O, to be in England

Another dream. A cinematic one with a strong, if disjointed, story line. We are guests in a small cottage or hotel on the south coast of England. The front porch opens out on a wild bay with extreme tides. (Think 'Wuthering Heights'.) There is a small parlor furnished in a vaguely Edwardian style – lace curtains over the mullioned windows, antimacassars on the armchairs, a potted plant or two (an aspidistra perhaps?). I help another guest move a loveseat from one sunny room to a cozy crowded library where several guests sit and chat. Our hosts are an elderly couple we appear to have known a long time. One of the guests is a white-bearded sea-captain à la the old actor Monty Woolley, whose ancient Austin or Morris van I drive downtown. Yet another is a handsome young politician with a ready smile and charming ways. (The fellow in this dream may have been inspired by television coverage of a certain embattled governor currently in the news.) He smokes incessantly and crushes cigarette stubs on the polished parquet floor. There are dozens of crushed stubs all over the place. This part is so vivid that in my dream I even smell the cigarette smoke. A younger woman by my side has a deep tan and great legs. She objects to the pall of cigarette smoke in the air. A maid sweeps up the butts, but the smell lingers. The hotel guests all go down to the beach as the tide recedes with remarkable speed. There is a beautiful sunset. I point out to my companion the marks on the cliff face left by the tides or the Deluge. We feel anxious about the return of the tide, which could come about at any time. People are swimming in the bay, carelessly ignoring the danger. The politician is hitting on the young woman. I use the van to drive a guest into town. A police car passes by as I struggle with the unfamiliar gearshift. The rear of the van is open, and its interior is filled with all manner of junk including an elephant's tusk and a kettledrum (this is the sea-captain's old van). On return to the parlor it is teatime. Smoke billows from a small oven left unattended. I help put the fire out, and a lady rescues the food. There is a sound of thunder, and rain begins to pelt against the windows. I turn to my companion to offer my opinion of English weather. She smiles. The End.

(Will there be a sequel?)

Happy New Year to all.

***

Dreamin' in the Cyber-Age

Of late, there have been dreams. Some vivid, others bland. Bleak and barren landscapes may merge into vibrant colorful ones. Seldom does rain appear, but when it does, it is a cleansing rain. People show up from a distant past, doing unexpected things in settings that are either vaguely familiar or indefinably strange. The skies offer an ominous backdrop, as in a Dutch old master painting.

The scene is a foreign city with cobblestone streets. In a restaurant a waiter spills coffee on my lady companion. No matter, there is no damage and she is unfazed. In the distance, bombed-out buildings loom, skeletal silhouettes against a gray sky. Could this be Berlin 1945, Sarajevo 1992? In dreams geographical exactitude does not matter.

We dine in the dim glow of candles. A mariachi band plays nearby. But they play Mozart. And then we are in a boat and there is a high wind that impedes our progress, though the water is tranquil. A bird of dark plumage appears making loud noises, then flies away.

The boat floats into a tangle of papyrus reeds. There is an amorous interlude before we find ourselves on the edge of a high cliff. The mountain is unstable and there is a long flight of steps leading down to a green valley. We fly, actually fly, down the steps, our feet not touching them. Someone or something is pursuing us. A dark cloud hovers overhead.

Now a river must be crossed. We hold hands. She has changed into a dress and high heels. She greets a friend she has not seen in a long time. We part.

In my hand I have a mouse, which I click. Suddenly the scene changes to what it had been an instant before. Her friend is no longer there. We are still holding hands.

And so I awaken.

* * *

Bach Christmas Oratorio - Macau Orchestra and Chorus

A fine performance in the church of São Domingo in Macau.

O Holy Night

This Christmas song has a special meaning for me, for it always reminds me of my father's last Christmas, before he passed away at the very young age of 42. Here it is sung by Placido Domingo, Jose Carreras and Diana Ross




Cantique de Noël

Minuit, chrétiens, c'est l'heure solennelle,
Où l'Homme-Dieu descendit jusqu'à nous
Pour effacer la tache originelle
Et de Son Père arrêter le courroux.
Le monde entier tressaille d'espérance
En cette nuit qui lui donne un Sauveur.
Peuple à genoux, attends ta délivrance.
Noël, Noël, voici le Rédempteur,
Noël, Noël, voici le Rédempteur!

* * *

O holy night! The stars are brightly shining,
It is the night of our dear Saviour's birth.
Long lay the world in sin and error pining,
'Til He appear'd and the soul felt its worth.
A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.
Fall on your knees! O, hear the angels' voices!
O night divine, O night when Christ was born;
O night divine, O night, O night Divine.

Joggers on the Promenade Deck

A young woman, hair flying, is being pursued by a guy in a red shirt.

Colores de Mazatlan

Eight Mexican Days

Photos of a holiday cruise in the Mexican Riviera. Above is our ship, the Oosterdam, and below the tenders being lowered to take passengers ashore at Cabo San Lucas.

