The Life Span of an Irish Water Spaniel

An Irish Water Spaniel lives about 10-12 years. Our dog Joey lived only 9 and a third years, not long enough, but then it never is.

Letting go of a sick pet is very hard. Dogs have no boundaries, and insinuate themselves into every facet of our lives. Joey would have come into the bathroom with us if we let him. He did not sleep with us, because he was a very itchy dog, and scratched pretty much constantly.

He was a very energetic and high-strung animal, and a very smart one. He trained us over his lifetime to pretty much wait on him hand and foot, all without uttering a single spoken word. He accomplished this feat by the use of about 10 different barks, intense eye contact, and body English of a Shakespearean quality. We were putty in his webbed paws.

Today we put Joey to sleep. He had developed lymphoma of the central nervous system. It started with facial paralysis, and progressed to where he could no longer walk. He would lie on the floor, on throw rugs that we had, and a mat that I bought for him; his pillow was a rolled-up green beach towel that I acquired in 1985, in a different life.

We would carry him from room to room on the floor mat, by each of us taking an end, and transporting him like royalty. Sometimes we would carry him outside, and lay him on his side, and he would lie in the grass, and do his business, and look around him, as if to say, why am I lying here? Why can't I get up? But he would feel the warm sun, and sniff the air, and hopefully derive pleasure from the scents he took in.

His lips became bitten, because he couldn't move them any more when he ate. He would fuss that they were caught on his teeth, and we would move them for him. But then, 10 seconds or two minutes later, they were caught again.

We took care of him as best we could. Eventually, we knew that his body was a prison, a cage that enclosed his soul, as Spence said. It was time to free him, and we did that today.

The King of Organists

The pipe organ is an instrument that most people associate only with church or horror movies. Hmmm, that's kind of an interesting juxtaposition, isn't it?

Oh well, nevermind. The point is that the pipe organ is not the most mainstream instrument. Not like the guitar, say, or the piano. Can't carry it around with you, can't even buy one for your home. Well, you could, if you had a home the size of the average cathedral. Pipe organs require a lot of space. They also can get very, very loud.

It is known as the king of instruments, because a pipe organ is essentially an entire orchestra in a box. The biggest operational pipe organ in the world happens to be in Philadelphia, the Wanamaker Grand Court organ, built for that eponymous department store, now a Macy's. For those who care about statistics, it contains 462 ranks, or sets of pipes, contains a total of 28,541 pipes, has six manuals, or keyboards, and weighs 287 tons.

Knobs on the organ, referred to as stops, control a single rank of pipes, or sometimes several ranks, and each stop produces a different timbre, pitch, or volume. When a stop knob is pulled, air flows into a pipe or pipes. The expression "pulling out all the stops" refers to this practice. The stops have names as diverse and interesting as the Vox Angelica, the Major Tibia, and the Chimney Flute.

In addition to all of the above paraphenalia, a pipe organ also has a pedalboard, a keyboard played by the feet.

So, it takes a fine musician merely to play such an instrument. Last week, I was fortunate enough to hear (and see) the Kimmel Center organ, also located in Philadelphia, played in concert by an extraordinary musician, Paul Jacobs.

Paul is the head of the Organ Department at Julliard, a position he has held since the tender age of 24. He is an organ virtuoso, who has committed to memory thousands of organ works. On the 250th anniversary of Bach's death, he played Bach's entire organ works in an 18-hour marathon concert.

That may not seem like such a physically difficult task, unless you have seen Paul play. Both hands and feet are going at almost all times. He probably would have made a fine tap-dancer to see the fluidity of his footwork. In the Kimmel Center concert on May 8, Paul played Max Reger's Second Sonata in D Minor, a fiendishly dynamic work that Paul presented with such abandon that I swore at one point he had more than ten fingers, and an additional foot. Another work, by composer Wayne Oquin, was given its Philadelphia premiere at the concert; it lived up to its name "Reverie" in the dreamy tranquility of Paul's interpretation. Between pieces he spoke about what he was going to play; his passion for the instrument and his engaging, informative commentary added a great deal to the concert.

