I Wonder If I Will Miss The Moss

By Jane Mead I wonder if I will miss the moss after I fly off as much as I miss it now just thinking about leaving. There were stones of many colors. There were sticks holding both lichen and moss. There were red gates with old hand-forged hardware. There were fields of dry grass smelling of first rain then of new mud. There was mud, and there was the walking, all the beautiful walking, and it alone filled me— the smells, the scratchy grass heads. All the sleeping under bushes, once waking to vultures above, peering down with their bent heads the way they do, caricatures of interest and curiosity. Once too a lizard. Once too a kangaroo rat. Once too a rat. They did not say I belonged to them, but I did. Whenever the experiment on and of my life begins to draw to a close I'll go back to the place that held me and be held. It's O.K. I think I did what I could. I think I sang some, I think I held my hand out.

My Home (Away From Home)

I thought I would give a rendering of my home, my accommodation, my castle,* as it were. Most every morning, I'm sitting at my desk facing the gloriously large windows letting in copious amounts of sunshine. From my 4th floor aerie, I look down on the common area, the courtyard, if you will, of the three hi-rise buildings which make up this apartment complex. All three are built of the same Soviet-style construction, using light-weight concrete; each edifice has small decorative touches to distinguish them, either to tell them apart or mitigate the monotony. 

Across from me, that building has small balconies with butterscotch-colored translucent panels instead of wrought-iron balustrades; my guess is that they were lovely when they were manufactured & installed 50 years ago, assuming these structures were all built in the 1960's or 70's (plastic is a cheap alternative to steel). Now, the look is dated and faded, you might even say dirty-looking, probably from the effects of solar rays over a long period. The interior apartments are serviced by stairs and an elevator in a glass-encased well, smack-dab in the middle of the structure. I look up throughout the day, to see residents entering & exiting their homes.

The building to my right, the smallest of the three, is fronted by exterior walk-ways to the individual apartments, rather than interior halls. The railings also sport this yellowish plastic panel. At the end of these walks, there is an enclosed stairwell and I'm assuming, an elevator. I say this because I can't see it. But our building has an elevator in each of two separate stairwells, although the lift for our set of apartments is broken and unlikely to ever be repaired or replaced, as the doors are welded shut(!). Alas, the only balconies on this structure are tiny things on each floor in the stairwell, where the residents take turns burning their cigarettes. [If I haven't mentioned it before, Hungarians love their ciggies; all day long I watch the residents in the building opposite to me step out onto their protruding decks, bundled up against the cold, to enjoy a smoke.]

All three apartment buildings front onto a car park with a couple of enclosed garages, with most of the cars parked willy-nilly in whatever space they'll fit. It's all dirt & mud with occasional stabs at grass. No play area, but I don't see too many kids, as these apartments are mostly studios. The couple who was renting before me had one child, and from what Ádám tells me, as soon as she became pregnant with the second, they gave notice and went looking for a larger accommodation. Oof! I can't imagine two adults living here, let alone with a third, however small. But the rent is commiserate with the size; I'll give you that.

I will mention here that I find the lack of a working elevator a 'good news/bad news' case. Good news 'cause it forces me to climb the four flights of stairs, which is good for my health, but most of my neighbors are retirees and from what I've seen, they struggle, especially when returning from the 'piac' (market), loaded down with their groceries. And because they are retirees on a pension, I can understand why they have not fixed the elevator. I've mentioned to Ádám that we should look into an exterior lift or pulley with a small basket for heavy stuff. More later.

[*Vár means ‘castle’ in Hungarian; kapu means ‘gate.’ I live in Kaposvár, literally ‘The Gate in the Castle’ or the drawbridge over the moat. Although, Kapos is the name of the river that runs through here, so I may be wrong.]

Travel

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

The railroad track is miles away,  And the day is loud with voices speaking, Yet there isn't a train goes by all day But I hear its whistle shrieking. All night there isn't a train goes by, Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming, But I see its cinders red on the sky, And hear its engine steaming. My heart is warm with the friends I make, And better friends I'll not be knowing; Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take, No matter where it's going.

I Left My Heart In San Francisco

I left my heart in San Francisco
High on a hill, it calls to me
To be where little cable cars climb halfway to the stars
The morning fog may chill the air, I don't care
My love waits there in San Francisco
Above the blue and windy sea
When I come home to you, San Francisco
Your golden sun will shine for me

When I come home to you, San Francisco
Your golden sun will shine for me

Songwriters: D. Cross / G. Cory

I Left My Heart…

Ahem…

Waggoner’s Second

In the fall of 1995, the American composer Andrew Waggoner received a commission from the Bohuslav Martinu Philharmonic of the Czech Republic for a new orchestral work, which was premiered on today's date in 1996.

"I had a symphony in my mind for some time," writes Waggoner, "and decided that this was the chance I needed to see it through."

The resulting work, Waggoner's Symphony No. 2, opens with a solo for the cello, an elegy, perhaps, for cellist Anna Cholakian, the founding member of the Cassatt Quartet, who had died from cancer while Waggoner was working on the piece. "Quite unexpectedly, and for the first time in my life as a composer, the piece began to draw from everything around it," writes Waggoner, including some recycled elements from his own music, including a setting of one of the Holy Sonnets of the 17th century British poet John Donne.

Waggoner was born in New Orleans in 1960, and studied music at the Eastman School and Cornell University. In addition to his composition work, he's worked as an announcer and producer for public radio stations WXXI in Rochester and WNYC in New York.  

His Second Symphony was recorded by the same Czech orchestra that premiered it.

[This is taken from the American Composers Forum. Personally, I would file this under the heading, “I did not know that!”]