John and I went to the movies today. We saw Shakespeare in Love, a charming period piece deftly acted with sly references to modern tropes like psychiatrists' couchs and waiters elaborately explaining the day's menu. I've never liked Gwyneth Paltrow as much as I liked her in this, and the handsome Joseph Fiennes puts his caught-in-the-headlights stare to excellent comic use. In fact, all the actors were brilliantly cast. The recreated Globe theatre was especially fine, as were the costumes, and I loved the screenplay. The penultimate scenes were very affecting. I enjoyed it so much I would consider seeing it again; this is my highest encomium.

The photograph is of my Valentine's Day roses. I did not play with Photoshop at all beyond resizing it and creating the 3-D shadow. My digital camera captured the saturated colors at dusk; I turned the flash off. Aside from actually shifting my behind to go to the movie I've done little else this week but work, sleep, read, watch VH-1 Behind the Music specials, play with the cats, and think about philosophical issues like What Is the Meaning Of Life, and Are There Any More Girl Scout Cookies Left. Today is a very wet day. It's raining, and I've had both a bath and a shower. I nearly went over to the hot tub, too. I am plump with liquid. I have a big glass of water and a mug of tea one on either side of me as I sit here. I am listening to Mozart choral music, which is as liquid and glorious as they come. Soon I'll drag out all the Schubert I own and listen to that. I adore the Viennese Romantics. My first love was Mozart, but my second was Schubert, and my third was Brahms. After running through most of the Baroque and Romantic composers I fell in love with Gregorian chant and sang in a Latin mass for a while so I could indulge my passion. Then I discovered 20th century composition and dedicated myself to singing only modern music: Rorem, Poulenc, Thomson, even Engelbert Humperdinck (not the louche lounge singer but the original). I thought it was important to not dwell in the past when so much new music needed to be performed. I never stopped loving the older music, though. Mozart's Ave Verum Corpus was the first piece of music that changed my life, and you never forget your first love. Before then, everything we learned in choir seemed dopey and contrived. Stuff like Me And My Shadow just didn't fulfill me. I yearned for something ineffable that I sometimes found in pretty pop music or 101 Strings-style elevator music; a pale imitation, an anemic copy of something infinitely better. When we sang Mozart in 7th grade choir it was a revelation. My heart was pierced by the glory and beauty of it. My life divided neatly at that moment: Before Mozart and After Mozart. I have never settled for second best since. I have to be completely in control of myself to sing Ave Verum Corpus properly. The emotional depth is so profound I am always in danger of crying through it, and it demands a precision and clarity in delivery to elicit that same powerful response from the audience. The second movement of Beethoven's 7th Symphony is another piece that makes me weep. Most of Brahms' Requiem does the same. A particular Schubert quintet overwhelms me completely; I doubt I could ever master it enough not to drench it with my own emotions. But these days I don't have the opportunity. I don't sing with a choir any more. I sold my violin in Nashville. I listen now instead of performing. I still like 20th century music a lot, particularly ballets and chamber music. Mostly, though, I listen to the old favorites and lose myself in the rhythms and heartbreaking beauty of Bach, Dvorak, Tchaikovsky, Bartok, Elgar, and my personal triumvirate of Mozart, Schubert, and Brahms. Life produced those three. That's all the meaning I'll ever need. Past Life The Index Next Incarnation