The Kimmel Center organ, also known as the Fred J. Cooper Memorial Organ, is practically brand-new, built in 2006, and is the largest concert hall organ in the US. Paul sat at the console in the center of the stage, with large monitors positioned so that cameras could adequately convey what he was doing. The result was two hours of music so visually and aurally mesmerizing that it passed by in a blink. When the concert ended, the audience lept to its feet. It was one of the most memorable concerts I have ever attended.

Paul is not just an incredible musician, but a really nice man. He has played for the Valley Forge Choir of Men and Boys, a labor of love for him. Norm, Spence and I got to know him when we all travelled to England with the group, and we heard him play while standing underneath the huge pipe organ in Carlisle Cathedral. He remains a great friend.

In Paul's own words, "music is not just about playing neatly and accurately. It should be played in a manner that stirs the soul." (The New York Times).

Gentle Reader, Paul plays concerts all over the world. Check out this website for his performing schedule, and see him if you can. Your life will be enriched, and your view of the pipe organ will never be the same.

Here is Paul playing Bach's Fantasy and Fugue in G Minor, from the recording Paul Jacobs Plays Bach. Enjoy!

Taking Care of Your Planets

Gentle Readers, I know that it has been a long time gone since my last utterances, which mostly consisted of increasingly cranky rants about the severe and unusual winter we just experienced.

I have been working on a number of fronts: income tax preparation, which is tantamount to a slow, agonizing death (not to mention impoverishment) by paperwork; yet another renovation project, an additional source of impoverishment that will be a subject for another day's writing; and an enjoyable flexing of my critical muscle via the editing of a novel by my good friend, carpenter, painter and all-around Renaissance guy Brett Anderson Walker.

Last night, however, at the urging of and accompanied by my friend and fellow explorer Joan, I attended the first of a series of six classes on an abstruse and frequently abused subject, that being astrology.

Yes, astrology. OK, get the chuckling and snarky comments out of your systems, and we will proceed.

The classes are being taught by another Renaissance guy, the folk singer, raconteur, astrologer and man-of-many-talents Francis Dunnery; the title of the class is shared by this blog post, a play on the concept of stewardship of the Earth.

I will go on to talk about the class after saying a bit about Francis Dunnery. He is an accomplished and well-known singer/songwriter and guitarist, among many other things; I saw him perform live for the first time about eight months ago, and was struck by the completeness of the entertainment experience that he offers - great music, of course, but also a persona so energetic and entertaining that it would be hard to say whether I saw a concert with astutely comic and fascinating observations interspersed between songs, or a storytelling performance with music between the monologues.


I was familiar with his song "American Life in the Summertime", an upbeat, catchy tune about the lures of Los Angeles, and selling out (or not) to achieve the American Dream of fame and fortune. Another song, one that had a profound impact on me, was the song "Wounding and Healing", which I heard around the time of 9/11. The song's introspective tone and uplifting message really spoke to me at that difficult time.

Francis has been an astrologer for twenty years in addition to his other pursuits. He uses astrology as a tool to understand life, so the class is not so much about the "woowoo" aspects of astrology ("woowoo" being my all-pupose word to describe all things paranormal, superstitious, or touchy-feely-new-agey-space-cadetty) as it is about what it can reveal about us to ourselves, not unlike the concept of Jungian archetypes or Myers-Briggs personality typing.

At least, this is the understanding that I have after only one class, with five more to go. Francis is an intense and mesmerizing teacher, who takes this very seriously, but he makes the class a great deal of fun. Interestingly, I have already gotten some insights into my own behavior.

Any tool that can help us to understand ourselves and find meaning in the events of our lives is worthwhile, so I look forward to the rest of the classes with great anticipation.


Francis also performs in house concerts, so you know I am trying to figure out how to get him here. Stay tuned (pun intended)!


Here, via the World Cafe Live, is Francis Dunnery singing "American Life in the Summertime":

A Weather-Related Lamentation

Oh Dear Lord in Heaven Above,

Why must Thou maketh it snow so much?

What, exactly, art Thou thinking? Thou seemest to have gotten into a rut lately. Dost Thou have a new divine toboggan, or something?

Look down upon these lowly masses, cursing the infernal whiteness and rending their fiberfill garments, and have pity upon us.

We are at our wit's end, Oh Father of us All, and we are tempted to smite our loved ones with our shovels if if we have to spend yet another weekend cooped up with them.

We despair, as our youth wear their snowy boots into the house yet again, and throw snowballs at the heads of their elders, who are too slow to be able to retaliate.

