Wednesday, 26 May 2010, 2:57 Am. It's here, this date, early on; and if awake, not asleep as I should be, I'm here. Is that what woke me, the song running through my dreamscape, Stephen Sondheim's defiant optimism against what's been or has yet to come. One can hear it now, as if again among an enchanted Broadway audience, the Follies' Carlotta belting out her classic lines:
Good times and bum times,
I've seen them all and, my dear,
I'm still here.
If now completing Four Score and Seven, I was then along enough in years to fully appreciate Carlotta's brave dirge when first heard. Plush velvet sometimes, Sometimes just pretzels and beer, But I'm here. Who's not known that, and, if given time, comes to savor the growth bestowed by both? Velvet: extraordinary personal relationships; wide travels; a wealth of indulgence in all the arts, visual, musical, performance, literature; health and strength into advanced age; works accomplished -- if never enough or as good as one might prefer, adequate as remainder. Pretzels and beer: the starving student stint, but within the finest art schools in this country and the storied streets of Italy, thanks to the GI Bill of Rights; booze, too much of it for too long a period, but mostly shared with comrades-in-arms with whom bonds were among the strongest made.
I've stood on bread lines With the Best. Watched while the headlines Did the rest. In the Depression was I depressed? Nowhere near. We didn't escape it, my family. So young was I, yet scenes still haunt me of father threatened by loss of work, mother in tears at prospect of mortgage foreclosure and loss of home, frugality harshly learned then and never ridden. After-school and Saturday jobs, earnings not pocketed, handed to parents. But, oh, the wonder of our Time of Innocence, when discoveries and yearnings are boundless, when yet not burdened by selfish wrongs and guilt. Depression, nowhere near? Not exactly. But remembered mostly are one's childhood friends, the creativity of playtimes -- composing, telling stories, acting them out; hikes to libraries, stolen hours with books of great adventure, faraway places; a pact with a neighborhood tomboy to remain children as long as possible, detain the horrors of confusion and anguish witnessed in many of the grown-ups encountered.
I've gotten through Herbert and J Edgar Hoover, Gee, that fun and a half, When you've been through Herbert and J Edgar Hoover, Anything else is a laugh. Most politicians to me have been, and are more now than ever, enigmas, creatures or victims of money and power associated with that camel attempting to pass through the eye of a needle. Hard to believe there was ever a time when one looked with respect on statesmen deemed inspirational leaders. Did such men truly reign, or did an age of non-pervasive media cloak betrayals and corruption? Telecasts and news journals today force me to quit them after brief perusal of criminal nationalistic policies and global violence. A close friend not in politics but in priestly minstry once lectured me on my ignorance of pragmatic political maneuvers to gain needed support. "You've never learned to use people." He contended that there are Children of Light and Children of the World, and that if I remained a child of light I'd never win the endorsement of constituents with the resources to further ambitious projects we were jointly pursuing. His words echo when these days I feel alien to societies in which so much seems ugly and brutal, even within my own country, when I ponder Is this the country I fought for. But life is not all or only Hoovers, and one can turn away from them, embrace the treasures yet within reach.
No Sondheim, I lack the talent for summing-up lyrics comparable to those he gave Carlotta. Enough to merely know, perhaps, who and where I am at this point in my journey, accept whatever pains or pleasures the days bring, and if cognizant of Dylan Thomas' Do Not Go Gentle Into that Good Night, at least not waste effort in his Rage Against the Dying Light. Yesterday, on the eve of this compleanno, listening to songs of Italy nearly broke my heart. The ache for terminal days there is relentless. Yet an hour later, the recording of Marilyn Horne's exquisite Mon Coeur s'ouvre a la voix (Saint-Saens' Samson et Delila) was on the stereo, and canary Giorgio's song accompanied her so lustily I thought his heart might burst. Beautiful few minutes. Above all, that remains constant -- the joy to be found in glorious music, in any of the arts where divinity in man, if it exists at all, is found. In Mozart, in Michelangelo, in a Pasternak or a Lampedusa. Raised in the strict conventions of early 20th century, "young boys and men never cry," I'd long believed my tear ducts dry, even in times of crisis or tragedy. A blessing now to know that Beauty can release them. Admittedly, little of that refinement graces this shattered world, but I hear or see it often enough to sustain hope for the betterment of our human condition. And not only in the masterworks of times past, but with honest, significant, if rare (as always) contributions from our young.
Daylight breaking. Another year dawning, early chores to be attended. Carlotta has the last word:
I've run the gamut,
A to Z.
Three cheers and dammit,
C'est la vie.
I got through all of last year
And I'm here.
Lord knows, at least I was there.
And I'm here!
Look who's here!
I'm still here!
