke over and over again. I find his lyrics moving, and there’s a reason why his song is titled Jack’s Lament:

There are few who'd deny, at what I do I am the best

For my talents are renowned far and wide

When it comes to surprises in the moonlit night

I excel without ever even trying

With the slightest little effort of my ghostlike charms

I have seen grown men give out a shriek

With the wave of my hand, and a well-placed moan

I have swept the very bravest off their feet.

Yet year after year, it's the same routine

And I grow so weary of the sound of screams

And I, Jack, the Pumpkin King

Have grown so tired of the same old thing…

Oh, somewhere deep inside of these bones

An emptiness began to grow

There's something out there, far from my home

A longing that I've never known

I'm a master of fright, and a demon of light

And I'll scare you right out of your pants

To a guy in Kentucky, I'm Mister Unlucky

And I'm known throughout England and France!

And since I am dead, I can take off my head

To recite Shakespearean quotations -

No animal nor man can scream like I can

With the fury of my recitations.

But who here would ever understand

That the Pumpkin King with the skeleton grin

Would tire of his crown, if they only understood

He'd give it all up if he only could

Oh, there's an empty place in my bones

That calls out for something unknown

The fame and praise come year after year

Does nothing for these empty tears…

How can one not feel some sort of sympathy for a creature so obviously stuck in a place that he is sick of? It is not so much a yearning for something more, but instead, a yearning of new knowledge: there’s got to be something besides this, Jack seems to say. It is the fact that his world has lost all meaningfulness because it has become such a routine, something that has come to the point, for him, of going through the motions.

For those that have seen the movie, we know that Jack walks far enough from Halloween town one night, stuck in a daze of melancholy. And we know that he finds the circle of trees, each one with a different door symbolic of the holiday within. He happens to fall through the door with an evergreen tree on it, representing Christmas Town. And, as anyone would be, he becomes full of wonder and awe as he sees happiness, snow, joyous creatures, in-tune song, bright lights, presents, ornaments, and Santa Claus. He becomes determined to figure out how to bring the feeling – wonder and awe – back with him to Halloween Town.

This next part I find fascinating. Jack, in good spirits, attempts to explain Christmas Town to the citizens of Halloween Town, and any child would even know that something is well, not quite right. The citizens think that presents are supposed to be surprises full of dead animals, limbs off of human carcasses… read on:

[JACK]
Listen, there were objects so peculiar
They were not to be believed
All around, things to tantalize my brain
It's a world unlike anything I've ever seen
And as hard as I try
I can't seem to describe
Like a most improbable dream
But you must believe when I tell you this
It's as real as my skull and it does exist
Here, let me show you
This is a thing called a present
The whole thing starts with a box
[DEVIL]
A box?
is it steel?
[WEREWOLF]
Are there locks?
[HARLEOUIN DEMON]
Is it filled with a pox?
[DEVIL, WEREWOLF, HARLEQUIN DEMON]
A pox
How delightful, a pox
[JACK]
If you please
Just a box with bright-colored paper
And the whole thing's topped with a bow
[WITCHES]
A bow?
But why?
How ugly
What's in it?
What's in it?
[JACK]
That's the point of the thing, not to know
[CLOWN]
It's a bat
Will it bend?
[CREATURE UNDER THE STAIRS]
It's a rat
Will it break?
[UNDERSEA GAL]
Perhaps its the head that I found in the lake
[JACK]
Listen now, you don't understand
That's not the point of Christmas land
Now, pay attention
we pick up an oversized sock
And hang it like this on the wall
[MR. HYDE]
Oh, yes! Does it still have a foot?
[MEDIUM MR. HYDE]
Let me see, let me look
[SMALL MR. HYDE]
Is it rotted and covered with gook?
[JACK]
Hmm, let me explain
There's no foot inside, but there's candy
Or sometimes it's filled with small toys
[MUMMY AND WINGED DEMON]
Small toys
[WINGED DEMON]
Do they bite?
[MUMMY]
Do they snap?
[WINGED DEMON]
Or explode in a sack?
[CORPSE KID]
Or perhaps they just spring out
And scare girls and boys
[MAYOR]
What a splendid idea
This Christmas sounds fun
Why, I fully endorse it
Let's try it at once
[JACK]
Everyone, please now, not so fast
There's something here that you don't quite grasp
Well, I may as well give them what they want
And the best, I must confess, I have saved for the last
For the ruler of this Christmas land
Is a fearsome king with a deep mighty voice
Least that's what I've come to understand
And I've also heard it told
That he's something to behold
Like a lobster, huge and red
And sets out to slay with his rain gear on
Carting bulging sacks with his big great arms
That is, so I've heard it's said
And on a dark, cold night
Under full moonlight
He flies into a fog
Like a vulture in the sky
And they call him Sandy Claws
Well, at least they're excited
Though they don't understand
That special kind of feeling in Christmas land
Oh, well...