We know that Thou hast a great sense of humor; indeed, it is generally regarded as one of Thy best qualities. But, Thy joke is starting to seem really annoying, like unto the three-year-old who telleth the same knock-knock joke thirty times without lettup, or the college student who short-sheeteth his neighbor yet again after putting peanut butter into his bed. It getteth old, Oh God.

Thou, who art omnipotent,whose eye is on the sparrow, surely Thou art getting tired of looking down upon the snow, which was pure as its driven self once upon a time, but now hath great patches of grey, and yellow, and lumps of brown, and Thou knowest what that is, and what an abomination.

The people raise their eyes to Thee, or at least they would, except that they would have snow in them, since it snoweth without letup, pretty much.

We appeal to Thee, please change the weather pattern, and bringeth the warmer air, and allow the Sun, one of Thy best ideas, if one may be so bold, to shine yet again upon Thy pastures.

Winter Wonderland?

I wonder if this winter will ever end.

Sitting here, looking out my window at the sycamore tree, I am reminded of Dr. Zhivago. Is that Omar Sharif out there on the hillside, stumbling along wild-eyed through the waist-deep snow in his ragged blanket and rag-wrapped feet, looking for Tonya? No, it is my neighbor, getting ready to snowblow his driveway for the umpteenth time. I think if I look closely, I can see icicles on his eyebrows.

It is interesting to contemplate the limited color palette of winter. I can see white, and several shades of gray, and occasionally a flash of red as the cardinal attacks a window, as he has been wont to do for at least three years now. I know that he thinks he sees another cardinal, but I am sometimes tempted to open the window and invite him in. You think it's so great in here?

The snow stopped being enjoyable about two weeks ago, when our elderly dog Joey, currently a gigantic, lumbering, furry bush of a dog, decided that it was too much trouble to go find a discreet patch of lawn on which to do his business, and discovered that the snow-covered deck made a perfectly acceptable port-o-potty. You haven't lived, truly, until you have chipped frozen doggy-doo off of your deck with a shovel. I have posted a large notice on the deck door, to whit: "Do Not Let Joey Out of This Door! He is Using the Deck as a Toilet!" to remind all and sundry house occupants that Joey is to be discouraged from this practice whenever possible.

I am getting a whole new appreciation of the term "cabin fever". How about cabin aggravation? Cabin frustration? Cabin rage? Perhaps we are just staging a living conceptual performance of Sartre's No Exit. Hell is indeed other people, especially when there is only one functioning bathroom (don't ask).

All kinds of literary and classical images come to mind. There is the myth of Sisyphus, wherein you shovel snow today, only to have it magically reappear overnight, so that you have to shovel it again. Then there is the Twilight Zone episode The Midnight Sun, wherein the Earth is getting too close to the sun - or is it?

Perhaps we are just experiencing the veracity of the saying "be careful what you wish for." Here in Southeastern Pennsylvania, at the same latitude as Rome, snowy winters are rare, indeed. How often have I heard the relatively snowless winters bemoaned?

Well, folks, this is one for the ages. We will tell our grandchildren about the epic winter of '10, but they won't listen, because by then the ears of the young will be vestigial organs, and they will only understand acronyms. Lol.

Objets D'ust

You know all of those little items that sit around your home on desks, or side tables, or the piano? All of those decorative knicknacks and pattywhacks you have collected over the years?

I call them objets d'ust, which is a French term for "little decorative things sitting around your home collecting a lot of dust." I call them this because, at least in my home, they seem to be magnets for the little stuff that floats around in the air, looking for a place to settle.

Dust. You know, I think that I have blogged about this before, in my veni vedi bloggi sort of way. But, since I am a perniciously perseverating person, (don't you just love alliteration, especially when it is gratuitous and overdone) I find myself thinking about it a lot. Of course, there is a lot of dust in my house to perseverate over.

I am not sure why this is; I prefer not to think about what the dust is composed of, or why we have so much of it. Somehow, though, I am sure that it has to do with the fact that we have a very hairy dog who is old and scratches himself a lot.

I have this little wand thingie from Swiffer, the company that is slowly taking over my life with its products, and I go around the house running the wand thingie over all of my cherished memorabilia and photos, to dedustify them. But, as soon as my back is turned, they seem to grow new dust magically; it is as if there is some Dust Fairy that sprinkles each objet as soon as my back is turned. Not to be confused with the Dust Bunny, who hides big clumps of dust under the beds each Easter.

