Metamorphosism

Recital

Survived it. Actually, it went really well. More in this space tomorrow, gotta run.

International conspiracy

Taking applications for international conspiracy. Knowledge of foreign languages, esp. Russian, Latin, French, German, Slovenian, Italian etc helpful. Also needed: graphic design skillz, computer programming knowledge, and/or general deviousness or deviancy. Willingness to travel helpful but not necessary. Apply to metamorphosist ("at" sign) gmail.com. All applications confidential.

(since this is top secret, i'll be closing comments on this post. contact by email only)

Directions

On the sidewalk, in a residential area of Vienna, an old man asks a young garbageman for directions. The young man gave him really good directions, using garbage cans as landmarks.

Impending recitals are a great laxative, did you know that?

They are.

All in all, the cello business is going okay. Last week, walking down the hall of the music school, three music teachers greeted me in a friendly manner, one after the other. That was nice. And on Monday, a kid greeted me as I went into the school. "Servus," he said. "Huh?" I said. I didn't recognize him immediately, because he was wearing a hat and was with parents. I'm used to seeing him with no hat and a cello. Whoever I talk to, I assume they're the same size as me. So seeing a kid with grownups threw me off, because in such a situation the grownups are of course my size.

I eventually greeted the kid back. How cool is that, kids greeting you on the street.

"That's that old guy I was telling you about who can't do vibrato," he probably told his parents when I went around the corner. Well, he'd be wrong. I'm the guy who is on the verge of almost being able to do vibrato.

I can, in fact, do vibrato as long as it's a long note and nothing else tricky is going on. I saw a kid doing it to beat the band at an orchestral performance, jesus, his vibrato! So I went home and tried it, inspired, and it sort of worked.

Now if I could only remember to breathe. I had a practice with my teacher last night and forgot to breathe again. He sat there breathing, sort of loudly at certain parts, to remind me to breathe, and that worked okay. I got more oxygen. Now if I can just remember to breathe at the recital tonight. Remember to breathe, and not to think too much, especially not, "hey, this is going great!" because that's what I think right before the notes tangle up.

Also, two guys asked me if I want to be in a string quartet. One is a viola, the other is a violin. Now all we need is another violin, hopefully a real ringer who can play the hard parts and make us sound good.

Little-known facts about the Great White Whale

• The great white whale normally lives beneath the North Pole, at fantastic depths that would crush any other whale like a fortune cookie. It is in fact what the old legends about the man living in the north are based on. Google it if you don't believe me.
  
• The song of the great white whale rhymes, but only at a metaphysical level.
  
• Someday, scientists will decipher the lyrics to its song, which are, "told you so, motherfuckers, told you so."
  
• The great white whale knows that the end of the world will be accompanied by a many armed goddess playing the cello like you've never heard. Her intonation will be so perfect.
  
• So if you see a many-armed goddess playing the ukulele, relax, it's not the end of the world.
  
• The great white whale is susceptible to sadness around birthdays and anniversaries, like a lot of other people.
  
• The great white whale can strip a room of wallpaper, sand the floor, paint the walls and paint the floor in a single weekend.
  
• It doesn't even get flustered when it realizes it will have to give the floor two more coats, and sand it by hand. Its shoulders are broad.
  
• On the other hand, something little like the lock breaking on the bathroom door so the door is stuck shut and the whale has no access to its shaving equipment or hair products for a day or two until the lock guy comes can totally piss it off in a straw-that-broke-the-camel's-back apocaplectic sort of way, for a few minutes, until the whale thinks that it's a good thing no one was stuck inside the bathroom when this happened, such as its daughter, or mother-in-law, and that last image gives it a chuckle and the change of perspective sort of helps.
  
• The white whale is fond of telling people it meets, "but you can call me Ishmael."
  
• On the other hand, if anyone says "it was a fluke thing," or anything about sperm or blowing one more time, they are so dead.