Jack “gets” it even in some small way: that’s the point of the thing, not to know – he says, when describing what the present is. And there he hits the jackpot, maybe the point, for him too, is to not get so caught up in the meaning of Christmas in order to recreate it, but instead, to enjoy the feeling he received when he experienced it for himself, if only for a short while. But he doesn’t get this, and oh how sorry I felt and still feel upon watching him borrow the Doctor’s supplies and tools and then try to run experiments on the objects, looking for the meaning of Christmas by first reading “the Scientific Method” then trying to analyze a snowglobe or an ornament! The problem with studying these objects is that they are simply visions, nothing more; creations, similar to the ones in Halloween Town, meant to celebrate a holiday, whose meaning itself, must be found out through story and myth.

Jack, who ends up ruining Christmas as he tries to “help” Sandy Claws (even as he tries to fully immerse himself in Christmas Town, he can’t quite relinquish his innate need for the horrific and thus names “Santa Claus”, “Sandy Claws”), finally realizes that he’s made a huge mistake:

[JACK]
What have I done?
What have I done?
How could I be so blind?
All is lost, where was I?
Spoiled all, spoiled all
Everything's gone all wrong
What have I done?
What have I done?
Find a deep cave to hide in
In a million years they'll find me
Only dust and a plaque
That reads, "Here Lies Poor Old Jack"
But I never intended all this madness, never
And nobody really understood, well how could they?
That all I ever wanted was to bring them something great
Why does nothing ever turn out like it should?
Well, what the heck, I went and did my best
And, by God, I really tasted something swell
And for a moment, why, I even touched the sky
And at least I left some stories they can tell, I did
And for the first time since I don't remember when
I felt just like my aold bony self again
And I, Jack, the Pumpkin King
That's right, I am the Pumpkin King, ha, ha, ha
And I just can't wait until next Halloween
'Cause I've got some new ideas
that will really make them scream
And, by God I'm really gonna give it all my might
Uh oh, I hope there's still time to set things right
sandy Claws, hmm

And yes, we know that Jack wasn’t malicious, he didn’t want to ruin anything, he just wanted to have a bit of fun, so we forgive him. And we are happy that he realizes, that yes, he did “taste something swell”, he did “touch the sky”, and he did create “some stories they can tell”. And there again, he hits the jackpot: it’s the story, in the end, that creates the most wonderful feeling of all, and it does not have to produce meaning – it does not have to produce any object at all – but instead wonder and awe in the vision itself.

- F

Thoughts on "New Morals for Aesop’s Fables" by Anthony Madrid (via The Paris Review)

I found a really good article the other day from The Paris Review titled: New Morals for Aesop’s Fables written by Anthony Madrid. Madrid quickly analyzes how ludacris (in the sense of how obvious they are as well as how we've come to take them as something like a fact) the morals of the old Greek fables are. In a clever way, Madrid breaks this down into sizable parts. Read it for some good insight (hyperlinked above).

While reading the article I realized that my favorite, and the only story I truly know, from Aesop is The Tortoise and the Hare. The moral we all take from this, usually without thinking twice, is something like: Slow and steady wins the race. 

But, if I were to take Madrid's unique viewpoint and re-write the obvious, maybe the moral would sound something more like: When the slow and steady creature sees the worn out competitor sleeping on the side of the road, it might be better to wake that one up and take a journey together. 

I dunno. 

But back to the article. This much I agree with. This much I believe is true:

"And so on, forever. It makes you want to write a set of a dozen parodies, in which you somehow find a way to spoof the meanness by taking it to some absurd level. However, there would be absolutely no point in doing that. Just look at Twitter, look at Facebook. We have maxed out on absurd levels.