One time there was this particularly unusual little figurine that I had never noticed before, on a table. I got out my Swiffer wand item and ran it over the figurine and it disappeared. Turned out, it was actually made of dust.

Thank God I got rid of it before it organized itself into a life form, via the process of spontaneous generation, or whatever. I seem to remember something about Mary Shelly's Frankenstein, Erasmus Darwin and a piece of vermicelli, but there was no pasta involved in the creation of my dust entity.

Maybe I should just give up, and let the dust organize itself into furnishings. Now, about those dust curtains...

Ooops!

I saw this headline in the New York Times yesterday, and just had to check it out:

Questions Over Fixing Torn Picasso

because, of course, we are horrified and fascinated when we hear of something happening by accident to a staggeringly expensive painting. How could such a thing happen?

Seems that an unfortunate, nameless woman has joined a very select group, entitled "Clumsy People Who Have Accidentally Put a Huge Hole in a Picasso" (gambling mogul Steve Wynn is another member). Poor thing, she was at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, innocently attempting to improve her mind by taking an adult education class, when she stumbled and fell into the painting, entitled "The Actor", a (slightly altered) version of which illustrates this post.

It is a large, rare early Picasso from his Rose Period, and its worth is estimated at approximately 100 million dollars. Or, at least, it was. Not bad for a picture of a slightly creepy guy in pink britches.

Fortunately, the article says that the tear is in a corner of the painting and will most likely be ompletely unnoticeable (to the untrained eye) after its repair.

Now, I don't know about you, but I myself do not have the leaping grace of a gazelle. It is only too easy for me to imagine going into the Met, or the Louvre, or the Pitti Palace in Florence, and, while gazing raptly at Venus on the Half Shell, or the Mona Lisa, or that kid in the blue knickers by Gainsborough, losing my balance, tripping over my own long, narrow feet (like Italian rolls, I have been told) and, putting out a hand to stop myself from toppling, stick it right through Venus' nether regions. Or whatever.

How must Nameless Woman have felt! It gives me a delicious shiver of horror to imagine the immediate aftermath. Did she run for the Scotch Tape? Did she nonchalantly stand in front of the paining for hours, hoping no one would notice? Did alarm bells go off in the museum? Was she hustled into some back room by security thugs? Did they strongarm her to the front door and pitch her out, barring her from ever setting foot in the Met again?

I certainly hope not, but the article is tactfully mum about that subject.

However the Met handled the coup de graceless, I would like to address myself directly to Nameless Woman and say, on behalf of my maladroit, ungainly brothers and sisters, we salute you! You took the hit for us, your uncoordinated fellows. We, whose bodies are covered with the bruises from unintended encounters with furniture, whose crockery shows the delicate tracery of glue, whose decorative panel on the kitchen island has been magic-markered into a semblance of its original self (don't even ask), are grateful to you for leading the way into priceless artifacts. Never again will we worry about accidentally castrating the David while gesturing wildly at its beauty.


We will think of you, and we will be strong. And stay far, far away from the artwork.

This Most Amazing Music

photo courtesy of Spencer Greet

A few posts ago, I talked about Garrett Lisi, a theoretical physicist who has taken an unusual path to the pinnacle of radical thought.

I have recently discovered someone who is kind of a musical companion to Lisi. He is a choral composer named Eric Whitacre, and his music is as sonically expansive and profound as Garrett Lisi's Theory of Everything.

I first heard one of Whitacre's pieces when I attended my son Spencer's Winter concert at Downingtown East High School. One of the choirs that Spence sings in performed Whitacre's i thank You God for most this amazing day; the title and lyrics are from an e. e. cummings poem. The piece was a revelation to me, and the choir, called Masterworks, sang it beautifully.

Eric Whitacre composes choral pieces that are mind-expanding - I don't know what the music of the spheres sounds like, but if it had choral accompaniment, this would be it. The music is dissonant, yet harmonically beautiful; multilayered and complex, yet accessible to the emotions, much like the cosmos.