Scavenger hunt question

I have long toyed with the idea of organizing a scavenger hunt of some sort. Something large and elaborate. Something international. Something huge.
My oldest daughter turns 17 in July. We spoke of the possibility of a scavenger hunt in Vienna, for her and her friends. She likes the idea.
However, when I sit down to plan one, it turns out to be quite complicated. The logistics are daunting, not to mention coming up with a theme of some sort, say a code to break or a narrative of some sort or an object to find or, preferably, all three.
Forget about the elaborate international hunt, man. I can't even organize one in a city.
I mean, I hope I can, but geeze. It might be lame. It might not make any sense. It might involve work.
So I'm asking you for your help.
Have you ever been on a scavenger hunt that was any good? What was it like? Have you any ideas for a hunt that 17 year old kids would not find lame? Have you any ideas or suggestions, either for a scavenger hunt in general or for one in the city of Vienna, Austria?
The situation is this, I suppose: roughly half a dozen highly intelligent teenagers are to be kept busy for half a day to a day. The more sadistic the game, the better. Tasks, codes and problems that blow their minds are good, as long as they are soluble.
I was thinking of something involving hints on the internet as well as in real life, problems to solve, artefacts to locate and a lot of running back and forth around Vienna. And it should be as cheap as possible, for me and for them.
Any suggestions may be left in the comments, or preferably mailed to me at metamorphosist (at) gmail.com since Beta reads this sometimes.
Thanks in advance!

Bedtime

Gamma and I practiced piano on the weekend. It worked like this: she threw a fit, I sent her to bed, she took a long nap because it turned out she had thrown a fit because she was tired, tried practicing again and it worked fine.

Besides not wanting to practice at all, another problem we have with her playing the piano is her insistence on improvising and having fun when she plays. She goes in and tinkles like some jazz pianist instead of practicing her etudes and scales, which frustrates us to no end.

Music is not supposed to be fun.

We have worked out a compromise where she is allowed to improvise, if necessary, as long as she practices her scales and etudes for a certain length of time.

Sometimes she forces me to play along with her when she improvises. As I've said before, it sounds exotic and somehow not wrong as long as we stick to the black keys (her discovery).

We even had a big success with one song she was learning. She had it down by heart. She could play the song without notes, except she always made the same mistake in one measure. So I broke it down, made her play with notes again, more slowly, and we used a metronome, and I clapped the rhythm and sang it and went through that measure note by note and she got it and now she can play it by heart again, only right. And when she went in to her lesson this week her teacher checked off that song, meaning she has learned it and no longer needs to practice it, for which Gamma has given me great credit with the result that I am now in charge of piano practice (i.e. the others have weaseled out of it).

Picking her up at a friend's house was a great success, piano practice was too, so I decided to try putting her to bed. I have been busy lately and preoccupied and have neglected that.

She has also complained that English is so boring in school, so we read an English book in bed. Some encyclopedia for kids sort of thing, an illustrated book of questions and answers. We leafed through and she asked about whatever illustration caught her eye.

"What's that about?" she would ask.
"The ring of fire, a system of volcanoes and seismic activity around the Pacific ocean. Hundreds of erupting volcanoes. Merapi on Java island is erupting right now, miles of lava and poison gas forcing the evacuation of 30000 people who live on the mountain," I said and we talked about volcanoes for a while.

"Who's that?"
"Vlad Tepes," I said. "The article is about who Bram Stoker based his Dracula on."
We talked about the article for a while.
"Did he really impale people on stakes?"
"You bet."
"Why?"
We discussed the why.
"How did he do it?"
I suppose one soldier held them down while the other impaled them, I said.
"Did they all die?"
I said I supposed so.
"Anyhow, good night," I said. "Pleasant dreams."

Blähbauch

On the weekend, I fetched Gamma from a friend's house in a nearby village. I have worked out a deal with her whereby if she does not hide from me when I fetch her there, or throw a tantrum, or run away, or anything else that I may deem dramatic, she is allowed to visit again.