Indeed, I predict that, five hundred years from now, if the human race still exists, scholars will be sifting through our hard drives, straining to comprehend the relationship between our stories and our morals, so to speak. In a state of perpetual mismatch, somebody’s going to have to figure out which part is the joke. Were we joking?"

God, I hope not. At least on my part, I'll try for something much more sublime. 

- F

Pensées de la lune (Moon Thoughts, a poem by me)

The shadows of the moon
are not her choice. 
The clouds sympathize;
they want to embellish her,
while she just wants to shine,
bask in the cold light,
of her strong glory,
owing it all - 
every bit of her presence -
to the heat
of the sun. 

When the sun dies, 
as he will, 
as all stars do,
what will this rock
of infinite shadow
feel in the truth
of its darkness?
Being a blank slate,
scars visible to no one.
No mere human
at least.

(Objects feel.
They must,
at some infinite depth.
For they are alive
only after
some form of death
by technology
or otherwise.)

- F

On Language and Other Concepts

I've started on the research into my Philippine heritage and ancestry, and it proves to be just as hard as any subject matter delved into seriously and with sensitivity. It has always been hard; as an undergraduate I wrote my thesis paper on a subject matter very close to this but with a completely different approach (my thesis paper was titled: On Emergent Technosubjectivities: Fragmented Identities in the Era of Globalization. It was a very abstract paper, and as I enter into a more structured study into this part of my life, this subject matter of nationhood and cultural identity, it is proving to require the same amount of research and thought as an academic essay, and I've realized that something like this has to be handled as more than a simple hobby. 

This morning, I attempted to post something for social media regarding the nature of language in the Philippines. After posting, I asked my aunt and my mother (both Filipinos, now Filipino-Americans as they have earned their citizenship here in the United States) what they thought of it. While my aunt thought my commentary was "very good" (which it might have well been!), my mom was more concerned about how I approach writing about this topic, with an emphasis on doing the necessary reading of scholarly literature before sounding off my own educated guesses on the matter. 

The post, which has since been deleted, included this photo, which I found unsourced on Pinterest (usually a place to get into trouble with anything that requires sufficient context):

Such a beautiful sounding word. I wanted to share it with everyone as a way to share this Filipino word with the world, so it could go on it's way to become something like "Mahalo!" (Hawaiian) or "Gutentag!" (German), or "Arigato" (Japanese), or "Bon Apetit" (French), or "Bellisimo!" (Italian), or "Tak" (Polish)... you get the picture. The famous one I do know from the Philippines is "Ma Buhay!" - but I'll write more about that later. 

What I got right: kalinaw is a word from one of the many dialects in the Philippines. It is a word that originated on the island of Cebu (there are 7,107 islands in the Philippines, FYI). The word is thus part of the Cebuano dialect, and indeed does mean serenity and tranquility, and is also, correctly a noun. 

When a word like this is simply put on a Pinterest board as one of the most beautiful words spoken in the Philippines, I am concerned about the lack of complexity given in its caption, particularly the need to provide the proper context. 

Cebuano is not the official language in the Philippines. The Philippines has two official languages: Filipino (commonly referred to as Tagalog) as well as English, which is what the Filipino government uses, mostly. In Tagalog, the word kalinaw is also used, but the meaning of it is almost completely changed. Usually, when someone uses the word kalinaw in Tagalog, it is used to say something like: clear, concise, precise, understandable. It is used more to say something like: that person spoke very clear to me. Or, what that person said was crystal clear; erudite, even. Direct. Whereas in Cebuano, kalinaw's meaning more about a state of being, of a place, or person. Though describing this to you in English might seem like this word is an adjective, in both Cebuano and Tagalog, it is a noun. 

My aunt was the one who informed me that kalinaw is *not* a Tagalog word, but a Cebuano word. My mom was the one who told me that kalinaw, though not normally associated with Tagalog, is still used in Tagalog speech. I'll need further research to say anything more.

Another concern my mother had was my use of the term The Philippine Islands. I love using that term for a few reasons. One, to denote that the country is a group of thousands of islands. Two, I think it sounds official. Three, I'm not too comfortable with the idea that the Philippines is actually only named the Philippines because of the old King of Spain: King Philip II. Actually Las Islas Filipinas (Spanish) was it's given Spanish name which almost exactly translates as The Philippine Islands... which I like.

However.