But the thing about Eric Whitacre that most reminds me of Garrett Lisi is the unorthodox path he took to composing music of this sophistication. Eric Whitacre took piano lessons as a kid but didn't stick with them; he played in the high school band, but got kicked out. He somehow got into the University of Nevada as a music ed major despite the fact that he couldn't read music. Then, because there were a lot of cute girls in the college choir, he decided to join. The choir started to rehearse Mozart's Requiem, and Whitacre's life was changed forever. He had found his passion.

He composed his first piece at 21, and the rest, as they say, is history. Today, Eric Whitacre is 40, and his music is performed all over the world; in addition to choral works, he writes band music and electronic music. He also guest conducts throught Europe, Asia, Australia and North and South America. There are Eric Whitacre festivals, and his music is the subject of scholarly research.

Eric Whitacre's music is recognizable by his signature "Whitacre chords" - seventh or ninth chords, sometimes with suspended seconds or fourths, which give it the dissonant sound that it has (for the non-musically inclined, play two notes next to each other on the piano to hear how dissonant a second is). His chord progressions are also unusual, and he changes meter frequently. His music has sections that are aleatoric (random) or indeterminate.

I find myself pondering what Eric's parents may have thought when their son, who seemed not to have much of a focus throughout his teens, became a music prodigy almost by accident (or not; surely such great ability would have inevitably found its way out). Maybe they encouraged him, maybe they were patient enough to believe that he would find his way. However it happened, I am gateful that it did.

Here is Eric Whitacre's i thank You God for most this amazing day, performed by the choral group Polyphony. If you have five minutes or so, give it a listen. I hope you enjoy it!

Palindrome Day

Gentle Readers, I simply could not contain myself and had to post twice today.

Do you know what today is?

Well, the title of the post is a clue. Today is a palindrome day. It is a day when the date reads the same backwards and forwards, as in 01/11/10. It is also, of course, a binary day; only ones and zeros.

Ok, you spoilsports out there, I know that January 2 of this year was a better palindrome day, as it included the millenium (01/02/2010). But still. Let's not be nitpicky, unless, of course, we have nits.

We must get our jollies where we can, must we not?

The thing is, I love palindromes; you know, words or phrases or sentences that read the same backwards and forwards. They are so...symmetrical. And filled with obtuse wisdom.

I found a list of palindromes on the internets here.

A couple of my favorites:

Amy, must I jujitsu my ma?

Doc, note; I dissent. A fast never prevents a fatness. I diet on cod.

May a moody baby doom a yam?

Niagara, O roar again!

Red rum, sir, is murder

Slap a ham on Omaha, pals.

And the particularly sinister and inscrutable:

Some men interpret nine memos

And the ever popular: A man, a plan, a canal, Panama!

Dude, Where's My Particle?

I have found a new personal hero, and his name is Garrett Lisi.

Never heard of him? Well, the other day I was Googling the phrase "the theory of everything".

Why, you ask?

I was using those lobes I told you about in the last post, the ones that I could get access to now that, of course, the holiday season is over and it is January and the lobe-lease rates have gone back down again, and my fellow time-sharers have done all of their multitasking and Christmas shopping and holiday entertaining and are resting on their laurels. Or, as the case may be, their evergreens.

But I digress.

So, I was Googling the phrase "the theory of everything" because it flew into my head, and the resulting search came up with the following headline:

Surfer dude stuns physicists with theory of everything


and I think to myself, ok, this is from the Onion, right? The satirical news website that publishes faux news that is so relentlessly, punishingly funny that I can't go there too often, or my sense of the absurd overwhelms my common sense and I annoy my loved ones with goofy non-sequitors or silly voices for the rest of the day? I believe it is called The Onion because you will cry (from laughing) as hard as you would if you peeled, well, an onion.

Don't believe me? Read this article, and see if you can keep a dry eye.

Well, anyway, no. Not the Onion. It is a real news article from the British newspaper The Guardian, which as far as I know is a serious newspaper full of serious news. And, Garrett Lisi is a real person.


He also is a surfer dude. And a snowboard dude. And, while he surfs and snowboards, he ponders the big question - I am not actually sure what the question is. But no doubt, it is a big question.


Lisi, who has a doctorate in physics from the University of California at San Diego, has developed, on his own, a unified field theory, which attempts to tie together all of the known forces of physics into one package; he is not affiliated with any research institute or university. His theory involves a structure called the E8, which is the largest LIE group. Don't even ask me what that is.

