Goines On: Lost in time

Goines was worried. His friend out in San Francisco hadn’t started an email conversation in several days, nor replied to Goines’ recent email to him. Goines much missed hearing from this friend, who was always lively and often humorous, manifesting a mind reveling in the world’s astonishments.
    His and Goines’ paths shared several prominent venues in their lives: San Francisco itself (where Goines had started with IBM and their two children had been born), Los Gatos (where the friend had a house on a hilly acre), the Ivy League (the friend had graduated from Cornell), Yale (where the friend earned a doctoral degree), Chicago (where the friend grew up and near Northwestern University, where Goines had done one semester of doctoral work), Paris (where the friend had worked and the Goineses liked to visit), Montmartre (where the friend had an apartment the Goineses used), and the pages of the New Yorker magazine and the New York Times and Washington Post newspapers, from one or the other of which the friends frequently swapped articles.

Highways and Byways: Wild Rice

By Maik Strosahl

On my way to Bismarck with my first load through North Dakota, the interstate crossed the Wild Rice River and a nearby community.
    The weather was not pleasant on the way up, heavy rains through Kansas City, high winds north of Saint Joseph, even some snow accumulation on my windshield outside of Omaha on up through Sioux City. I ran out of drive time just past Sioux Falls and stopped for 10 hours at the Wilmot Rest Area. It had signs promoting a scenic overlook, but when I arrived I saw this, looking southward out my cab window:

Fiction: A Killing on a Bridge (12) A historical fiction

Saint Sebastian River Bridge
[Click image to call up
all published instalments]

By Roger Owens

Saturday,
June 17, 1922,
10 PM, concluded

The fat fella was back at the microphone, one of them newfangled spring-mounted models, but the sound sure was good. He lit into a jaunty “By the Light of the Silvery Moon,” and he had Billy Murray nailed, better than he did Jolson even.

From “The Scratching Post”: A perfect prelude

By Ken Marks

[Opening from the original on The Scratching Post, March 26, 2022, published here by permission of the author.]

I’ve never read On the Beach and only got around to watching the movie on TV years after its theater release. Maybe I avoided it because of the emotionally draining story, the kind my 11th-grade lit teacher called “cathartic.” I ended up liking it very much. My sole criticism was the ceaseless playing of “Waltzing Matilda” until my head was ready to explode.
    I recall a stirring scene between Ava Gardner and Gregory Peck. In a fury of incomprehension, she asks what could have caused the world’s leaders to order an all-out nuclear exchange. After all, it’s the ultimate geopolitical fuck-up, a step so breathlessly stupid that lunacy seems the only possible explanation. But the movie doesn’t deal in explanations, just consequences. Its focus is on the psychic torment of those remote from the bombing as they await the arrival of radiation poisoning.
    Glutton for punishment that I am, I crave an apocalyptic movie in the same vein, but one that shows how the buildup to catastrophe can be plausible and insane at the same time. We badly need such a movie. Without it, we miss an invaluable chance to behold the macabre duality of human nature, our capacity for simultaneous sanity and madness.
    It happens that the world stage is at this moment supplying a story line for such a movie. It’s a perfect prelude to On the Beach. I refer to the horrific war in Ukraine. Putin is the ideal villain. He’s 69. The clock is ticking. His dream of restoring the Soviet empire on his watch is fading. Snatching a tiny Baltic state will no longer qualify as progress. He needs a big win — Ukraine. The hero? There are two, Volodymyr Zelensky, the President of Ukraine, and NATO, the grand Western alliance that Trump sought to castrate.
    As the drama unfolds, Putin and his generals….
[Read the whole thing on The Scratching Post.]

Copyright © 2022 by Ken Marks Ken Marks was a contributing editor with Paul Clark & Tom Lowe when “Moristotle” became “Moristotle & Co.” A brilliant photographer, witty conversationalist, and elegant writer, Ken contributed photographs, essays, and commentaries from mid-2008 through 2012. Late in 2013, Ken birthed the blog The Scratching Post. He also posts albums of his photos on Flickr.