On the phone this morning, my mom said, "Felicia, no one uses the term The Philippine Islands anymore. Only the colonizers liked to use that term. The Philippines gained their independence already, and since then everyone just says the Philippines." OK. So I didn't know! But fair enough. I learn something new everyday (yes, even from you, Mom). I'm not sure what the reason is for this, but it seems to be some sign of unity. Just the Philippines. All together. As a whole. According to Wikipedia (I know, I'm only in the very initial stages of reading about all this), the official title is actually The Republic Of The Philippines which signifies - even more -  that the  nation is a whole comprised of multiple parts. 

Another question my mom asked was: "Why are you so interested in all of this?" As in, opposed to other concepts?

For me, culture can be pared down to these basic components  (I think this might be similar philosophy to Anthropology or Sociology): art, orally transmitted stories/folklore, traditional rituals, clothing, food, and language (basic communication). 

History and written literature come later - at least in my study of it. What I'm finding out at this point is there is common universality in the idea of an indigenous culture native to the Philippines. Who claims this as their own? And who claims the idea of the colonizer as part of Filipino identity? And is there any way to peacefully merge these two forms together as a way to develop Filipino heritage and culture? Are they already merged? Are they split? And thus I delve into the terrifying abyss of politics. 

- F 

Recording of Claude Debussy's "Dr. Gradus ad Parnassum" from Children's Corner (take ONE)

I've played this piece for quite awhile, and every time I play it it is so much fun and I hear and learn different things each time. My fingers are still very "muddy"; so something I'm working on, with every piece I'm learning now, is clarity. I'm also working on dynamics; I'd like more contrast in this piece. Here's my recording from today - on the Yamaha. My performance is better midway through the end. I'm going to record this again on the Boston (which I love playing, perhaps my favorite upright at the library) and after I improve a ton...

So here's my very, very poor performance - 

This is what I'm working towards (performance by Arturo Benedetti Michelangeli) - 

- F

A Day At The Art Institute

Dan and I went to the Art Institute last weekend the day before the new John Singer-Sargent exhibition was due to close. 

While walking through the Ancient Greece and Ancient Roman sculpture and art gallery, we overheard a girl, maybe in her late teens or early twenties, ask this of her friend, who was about the same age:

"How do you feel about places like this? Like museums. All this stuff behind glass boxes? Or these fancy displays? I don't know. It doesn't do anything for me. I want to care about all of it, but I don't."

We might judge her, laugh at these remarks, sneer at one another despite of her. After all, these are ancient relics! But, like her friend, Dan and I just smiled gently to ourselves and remained silent for bit, thinking. 

If you think hard enough about it, she's not entirely wrong to feel this way. It reminds me of something the great contemporary philosopher Slavoj Zizek once spoke about in regards to the 2006 film Children of Men:

"The true infertility is the very lack of meaningful historical experience, and that's why I like this elegant point in the film of importing all the works of art. All those classical statues are there, but they are deprived of a world. They're totally meaningless because what does it mean to have a statue of Michelangelo or whatever? It only works if it signals a certain world, and when this world is lacking, it's nothing. It is against this background, I think that the film approaches the topic of immigration and so on."

(from Children Of Men, directed by Alfonso Cuaron)

As a librarian, this makes perfect sense. While we review the stimulating and significant value of being able to look at and analyze primary sources, such as original historical documents or even artwork, there is a point when we have to make mention the necessity of secondary sources. Secondary sources, oftentimes written by scholars and academics, of course, and this might be obvious, put these primary sources in perspective and context. Despite this self-evidence, as librarians and any kind of teacher, this fact is still important to articulate. The thing itself - the primary source - might not be enough. 


How was this young woman supposed to understand the gravity of having an ancient object, such as the statue of Sophocles, without having any prior knowledge of his work? As I gazed upon this relic, I did pity those who never read or intended to read a great work such as Antigone. 

photo taken by me, at the Art Institute of Chicago, 09.29.18

photo taken by me, at the Art Institute of Chicago, 09.29.18

In my defense, her lack of desire to wonder or know about the art and objects surrounding her was a little bit alarming. Even when I was a child, born here with hardly any knowledge of the classical texts or art, and none passed onto me by my parents (both immigrants), I always felt a need to understand where their importance in this society came from, where it was built from, what need. Simply, I had a feeling that there was more to this life than Cosmopolitan magazine and whatever else seemed "trendy"; though mind you, I keep notes on both.