All I can tell you is that a picture of it looks a lot like the string sculpture my son Spencer created in the fifth grade, a photo of which illustrates this blog. It is an object of great beauty, and symmetry.

Anyway, Garrett Lisi came up with this theory while surfing and snowboarding, with the help of a small grant and a few odd jobs (hiking guide and bridge builder). To quote Mr. Lisi, "Being poor sucks, It's hard to figure out the secrets of the universe when you're trying to figure out where you and your girlfriend are going to sleep next month."

Duuuuude.

Of course, Einstein was a poor patent clerk when he came up with the Theory of Relativity. Perhaps doing a boring job, or a simple one, keeps the autonomic portion of a genius's brain busy so that the serious gray matter can ponder the infinite. But there is something wonderful about the idea of someone surfing a major tube while working out the math that ties together gravity and bosons.

In a story in the New Yorker, Lisi talked about his big breakthrough. “I’m literally tingling with excitement,” he said. “I had to suppress that in order to think more about the actual algebraic structure. You cannot think when you’re ecstatic.” He added, “I didn’t run through the snow shouting ‘Eureka!’ or anything like that.”

How can you not love this guy? 'You cannot think when you are ecstatic'. Words to live by. And, I'm sorry, I like to think of him running through the snow shouting "Eureka".

So far, Lisi's theory is just a theory. And, of course, there are many naysayers lining up to debunk his idea, most of whom are no doubt pointy-headed, hollow-chested ectomorphic geeks who don't know a snowboard from a backboard.

Lisi feels that the physical activity he engages in balances the mental work he is doing. In an interview for Wired magazine, he said: "We live in a beautiful universe, and I wish to enjoy it and understand it as best I can. I try to live a balanced life. Surfing is simply the most fun I know how to have on this planet. And physics, and science in general, is the best way of understanding how everything works. So this is what I spend my time doing. I do what I love, and follow my interests. Shouldn't everyone?"

Dude is righteous.

The Uber-Brain

Hello, Gentle Readers, and Happy New Year!

You may have wondered where I, with my scintillating wit (or, is that not a scintilla of wit?) have been lurking, lo these many moons. And suns.

Well, the truth can finally be told.

I rent my brain. Sort of. Actually, I realized recently that I own a time-share in a community brain. Explains a lot, doesn't it?

Well, to be fair, it is a rather large brain. Quite large. Several more lobes than usual, which explains why it can be used by more than one person.

I came to this realization when discussing with a friend (let's call him "Chris") the similarity of thought pattern we displayed in conversation with each other.

"Chris" is not the only person with whom I share this phenomenon. There is also virtual sister "Jenny", my brother "Jim" (all actual names, I just like using quotes around them) and, apparently, "Chris"'s sister "Angele", whom I have not, in fact, actually met, but I have conversed with, in a fashion.

No doubt there are others in the brain collective. Perhaps you, "Gentle Reader".

OK, enough with the name quotes.

My lobemate Chris and I realized during one conversation that the only way that we could have such similar thoughts would be if we shared access to a common brain, sort of like the Jungian collective unconscious, except that we are conscious. Mostly.

This is how it works for me:

There are days when I feel that I can tap into a lot of smarts. More smarts than I need, probably. These are great days. I feel that I could power entire towns in Iowa with the wattage produced by my cranium.

Unfortunately, I frequently don't have access to all of those brain cells, because someone else in the brain collective has them at that time. You know, it pays to book early.

So, for the last several months, I have not had as much access to my personal lobe and/or lobes of the brain collective as I (or certainly, those who live with me) would have liked. Many demands for brain access were being made, and timeshare rates were at a premium. I had to stumble along using my brain stem, or whatever, to make important decisions like what to have for dinner, or to remember where I put my shoes.

Blogging is not an activity that the brain stem does well, or so it would seem.

Sometimes, it would appear that we members of the collective brain are all using the brain timeshare at the same time. That would be when those other voices appear in my head. Those times are mentally chaotic, to say the least.

I believe that the brain itself is actually housed in a former limestone mine in Boyers, Pennsylvania. The method by which actual brain access is achieved remains, however, a mystery yet to be solved by scientists who actually own their own entire brains.

It is good to have some mystery in life, don't you think?