Note the curvature of the earth on the distant horizon.
Or is it just the distortion caused by my lousy camera lens?

Water taxis and glass-bottom boats share the marina at Cabo San Lucas with luxury ocean-going yachts from as far away as Seattle and the Cayman Islands.





Three cruise ships showed up almost simultaneously at each of the three ports of call. The other two were the Carnival Elation and the Norwegian Star (above and below). So there were close to six thousand tourists in town on each of the days we were in port. On the hull of the Norwegian Star can be seen the shadow of the twin stacks of our ship, the Oosterdam.




I call this photo "The Mazatlan greeters". The large musician figures on the pier are probably constructed of papier mache over a wire framework. They aren't as ominous as the live Mexican soldier brandishing an assault rifle as he stands in the shade between two of the figures. The guy in the red shirt and shorts on the left is a returning turista.

A powerboat speeds across the quiet waters of Mazatlan bay.

The promenade deck of the "Oosterdam" where I spent a couple of relaxing afternoons on a deck-chair with a good read at hand, even though there wasn't much reading done.

Make Someone Happy

'Tis the season, so why don't we . . .

Chiaroscuro - Pomeriggio-SanMatteo

A pyramidal composition captured from my car window.

Ol' Man River - Soviet Style

I had never heard of Muslim Magomaev until today, when I discovered this while browsing YouTube for a good version (other than Paul Robeson's) of Jerome Kern's "Ol' Man River". He's a Soviet era singer who was very popular in his time. He passed away on October 25, 2008 at age 66.

obituary

In this song, though some purists might find the tempo slow, and the accent a bit off-putting, Magomaev gives it his all, doing wonders with his remarkable voice.

Take a listen.




"Old Man River"

Composer: Jerome Kern
Poem:Oscar Hammerstein

Let me go 'way from de Mississippi,
let me go 'way from the white men boss.
Show me dat stream called de river Jordan.
Dat's de ol' stream dat I long to cross.


Ol' man river,
dat ol' man river.
He must know sumpin'
but don't say nothin'.
He jus' keeps rollin',
he keeps on rollin'
along.


He don't plant 'taters,
he don't plant cotton.
And dem dat plants 'em
is soon forgotten.
But Ol' man river,
he jus' keeps rollin'
along.


You an' me, we sweat an' strain,
body all achin' an' racked wid pain.
"Tote dat barge!" "Lift dat bale",
git a little drunk an' you land in jail.


Ah gits weary
an' sick of tryin'.
Ah'm tired of livin'
an skeered of dyin'...
But Ol' man river,
he jus' keeps rollin'
along.

The Ant

Resting my hands on the parapet I saw a tiny moving thing that seemed to be a bit longer than an ant. On closer examination I saw that it was in fact an ant. But at first glance it had seemed longer because in its jaws it was carrying the carcass of one of its fellows.

I watched its progress across the top of the parapet as I did warm-ups before taking a walk. Its motions were curious. It seemed uncertain which way to turn; first it headed for the near edge, then the far edge, then right, and then did an about-face towards the left.

Unlike the stream of ants in single file that is usually seen at picnics and such, this solitary insect bearing the burden of its deceased brother seemed to be without purpose. There must have been no scents of other ants for it to follow, no means to message one another across antennae upon meeting in the way ants do.

It seemed quite lost. Yet it was also unable or unwilling to discard the carcass held in its mandibles. The carcass must have been equal in weight to its own, or close thereto, if it had lain desiccated for some time before having been recovered.

I could not wait to see where the carcass-bearing ant would finally go, but I hope that it found a proper resting place for its burden.

An old red Beetle

Just had a little bit of innocent fun using Photoshop Elements.

Writing for the Web

Here's some worthwhile information for the beginning blogger

http://www.useit.com/alertbox/9703b.html

Now to find the time to learn html.

Ah Chu He Say

Something came along only in recent days, but it has become an annoyance of notable concern. Upon arising, the second thing I do is to boot up the computer and check the mailbox. It's a daily ritual, like going outside to pick up the newspaper (yes, we still subscribe for home delivery), but it can extend into a long session of browsing the web and reading the blogs, though now that the election cycle is completed things have become quieter.

The annoyance referred to in the previous paragraph (which is not something you often find in these postings—I mean, the reference to an item in a previous paragraph) is this:

After sitting at the keyboard for a minute, I suddenly explode in a series of violent sneezes, six or seven or even more, which are immediately followed by watery eyes and a runny nose requiring the application of many pieces of absorbent facial tissue.

It may be the allergy season, or dust emerging from the many hiding places in the keyboard or the humming CPU sitting atop the desk, but the annoyance is that the sneezing has itself become a component of the daily ritual. Maybe it's time for a through cleanup with compressed air. Or, maybe it's a sign from the heavens that I had better spend less time reading all those recycled jokes, and going outside for some fresh air.