All Over the Place: Strength

By Michael H. Brownstein

Hike with me through this field of prayer,

through mudflats and iron foot,

the eulogy deep and dried passion fruit,

the salt of columbine, a terrain of frenzy,

lacewing and the yellow mollies of spring,

milk and milk thistle, a porcelain of words.

Acting Citizen: Running out of Luck?

By James Knudsen

March milestones are piling up. March 10, I turned 57; March 13, the run of “Guys and Dolls” ended; March 17, St. Patrick’s Day; and, March 20, Spring arrived. Is it possible to connect all of these events? Let’s find out.
    March 10, 2022. Myself and the cast of “Guys and Dolls” begin our final week of performance. It is not the first time I have found myself performing on my birthday. I hope it won’t be the last. Fifty-seven is, from this vantage point, a terribly blasé birthday. It’s well past 50, but still far enough away from 60 to not feel like...well, 60. It no doubt helped to be in a dressing room with four older actors, as in older than me. One, upon hearing my age, remarked, “A mere slip of a lad.” And at this point I should add, the idea of mortality has not sunk in completely.

Fiction: A Killing on a Bridge (11) A historical fiction

Saint Sebastian River Bridge
[Click image to call up
all published instalments]

By Roger Owens

Saturday,
June 17, 1922,
10 PM

Red saw money everywhere. He could have cut them boards, them logs, sliced them shakes, and made a tidy return. His Daddy had told him no one ever went broke making a small profit. That second floor alone, Red reckoned, measured about four times his and Guy’s little farmhouse.

From the Alwinac: Alwin Schroeder’s Bach Cello Suites Edition

[Click on image to
go directly to
the Alwinac’s home page]

[The Alwinac blog is part of the schroeder170 project, honoring the life and musical career of cellist Alwin Schroeder (1855-1928) and exploring the history of cello playing in the US.]

Alwin Schroeder’s 1888 edition of the Bach Cello Suites is often overlooked in the literature on the suites. I believe it deserves detailed study as a “missing link" between the earliest editions of the suites and ones that came soon after it, such as those of Becker and Klengel. In his 2016 dissertation on the Bach cello suites, Zoltan Szabo does mention the Schroeder edition, discussing it in relation to the more obviously influential second Grutzmacher edition of ca 1885, and quickly dismissing Schroeder’s version as lacking in originality. Next to the famously, sometimes scandalously original Grutzmacher, surely just about any cellist of the time would seem unadventurous in their editorial choices. But for me the question is different, because in my opinion Schroeder never intended to insert his own personality into the suites (or any other cello music) the way that Grutzmacher, Becker, and other cellists have. So what was Schroeder trying to do in his edition of the suites?
    Today cellists and editors often go back to the original manuscript sources for the suites, piecing together a satisfactory (textually accurate, aesthetically authentic, personally pleasing) reading of the suites through a kind of dialogue with the composer and others from Bach’s own time. Schroeder also engaged in a dialogue, but it was more about Bach than with Bach, and it wasn’t through the medium of the manuscript copies (which likely weren’t available to him anyway), but of previous editions and the cellists behind them. His edition has no prefatory explanation of his approach, but as he showed us later with the 170 Foundation Studies, Schroeder was adept at assimilating and reorganizing a broad range of pre-existing materials in a meaningful way. I think his approach to the Bach suites is similar, while still revealing some personal touches. To me Schroeder’s edition reads like an opinion statement on the status of cellistic knowledge and tradition regarding the suites and their interpretation at the time.
    A comparison of the Schroeder Bach suites edition with the handful of editions that predate it reveals very clear connections with the ideas about playing Bach on the cello that editors such as Norblin, Dotzauer, Grutzmacher (in his second edition), and Dorffel passed down. Taking the first suite as a case study, and looking at specific editorial parameters, I will now discuss these relationships in more detail….
_______________
Read on….

Copyright © 2022 by Geoffrey Dean

Highways and Lay-by’s

[Editor’s Note: Maik Strosahl is taking a rest, so I thought we’d revisit the interview he and I did on October 14, 2020.]

Interview:
Maik Strosahl,
poet, encourager
...trucker?

