Picture gallery - Paul's party - Smooth skin from BeautyLand / Poem: Bach or Faure

Scott and I were going visiting. He'd reconnected with his childhood friends. I was excited to meet them. Paul invited us all to his rowhouse. When I was married, Mike and I lived at Castor and Cottman in a real neighborhood - unlike here in the burbs - with stores within walking distance. In fact, once when my ex came to visit me he stopped at one of the little shops and brought me the Greek olives I loved so much.

Heading into Northeast Philadelphia down Roosevelt Blvd. My friend Marcy Belsh used to work at the now-defunct Tower Records on the Boulevard. I got one nice poem from visiting her at Tower which I'll re-blog.

We parked round the corner from Paul's house. Some of the nearby back streets were sheets of ice on the 20-degree day. What would Mayor Bloomberg say?

These guys grew up together in Northeast Philadelphia. As kids, they played ice hockey, and vacationed at Wildwood, sometimes sleeping under the Boardwalk.

Here's Chuck's wife Terri. Married 25 years, they redid their vows at Holy Innocence Church. I just love the names of Catholic churches including my favorite Queen of Peace.

PART II

Now that I'm on Medicare, I have a special Rx card. A beaut, don't you think? Medicare themselves helped me select the Rx coverage. I had to make sure my immunosuppresives are covered. Oh, if you wanna use my card just make sure you don't get caught.

One-stop shopping at the family doctor's office. Before my kidney transplant, I need two more tests so I went to see my family doctor who suggested I get a fundus test of the eye. A humongous machine takes nine shots of each eye which has been dilated. The girl who administered the tests assured me the eyedrops would wear off in 25 minutes and I'd have no prob driving home in the blinding sun mirrored on the snow. Would you believe four hours?

PART III

Susan, my massage therapist, introduced herself to me. We talked constantly during the fabulous 30-minute 'exfoliating bath' she gave me.

All the women at Ultrabeauty European Day Spa are Ukrainian.

Svetlana is her name. She's Jewish. Of course I didn't mention the most famous Svetlana I could think of....the daughter of Stalin who defected to the West. Born in 1926 she's still alive.

The massage was a birfday present from Freda and Bernie Samuels. Here they are relaxing in the private atmospheric waiting room. If you only know one couple in your life, the Samuels will help you with everything.

Bernie gave me his best living-with-sciatica tips plus he recommended 'the best back doctor there is' who I'll see this Thursday.

They brought a picnic lunch before the massage appt., which we ate right from the plastic containers at my kitchen table: delicious tuna salad w/sliced avocados, cherry tomatoes, and green olives that aren't salty.

They take c/o their health.

Bernie also fixed my icemaker. Freda gave me a tip since I'm buying new linoleum for my floor and have got a sample set down.

Sprinkle a few drops of water on it and see if it leaves spots.

I just checked now: spot-free.

And here's the post-birthday girl feeling very relaxed after being exfoliated with salts that look like what we put down onto the ice.

Oh, I forgot I was wearing my AFS sweatshirt. I can't stand anything elitist.

We met the owner of Beautyland, as I incorrectly call it, but it's easier to type than the real name. Lydia was giving instructions to the janitor, Sascha, who was dragging a bag of trash along the floor.

Poor schlepp, I thought to myself, but look how good the Ukrainians are to one another, giving each other jobs.

Turns out Sascha is Lydia's husband. Their new Mercedes was parked in front of their shop.

While I was being bathed, I thought, This is what Grace Catherine experiences when her parents bathe her.

PART IV

Dan and Grace. I wonder if he'll tell her when she grows older that one day he wore his pajamas to high school. I was mortified at the time but in retrospect proud of his courage.


FAURE OR BACH?

I was at war with a man at Tower Records
and wasn’t sure if I wished to win or surrender.

At issue was the Requiem of Gabriel Faure.
Bob was a retired insurance man, we met over the counter
where my friend Marce
was getting me discounts on a stack
of records, CDs I suppose I must call them,
designed to tied me over, to give me strength
through one of my procrustean falls,
Dear God.

I asked my dear friend Marce
to select and gather some
Dave Matthews and Pearl Jam.
My niece asked me how I knew
the names of these modern bands and I said
it was just by accident I happened to
hear their names announced on the car radio
and memorized them.

Bob was standing there with his stack,
all classical, and I remembered - classical -
O Bach how do you do
for the first time in all these years.
It is never too late to retract and I heard
Bob asking about some Haydn symphony,
there seem to be hundreds of them, and
he was looking for one particular recording,
one thing that meant more to him than
the whole world. He was a man of discernment
with his keen eyes and golden colored toupee.

I asked him, (I am not particularly polite
or girlsome) but asked him, as I was in a terror
trying to circumvent my fall,
if he could get me some music
some real good classical music,
that he was certain I would like
a masterpiece of great renown.

Without hesitation, Bob led me down
the escalator, a man on a mission,
o I was so unappreciative, and let
him get far ahead while I lingered
at the top of the stair chatting with Marce,
while he kept on and on,
never looking back
unlike Orpheus, never looking back to see if I
was following him, he didn’t care
only to get to the bin of his beloved.

And pulled out two versions of the Requiem,
stating they were both quite good, I would be
happy with both.
Faure? I said. Why is it I have never
owned a Faure, never pined for a Faure,
I know all the ones I love or wish to love
and Faure’s not among them.

You’ll love this, he said and did a dance
of faureism.
My eye forgot till then about Bach and Brahms
but as soon as talk about Faure got still and heavy
and I became mistrustful and didn't want to be
left in a room alone with Faure, frightenend
as fright could be, left alone with a bore,
a no thinker, endless sappy tones going nowhere,
the panic grew like a cyst inside and when Bob
wasn’t looking I hopped over to Bach and
suddenly a light went on and I remembered
the cello suites.
The sound alone is unsurpassable
Unaccompanied Suites for Cello.
o say it to yourself, roll the
words round and round your mouth
like shiny marbles that melt and go down
smooth.

I was doing that. There were many versions
and the only reason I ignored Yo-yo Ma is
that he is a modern man and I am never a
modern woman, so “not to tango with Yo-yo”
was my motto, and I selected among many
what else but Casals and saw for the
first time his rough face, like a Van Gogh peasant
potato eater. Yes, rough is the only word for it,
that thick unrefined nose like Genet’s, that bald
head that means either pimp or poet.

And bob was now discussing at the classical counter
other versions of other things. We had long since
stopped looking at one another. He got terribly
mad when i suggested Bach as an alternative
to Faure.

Too much counterpoint! he shouted.

Counterpoint! I yelled. Why that’s what it’s all about.
Counterpoint.
Fuck Faure.

Marce, add Bach to my account.

*

The times had a great article about the reviewer's 10 Favorite Composers. Bach was number one and Beethoven was number two. Good choice Thomasini. I'm glad Mahler didn't make the cut cuz I think his music is too drawn out and boring - like this blog - but Stravinsky is up there - oooh, I love Igor - and surprisingly Claude Debussy. I used to play Golliwog's Cakewalk on the piano. Shall I find it for you like the good neighbor I yam? Debussy plays his Cakewalk.