"No one is an expert on anything unless there's a burning need somewhere to have that particular skill," says the character Danny from one of my favorite films as well as the book it is based off of, Submergence by J. M. Ledgard.

(One day I'll write about the different circumstances which made reading my skill of choice.)

The need, for me, came from wanting to find meaning beyond the surface. Sometimes that comes in a form so different from what we come to see as reality.

photo taken by me, at the Art Institute of Chicago, 09.29.18

photo taken by me, at the Art Institute of Chicago, 09.29.18

Ancient Roman as well as Ancient Greek mythology inform much of what surrounds us today, with its influence shown in religious practices and stories, artwork that can be found in its cheapest forms on the lawns of our neighbors, and in much of our literary canons from the past thousands of years. And much of this mythology interests me all the more because of my newfound love for fairy-tales and folklore. There is a close connection between the rich literary canon of the West - usually seen as something elite - and the fairy-tales and folklore of what a lot of people consider to be more connected to the working class and even the poor. To connect these two classes by way of stories that impact one another is absolutely fascinating because it might be something ultimately unifying. 

photo taken by me, at the Art Institute of Chicago, 09.29.18

photo taken by me, at the Art Institute of Chicago, 09.29.18

The last gallery Dan and I decided to explore was the Medieval Art gallery. One of the most striking objects we came across was this choral book, from sometime during that period (5th to 15th Century), Europe.

Notations were completely different, without circles and stems, and overall the music was less precise in terms of rhythm and dynamics. The singers were more likely to make their own decision on how to interpret the music. This book, if seen in person, is very large, I think even a little over a foot in height; the choir had to share one book, and all had to see the notes on the exposed pages. 

(The idea of transformation is such a prevalent thought in my mind these days; how like me to see all things meta; across time and all encompassing.)

I did not take any pictures at the John Singer-Sargent exhibition, primarily out of respect for the artist. The audience was allowed to take pictures but when I attempted to do so, the paintings did not have the same effect in any way whatsoever. Sargent's paintings are very large, and the thickness of his paint is so key to the emotion that it draws to the viewer, brushstrokes and such and effused light (excuse my language, I am not a fine arts expert) that the camera on my phone could not do it any justice. They were all striking images, conjuring up emotions not of peace and happiness but of toughness and work, public persona, and the grim notion that tenderness always lies beneath the surface of this calloused reality. I even think I saw suffering in the subjects of his work, despite the luxury the people lived within; suffering from the grueling politics of the day. They were, suffice it to say, beautiful. 

A good day at the art museum left us brimming with new information and appreciation, and the anticipated tiredness that came with. It's our plan to always go to the Art Institute with two exhibits in mind, see those, and stop wherever our eyes and legs feel inclined. 

I'll end with this: I am happy that this trip did not require the obligatory gift shop present. Of course, we took a peek in there, but as I get older I'm realizing that the gift shop is NOT my point of excitement as much as it was when I was a child. I surprised myself by buying nothing. 

Until next time.

- F

Three Projects Of Differing Natures

There are three ideas which I have been concerning myself with because I feel a strong necessity to either write about them, in essay form, or manifest them cohesively in some other way, creatively or artistically. Where this feeling comes from, or for what desire or outcome, I know not. At least not yet. 

The first concerns mental illness; my own. I would like to write an essay about my own experience/s with mental illness, and how it developed over time. However, time and time again I've attempted to prepare my mind for the endeavor of writing about it, but I am realizing that I'd like to do some real research. Get statistics. History. Other opinions from people who have this mental illness. Needless to say, I feel that my writing would benefit. The subject - the illness - I am coping with is a form of psychosis designated as schizo-affective depressive type. I have a few books to start with at home, and as I'm reading those I'm going to take notes, and at any spark of an idea to tie my essay together I will have pen and paper at hand. I will also include thoughts and notes on a recent all-day course I took via my job at the library. This course was sponsored by the National Institute of Mental Health and I received my certificate in Mental Health First Aid, which I think should be a required course every three years, much like CPR courses.