It was six in the evening. She met me at the door, along with her friend and their large, black dog.
"No drama, right?" I said to her.
She was sugar and spice. Of course no drama. She began looking for her shoes.
"Oh, I was just making her something to eat," her friend's mom said.
"Um, but," I said.
"Would you still like something to eat?" she asked Gamma.
Meat with rice. It was already in the microwave.
"Coffee?" she asked me.
"Sure," I said. "Yes, please."
So we sat around the table while Gamma ate her meat and rice, and I was served coffee.
Amazingly enough, the coffee was made with a machine so I had something to make conversation about.
"So, is that a filter or an espresso machine?" I asked, and the conversational ball was rolling.
"Milk and sugar?" I was asked.
"No thank you," I said.
"Dad's on a diet," Gamma said. "Dad and mom both."
"Well, actually, I happen to not be on a diet," I said. "I just never take sugar or..."
"Dad and mom are on the Blähbauch diet," Gamma explained.
Blähbauch, or "Blaehbauch" for those of you without an umlaut function, would translate literally as "flatulence belly," and has been a popular topic of conversation around our house lately: the belly itself, and its possible causes, and its obvious effects, both on the figure and the environment, and dietary measures that could be taken to mitigate it.
Gamma's friend's mom had her back to me as she poured my coffee, but her grin of Schadenfreude reflected off the kitchen window like a 100 watt bulb.
"So, anyhow, just black," I said.
"Here you go," she said.
The coffee - espresso - was aromatic and enjoyable.

Back when I was a kid

One dozen attempts on my life in the past 24 hours I've survived. I feel like an action movie hero. Tom Cruise. All ready to go be silly on Oprah and shit. It's always like this on the roads around the full moon*, but yesterday and today have been odd in the extreme.

Also, I took a walk at lunch and was all like
When I was your age
Back when I was a kid
I can remember back when

All these things going through my head that cannot be spoken, only listed, in italics.

I remember when, you called someone on the phone, you knew exactly where they were: standing by the wall phone in the kitchen. Sitting in the foyer by the telephone table.

Later, people got extensions, but you still knew what house they were in. Nowadays, it's like, Are you stuck in a traffic jam or are you in the men's room taking a crap?

Sorry.

Where was I. Attempts on my life. Tom Cruise. Walking.

Did you know that when someone tells you that they are 47, and you say, Oh, nearly 50! that that jinxes you? Within a week headhunters posing as Girl Scout cookie saleschildren come to your door and cut off your fucking head with a fucking jigsaw?

At least I hope so. If there is a god, it does.

I mean, my image of god is pretty open. It doesn't disallow a god that would not jinx people for saying that. I'm just saying, wouldn't it be interesting if that were the way it turned out to work?

My daughter asked me to stop cursing people recently. Apparently in traffic I have a habit of calling down the wrath of god on their ass. With good reason, IMO, but eh.

A friend cursed her recently and she got on a subway GOING THE WRONG WAY so I have to be careful.

Indeed, I suppose, images are powerful. See what you want, and maybe you get it. Maybe it happens. Like a positive jinx. I got a cell phone that way once**. So, the fiberglass cello case is only a matter of time. As is peace on earth, or at least peace in my house.

This is what I was thinking at lunch: we laugh at children for what they say they want to be when they grow up, but.

Imagine, if you will, the following. Imagine that what a kid says she wants to be when she grows up is simply the best label she can come up with for what she sees herself doing. It's an occult image, secret to her, hard to name.

A boy sees himself saving people, or chopping down doors, or standing helplessly by while things burn, any number of possibilities, and says, I want to be a fireman when I grow up.

A girl wants to ease pain, or handle drugs, or tuck someone in, or watch people die, and says, I want to be a nurse.

I wanted to be Jacques Cousteau. And here I am, mysterious affinity for fish, swimming underwater, holding my breath.

Maybe our dreams don't change, maybe we don't outgrow them. Maybe they are not dreams, but just children trying to describe something words can't directly name. Like symbols in a dream, so not dreams but elements of dreams, dream-like things, things similar to dreams but not exactly dreams, strictly speaking. Quasi-dreams. So, more like dreams than goals, I suppose, I'll grant you that, so for lack of a better word, okay, dreams. But in quotation marks, sort of. Or italics. Dreams.

