Tangents

Some KJ Charles fans were chatting on Discord about Cat Sebastian's Hither, Page, which is set right before Christmas and proved to be what I wanted for a cozy reread at 5 a.m. for Reasons. I really have got to get around to reading Middlemarch some day, because it keeps turning up -- in this book, in Marissa's recs, in a beautiful English country dance by Orly Krasner:



(This is a dance I've myself taught. The local group is proceeding with plans to resume hosting Playfords this spring . . .)

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Today's mail brought the latest issue of my college alumni magazine, which is how I learned about the death of Michael Murrin, who was my BA thesis advisor. He was ruthless with me, and I earned honors.

Coincidentally, last month I happened to reread some of my notes from the Arthurian Romance seminar he had led during my third year at U of C. (The reread was admittedly prompted in large part by a sudden deep dive back into The Dark Is Rising fandom.) They were more entertaining than I'd expected -- Murrin was hella smart, and funny as hell -- and now I want to curl up with his books. Someday . . .

Bronchitis is once again kicking my ass, but I am dogged and inventive, and the things that must get addressed are getting addressed. One of the more successful recent concoctions: pecan-apricot macarons. Onward! This entry was originally posted at https://zirconium.dreamwidth.org/179837.html.

The subject line is spoken by Pericles in the Shakespeare play of the same name, upon hearing that his beloved father-in-law is dead.

Hearing it tonight, at the Nashville Shakespeare Festival, I immediately thought of David Bevington, my University of Chicago Shakespeare professor, who was for many years a familiar figure flying from his home on Blackstone to various classes, meals, and performances around campus. A renowned scholar, he was also a very gracious man who was unquestionably responsible for me getting offers from grad schools (several interviewers made a point of telling me his letter on my behalf was impressive -- this in spite of me not having earned a solid A in his courses) and also a dedicated violist.

Since hearing of his passing, I haven't been sad, exactly -- he was in his late 80s, and I had figured that I would be reading his obituary sooner than later, although he was also spry enough that I also wouldn't have been surprised if he had made it to 100. But the world does feel a distinct shade colder with him gone.

The performance of Pericles was by the apprentice company, and it was a mixed bag. Some of the singing was gorgeous, and much of it wasn't quite in tune. But I was entertained by other audience members' attempts to understand what the heck is going on in the play (it's such a mess -- I'm fond of it, but it is SUCH a mess), I finally got to try the vegan ice cream joint that's been getting rave reviews (Kokofetti and peach scoops, yo), and even though I know the play well, I nonetheless cried in reaction to a couple of peak moments. Nice to see graceful dancing by non-waifs, too. Oh, and as Shakespeare does, there was a standout moment that hadn't registered with me during previous performances/reads: this time it was the nurse telling Pericles to pull his damn self together because his kid needs him.

This entry was originally posted at https://bronze-ribbons.dreamwidth.org/418066.html. I see comments at DW, IJ, and LJ (when notifications are working, anyway), but not on feeds.

Last summer, when I went to the Highlands-Cashiers Chamber Music Festival in North Carolina, I was captivated by the beautiful woman turning pages for William Ransom. She had silver hair and wide eyes and she was so engaged with the music -- not histrionically or showtastically or in any way in the way of the performance, yet vibrantly, fully present.

I was introduced to her at a reception after the concert, but with our first names only, so several minutes went by before the clues added up and I realized I was talking to a woman whose hymns I'd sung many times. At which point I fear I went into stammering fangirl mode, but she handled that graciously, of course.

Last night -- at the end of chamber choir rehearsal -- I learned that Shelley's husband had passed away in May, and that she died on Sunday of a heart attack.

I have Singing the Living Tradition open at the moment to #86:

Spirit of great mystery,
hear the still, small voice in me.
Help me live my wordless creed
as I comfort those in need.
Fill me with compassion,
be the source of my intuition.
Then, when life is done for me,
let love be my legacy.

--Shelley Jackson Denham, 1987

This entry was originally posted at http://zirconium.dreamwidth.org/63717.html.

Having been decidedly out of the loop, I learned about Stephen M. Wilson's death on May 22 only yesterday, via Linda D. Addison's preface to the 2013 Dwarf Stars compilation. My first exchange with Stephen was back in 2007, his first year of co-editing the anthology.

He was amused to hear that my microcosms honoraria were enough to cover a couple of beers. He published ten pieces by me, including this one:

She’s building a periodic table of death, / the better to unearth / uncounted ways of letting go.// Peg Duthie

May 10, 2010

This entry was originally posted at http://zirconium.dreamwidth.org/57385.html.

Yesterday evening, the BYM and I learned that Jack Tollett, a friend in Ft. Worth, had passed away earlier in the day. Jack was a darling man who ran the Waltz Across Texas motorcycle rallies for a number of years, raising a fair amount of cash for the Texas Scottish Rite Hospital for Children. He was one of the Chatty Morons (a group of long-distance riders -- long story) who gleefully kept me updated on the BYM's whereabouts during the 2001 Iron Butt Rally in exchange for kisses. He called himself a LBJ Democrat -- something that's come to my mind several times when putting Lady Bird stamps onto letters and packages this past winter and spring. (I associate Texas wildflowers with motorcycles anyhow, what with seeing and smelling them during various rides on the back of a Kawasaki.)

Hadn't seen him in years, but I'm gonna miss that man anyway. At some point this weekend, I'll raise a bottle of Shiner Bock heaven-ward.

This entry was originally posted at http://zirconium.dreamwidth.org/52035.html.