The second idea that has been floating about is my concern for my ancestry and culture. That would be the Philippine Islands; i.e. the Philippines, and the state of Puerto Rico. Because I feel "closer" to the previous, I intend to look into what literature is available from contemporary Filipinos and Filipino-Americans. I wouldn't be surprised if not one reading this knew that this month, October, is Filipino-American Heritage Month. How many Filipino-Americans write fiction each year? What is available? What are they writing about? As for biographies and memoirs, who is writing those? What is it about? What is the emotional geography of this immigrant group - my own - and how does it differ and compare to other immigrant groups today? What are its politics and sensitivities? Why I am so interested in this is because I am concerned about the lack of proper, or at least, understandable heritage here. It is not clear because these are lands with heavily colonized histories. What does the ethnic and cultural heritage look like - and how does this fit in to the United States and furthermore, the global world - today? What can be brought to the table in a way that isn't terribly politicized? 

The third idea is fairy-tales and folklore. I'm just going to dive in, swim in it, and see what comes up. 

I'll keep you posted.

Sincerely,

F

Notes/Thoughts on the Chicago Symphony Orchestra performance on 09.21.18

In Riccardo Muti: The Maestro Among Maestros: 50 Years and Counting, an article found in the program pamphlet I received as I walked into Chicago's Symphony Center last Friday night, several notes stood out to me. Knowing next to nothing about Muti, the acclaimed international conductor, I found several of his viewpoints particularly fascinating. 

The first was this idea that there is an advantage to nations other than the United States (quite an idea, if you ask me). While in Italy, Muti (who himself is Italian) has said:

"We have an advantage here. At every corner, you are surrounded by history, every corner tells you where you come from. It's part of them. In Italian, the word is convivenza, to spend your life together."  

Imagine. Italy is so much older than the United States, and indeed, though I have never been there, I can understand what Muti is talking about. From pictures I've seen of Italy, in textbooks and advertisements, etc., the streets are full of old and new art, the place is bustling with culture in the language, the food, and architecture. A moment doesn't go by in Italy when an Italian isn't reminded of what their homeland is made of, in every sense. 

In the U.S., a place still very young in comparison, I think we as a nation are still very fragmented. Admittedly, we are a wealthy nation, in social, cultural, and economic capital, but fundamentally we are still just a huge stone slab yet to be carved. Walking around the United States does not, per se, reflect its people. On the two extremes, we have the pastoral (idyllic and not so idyllic) on one end and the industrial world  (apocalyptic or post-modern) on the other, and though these two are combining in odd and interesting ways, we cannot say and/or see much else, aside from noting the cliques and subcultures that fade and die every ten years (so it seems). It's worth wondering: what is it that will last? The idea of the cowboy? The skateboarder? The thug? The rich woman in the pearls and fur? Hippies?

What I'm keeping my eye on these days are expressions of the culture that really reflect its diversity by melding those different facets together. Like, perhaps, the art and architecture that reflects numerous different influences from different nations and peoples. This will be harder with food; I'm not a huge fan of fusion. A culture complex yes, but coherent. Right now I think the culture in the U.S. - sadly - is not so coherent. 

Another, simpler, point from the article that stood out to me was Muti's idea that to create better art, to be a better artist, and specifically, to become a better musician, one needs the very best quality of life. Which is part of the reason why he works so hard. So he can make money, so his orchestra can make money, so they can have the best lives - take care of themselves, enjoy the finer things, and make wonderful, beautiful music full of understanding and feeling, both. He says:

"I want to make the instrument better and better, and to make the life of the musicians better and better. If you have a better life, you make better music."

The performance began with Sergei Prokofiev's Sinfonietta, Op. 5/48. Hearing it reminded me of fairy-tales, the woods, and forest spirits. All these have been on my mind lately, but truly, the Sinfonietta reminded me of all of it. I marveled.

It was my first time hearing a performance such as this in maybe twelve years. The singular sound of a powerful unity -  which now is more like an orchestra that can sing (as Muti has said) - filled me with awe. The Chicago Symphony Orchestra was nothing less than perfect, even for its first ever performance of this piece. I was not surprised to hear the woman next to me say, "How delightful!", as she clapped her hands when the twenty-five minute performance was completed. 

Here is a recording of the Sinfonietta, not by the CSO, but if you'd like to hear it, you'll hear the birds and the wind and the warmth and romance (something slightly playful) that comes with the bright colors in this beautiful piece by Prokofiev:

After Prokofiev's piece came the haunting and dark masterpiece by Dmitri Shostakovich, Symphony No. 13, Op.113 (Babi Yar). This was a turn from the previous, yet not drastic. The gradual segue-way was in the musicianship of the CSO. When people think of orchestras, or perhaps in my own ideas of the orchestra as caricature, I think pomp and circumstance. There was nothing pompous here. Everything was heartfelt, subtle, and powerful, without anything drastically dramatic.