What did you want to be when you grew up?
__________

*No one knows who built the roads around the full moon. They are hard to see with the naked eye, because, you know, the sky is black, and the roads are black.

**Thanks, Novala!

Triple Jackpot

After I bought the lotto ticket I made the mistake of asking myself why, in fact, I wanted to win, and was plunged into an existential crisis of sorts. What problem, I asked myself, do I have that this money, were I to win, would solve?

The wheels in my brain whirred and creaked like the gears in a cheap watch turning over the date at midnight.

Nothing, really, not at the moment, knock on wood. Making the house payments okay at the moment. You can always look into the future and see stuff, like, college or whatever, new car at some point, etc. But right now, at this second, I have all I need.

The irises I planted last year and the year before are starting to bloom, as are the lilacs. The hydrangeas are coming along fine. The tortoise is finally outside 24/7 thank god.

I mentioned this to my cello teacher last night, because I hadn't practiced fucking Romberg, practiced playing fucking Romberg, I mean, of course, not enough, and so I was stalling and he said none of the rich people he knew were happy. Their money hadn't made them happy. I figure if you're happy, and I see no reason why happiness should be unattainable for anyone (or joy, if you will, if you are someone who sees joy as more of a goal than happiness) then it's not because of money.

Then I mentioned that I was still looking for a fiberglass case for my cello, a hard case and I like those roundish fiberglass ones (the carbon fiber ones are even cooler, but they cost more than my cello did) and he was all, Oh, a woman I know just got a new cello and it's too wide for her old case, she has two for sale. Two years old, cost 2000 euro new.

So anyway, didn't win the lotto, and now I want a cello case.

The things I want, besides a cello case and a dozen new suits and a pair of shoes, money can't buy. I'd like to get along with my wife. I'd like to be able to communicate with people better. I'd like more time with my kids.

I was talking with Gamma last night who was dismayed that I would not get my birthday off. Her birthday is 1 May, a national holiday here. Everyone celebrates her birthday.

What do I want? Better practicing habits. A stronger work ethic where writing is concerned. The ability to get beautiful transparent colors when I paint. The ability to paint, period, come to think of it.

I dunno. Nothing, really. Peace on earth, that sort of stuff.

Little-known facts about the seahorse

(WARNING: CONTAINS THE WORDS "FUCK", "ASS" AND "MARX")

• Seahorses mate for life, under a full moon, and sing while they're doing it.
• Seahorses have the superpower of invisibility, in the sense of changing color to blend in with their surroundings. Especially where waiters and bartenders are concerned.
• Male seahorses give birth to their young, and are very proud of their offspring.
• In fact, the sun shines out the asses of young seahorses.
• For example, say a seahorse couple has two offspring that both play in the same music recital because they have the same teacher. They make sure their offspring are bathed, brushed and dressed in clean clothes.
• Despite these efforts, the younger of the two seahorse babies manages to have a stain on her t-shirt, messy hair and socks that clash with the rest of its outfit when it marches up to play the piano. The father seahorse thinks, What a character, she plays with more personality than all the other seahorses combined. He thinks his offspring plays maybe not better than the others, but with a whole lot of Chico Marx. He figures the stain etc is the price of maintaining her personality. He also notices that she is the only seahorse to play by heart that evening. Or he thinks so, anyway.
• And when the older of the two young seahorses plays her Bach gigue, he thinks she is the most musical of the harpists that evening, and is in awe of her coordination, because there is much pedaling to be done. It reminds him, coordination-wise, of someone performing a kidney transplant on an unanesthesized ferret, on a bicycle, only it sounds better.
• The natural predators of seahorses are crabs, among other creatures. And man, of course, the natural predator of everything. Fucking man.
• One source says the average size of a full-grown sea horse is 2-8 inches, which what the hell kind of average is that? That's like saying a person is between two and eleven feet tall. Or two and eight feet, I suppose, strictly speaking.
• Seahorses are fascinated by the sounds produced by the theremin.