A bit about this symphony. Rarely has it been performed for any audience because of it's political undertones. One of the biggest reasons why it has rarely been performed is because of the lyrics that Shostakovich insisted be sung alongside the other instrumentation. Those lyrics come from a poem by Yevgeny Yevtushenko, who in writing it, was remarking upon the millions of dead bodies in Babi Yar caused by the brutality of WWII. Yevtushenko begins with condemning the place for holding no tribute or monument to the many Jewish people who were killed there. When Russia found out about the piece and Yevtushenko's lyrics, many Russians, including the government, were aghast at the fact that it did not seem give the other Russians who died there any attention. In any case, it seems that it was a little too political to be performed and celebrated as a masterpiece of artistic work. "I am not anti-semitic" - Shostakovich had once said - "because I am a true Russian."

My absolute favorite part of the piece, and only because of it's juxtaposition to the rest of the heavy and solid parts, comes toward the end. It is a little theme, I think beginning with just two flutes, that begin a theme that comes in and out until the very end. It is a light flutter, a glimmer of hope, of souls eternal. 

To hear this narrative sung, this poetic narrative sung, is a very different experience than most of the performances of this sort which might be found today. This is because it is not a theatrical performance. It is an expression without action, with pure words and sound. 

Here is the piece in a recording by the Philadelphia Orchestra. Read along with the lyrics if possible. When I heard this live last Thursday, I could only listen. I plan on reading Babi Yar in full while the orchestra plays on a night this fall. 

- F 

Happily Ever Edens | Happily Ever After

One of the best things said to Dan and I on our wedding day was actually proclaimed by our priest (we had a Roman Catholic wedding, mind you). He said, "...for there is still work to be done." That even though we were all celebrating this Special Day of Matrimony, that even though this was the day that officially confirmed our marriage, that, despite all the years of coordination and planning we had already put into the ceremony and the reception, that there was, and is, still work to be done.

This reminder - that there is still work to be done - filled me with a sense of reality and of evanescence. Furthermore, it was a feeling of inspiration and truth. Those golden words: there is still work to be done, filled me with the sense of an eternity earned.

Certainly, the kind of work Father Robert was referring to was not only that of the work which provides us our income. He was talking about the labor of love too. What I heard was actually a marriage of those two things. The work to be done which provides us our income as well as the labor of love which gives us the ability to do that work, to wake up early with a sense of purpose and belonging, and to strive (this striving is indeed a type of work) to help those we can and to receive help from others as well, in whatever form that takes. 

This work is not easy to perform in our world. In this life. What is our relationship, as a couple, to the world and our friends and family? How does our own marriage reflect our communication and actions with others? How does our communication and action with others reflect and change our marriage? These are all the urgent questions which Father Robert's beautiful reminder made me think of. I also knew this: although these questions carried an urgency with them, they also carry an innate patience, too. And quite simply, the reminder was this: that the work we do - each and every minute of every single day - continuously contributes to the love that we celebrated and were blessed with on September 8, 2018. 

Yes, that day, there were plenty nerves racing through me. Yes, that day there was a lot of excitement, making me talk and talk ("a mile a minute" as my mother-in-law has said). Yes, that day, I was extremely energetic, not able to pay more than a few seconds attention to any one thing. But, more than anything, I felt ready. I was prepared to say my vows to Dan. I can't explain why I felt so ready to marry him. It felt like something akin to blind conviction. To true faith. It was unexplainable and yet, there it was: the confidence that this was the man that I was meant to be with, to share love with. All because our relationship blessed me with safety, peace, the desire to learn, the desire to love, and the desire to be loved. Now, writing this, I am aware of where that conviction and faith came from. It came from my awareness that I was making this choice myself. It was my decision to marry Dan. And I knew, and know tonight, that I married him for all the right reasons.

Dan provides those precious gifts, of safety, peace, learning, and love, each day of my life. How could I have ever turned down those values of presence? Making a harsh reality soft and comfortable with all the care in the world? There was no way other than to say: Yes. I do.

Those who were there to stand by my side during this celebration were angels. If not every day, they were angels on that day, in my eyes. Our bridesmaids, groomsmen, and entire entourage gave us so much support; we felt it through and through. And we could not be prouder to say that they each have shaped us in small ways, big ways, and important ways. Even the children, who behaved like little princes and a little princess, showering us with their playfulness and innocence and adoring eyes. 

My father could not be there, but I know he was there in spirit and mind. He called me on my birthday this year to wish us congratulations and love, and told me honestly that he had high blood pressure and would not be able to fly in for the event. My heart goes out to him for this directness and truth. My heart goes out to him for his hardships and his quiet yet constant love, and I am grateful.

My beautiful sister-in-law Sarah was not able to fly from Colorado to Chicago, for reasons beyond her control. It will always be a huge part of my wedding memory that she, via our wonderful 21st Century technology, was able to see us and talk to us in real time. She is such a special part of Dan's life, and now mine, and I was so glad that we three (four, including our brother-in-law Paul) were able to cry and laugh together, recognizing that this was only one day in all of eternity, and one day out of this new amazing life that we are all currently stepping into. To approach this life with caution, care, and self-awareness is something that she taught me, and I am grateful.

I was given a very special gift from my father-in-law. A few days before the wedding, we spoke on the phone. He reminded me that he will be my father now, and that whenever I needed him he would be there, for whatever reason. He reminded me to breathe in and take in the approaching day with every pore in my body. He reminded me what it's like to have a real father, and taught me what it feels like to have one that is brave, that is open, that is caring and fun and kind. I had never heard words such as the ones he spoke to me, and I am grateful. 

My mother and my Ate Rodelia: the two headstrong, hilarious, and silently hard-workers who raised me, were both, of course, by my side, helping me through the day, reminding me to be cognizant of my manners, as usual. But more than that, as I told my mom the night before the wedding, I was taught virtuous love and endless patience. Those values they have blessed me with, as if magical fairies from some old tale, bestowing upon their child, both by biology and by guardianship, these important, ancestral, and ancient codes that must be practiced or else they should die. And I am ever so grateful. I'll always try to keep these safeguarded.

Of course, who else but my mother walked me down the aisle? It only made sense that she "give me away" to Danny. From one protector to another. 

My maid-of-honor needs no further words. I cannot speak any highly of her and I cannot say enough how she means the world to me. But. This picture.  It says everything, as a picture is supposed to do, an image producing a thousand words. Let me remark upon this: her calm face and her hands. Look close enough and all the strength and struggle and peace and vigilance can be seen without one sound coming out of anyone's mouth. No eyes need to be open, no tears shed, nothing further but the knowledge that there is someone who has my back. And I hers. And that is only one of my big reasons to smile.

My favorite part of the ceremony came after our vows were spoken. The Unity Candle was prepared for us by our mothers. My mother and Dan's mother walked up to the altar during the beginning of the ceremony and lit two small candles, one for me and one for Dan, with the intention of us lighting the single large one in the middle later on. And we did. The symbolism of this candle, which can be easily deduced, is not just personal. For we both hope for the entire world. 

Thank you to all who have followed us on our journey. Thank you especially for everybody who came to witness our ceremony. Though I may not be able to write about each and all of you, I've felt your love in my heart. 

For family or friends who I have not tied up loose ends with: know that I care about you and am thinking of you. There is still work to be done. I'm trying to do that work with as much respect and concern as possible, and to tend to those loose ends with clear intentions.

The fun part is: we get our professional pictures sometime this weekend! Things, admittedly, got less poignant after the ceremony. If you want to know the truth, I wound up in a patch of pines at the Arboretum as the reception was ending. Here's a really classy photo to show you my true colors (but - keep in mind - I'm a chameleon):

For good measure, here's the exact same photo PLUS one of my dearest friends from high school, Sean.

So. That's only half of it. Stay tuned...

(Don't worry. There will be p-l-e-n-t-y of photos of Dan and I in various states of passion and play to come. I promise.)

All our love,
F (& D)

P.S. It couldn't have ended without a picture of Dan and I, for that's how it ends in real life. I couldn't be more blessed and proud to have this man by my side. 

P.P.S. Thank you to my mother-in-law for the beautiful flowers. I was undeniably nervous that day, though many couldn't see it. It was all internal. And the smell of these roses... let me tell you... there was no smell that ever smelled as sweet.