Tortoise care

It was warm so we put her in the flowerbed out front. It's fenced off -- tortise-proof-fenced off, because tortoises have this Great Escape instinct thing going on -- and I have built her a cozy little tortoise house in which to spend the night.

Sometimes she spends the night there, sometimes not. Sometimes she just hunkers down among the flowers, settled into the bark chips.

It was warm so we put her out. Then a cold front came down from Scandinavia and it began raining cats and dogs. Beta and I were on our way to town, moving the concert harp and the cello and the Irish harp as well to the music school because a concert and some other gig for her Irish band were scheduled for the next day.

At any rate, we were moving the instruments. And it was dark. And raining cats and dogs, and Alpha says, Oh, bring in the tortoise before you go. Or maybe it was even my idea, We can't leave the poor tortoise outside in this weather.

Beta and I looked for her. Tortoises have a million years, ten million years evolutionary experience at hiding. They are perfectly camoflagued, they look like a mixture of bark chips and tulip leaves from above. Rain was running down my neck.

Beta suggested a flashlight. I told her all the flashlights were dead. But we have new batteries, she said. But the bulbs are all burned out, I said.

I stood there, partially wrapped in the vines of the climbing rose bush, and remarked something about Here we stand, combined IQ over 300, maybe, outwitted by a turtle.

So we delivered the instruments and looked some more when we got back.

The tortoise is usually either at the left end under some bedding plants, at the right end in her house or under a rose bush, or in the middle under a particularly bushy and stickery rose bush. But we couldn't find her anywhere.

I finally went into my shop and rigged up a naked light bulb to an extension cord. If you've never tried to find something outside with naked 60 watt bulb at night, they are very bright. You spend half your time figuring out the right way to shade your eyes, and blinking the spots away.

Plus, as I've mentioned, it was raining heavily and I began to wonder whether the last thing I would hear in my life would be ZZZZZT.

Then I found the tortoise. Under the bushy, stickery rose bush.

She was very wet, and cold and happy to be moved into the warm house. Happy. I say happy, but how do you know with tortoises? They don't wag their tails. But she did do the pushup thing she does, and she extended her head quite far out.

The next day she celebrated by taking having two large bowel movements, one in the kitchen (she walked through it afterwards, and painted a large, irregular circle around the perimeter of the room). I couldn't find the actual turd at first, because it was on a black tile (our floor tiles are white with smaller black ones in the corners). I eventually did find it though. The second dump she took in the library, which was quite nasty judging from the gagging noises my eldest daughter made cleaning it up.

The tortoise was quite lively after that, as you would be, I think, after taking a BM that amounted to roughly half your body weight.

The weather stayed cold for a few days, so there were one or two more incidents. She's back outside now.

Another brief remark on playing the cello

I've been taking cello lessons for almost six years.
Something like that.
I remember walking past the music school when Beta was still too young to learn an instrument, except maybe a tiny violin, she may have been around three or so, which would make me around 33 at the time, so almost 14 years ago now, walking past the local music school, which is in a nice, old building, a former convent; it was a summery day, and music was coming out of the windows, and flowers were blooming and I thought how nice it must be in that place and how we would support Beta if she ever chose to learn an instrument.
Then she chose harp of all things, when she was what, 7, and a few years later I surprised myself by starting with cello, just as an experiment, just trying it out and then of course was unable to stop because parents must set a good example for their children and quitting is not a good example.
Also, I like the cello very much.
I have not learned as much in those six years as, say, a diligent child might have, because I have other things going on and have not practiced as much as I could have.
But this weekend I played in an orchestra, twice, once to a full house, and didn't fuck up massively.
Once or twice my bow touched the string prior to the beginning of a piece, and it made a little twang that I think only I, and maybe my teacher, who was sitting beside me, also playing, heard.
I did not fortissimo into a rest in this Bizet piece, which relieved me mightily, as I had feared doing it, and feared that fearing it made it more likely that I actually would.
But I didn't. There were a couple fiddly bits I sat out, otherwise it went okay I think.
And the orchestra got some nice applause, and we had to play an encore.
I never imagined I'd end up doing this, when I started.