Interviewed by Moristotle

Maik Strosahl’s exquisite first poem on Moristotle & Co. appeared here a week ago today, and the second was scheduled for today...until I suggested that we have an interview instead, because I just had to get to know more about the poet who wrote “Irises across the Floor.”
    My questions arose from a short bio Maik sent me and from a reading of his first post on a blog he started last month. My questions are in italics.

Fiction: A Killing on a Bridge (10) A historical fiction

Saint Sebastian River Bridge
[Click image to call up
all published instalments]

By Roger Owens

June 1922, continued

Red was standing on the open platform, staring down the tracks to the south like some rube waiting for the circus. He was immediately disgusted with himself. That God-damned train hadn’t never been on time before, and nobody but a fool would expect anything differ’nt now, just because he was a nervous fool.
    He sat down across the street on the east side of the market square, in the shade of the big oaks and bay trees which threw their shadows across 14^th Avenue. Right here by the station, 14^th boasted a crushed shell and marl paving, but it petered out to sandy dirt tracks a block or two both north and south. He reckoned, upon reflection, he couldn’t hardly miss a train just by sittin’ across the street.

All Over the Place: International Falls, Minnesota, Winter

A few decades from now, a century

By Michael H. Brownstein

Based on the writings of David Auerbach


In the sweet wish of day,
a scone of buttercup and dew,
a lisp of cloud, a wash of sky—

Fiction: A Killing on a Bridge (9) A historical fiction

Saint Sebastian River Bridge
[Click image to call up
all published instalments]

By Roger Owens

June 1922, continued

By now Red had finished his own fish, swabbed his plate with what he considered some mighty fine hushpuppies, and pulled his napkin out of his own collar to wipe his face and hands. He’d worn it just like the Judge; he surely wasn’t studyin’ on soiling his brand-new shirt before Zook’s social tonight.
    He rolled a cigarette, or tried to; after a minute or two of Red struggling, the Judge took pity and shook one out of a pack of store-boughts and gave it to him. Red thanked him kindly, and they both lit up.

Fiction: A Killing on a Bridge (8) A historical fiction

Saint Sebastian River Bridge
[Click image to call up
all published instalments]

By Roger Owens

June 1922, continued

“Please, call me Red.”
    The lawyer nodded, “All right, Red it is, young sir. You can call me Grey, as a matter of fact.”
    Red thanked him for his kindness and proceeded. “Well sir,” and the Judge shook his head.
    “Grey, please.”

Goines On: Hi-yo, Silver! Away!

Click image for more vignettes

“Complaining is fun!” Goines shouted from the middle of the street as his wife approached on her walk. His own walk had been interrupted by a telephone call from TurboTax that had just ended with an assurance that they would issue a refund.
    “It’s fun when it works,” he corrected himself and then summarized the TurboTax conversation for her. TurboTax was sorry for what had happened and wanted to make up for it and regain his trust and his high marks for TurboTax.

Fiction: A Killing on a Bridge (7) A historical fiction

Saint Sebastian River Bridge
[Click image to call up
all published instalments]

By Roger Owens

June 1922, continued

Red figured he’d start with Miss Lottie. Early as it was, the riverside whorehouse wouldn’t be open for business, except for a few regulars staying over, or maybe a fella with some shiny new jingle in his drawers, say a fella like Guy Dedge, in his new coat and fancy-assed boots.

Goines On: Perplexed

Click image for more vignettes

Goines overheard someone questioning his focus in life, opining that his focus might not be advantageous and that he focused overmuch on his immediate thoughts because he was suffering from nearsightednss.
    Though a bit chagrined by that opinion, he had been furnished painful evidence the day before that he might really need to focus even more carefully on his immediate thoughts, that his supposed nearsightedness might be more a form of nearmindedness, of a failure to perceive what should be obvious. Disadvantageous focus indeed!

All Over the Place: Evening

By Michael H. Brownstein

twilight over the Missouri
the shadow of ghost trees
paper birched and shedding:

a black current near the mud
and shells of clam and oyster
silver-sprinkle deep infested earth:

Quantity of life, or quality?

By motomynd [aka Paul Clark]

[I published “the timely communique below” 11 years ago, on March 15, 2011 – before “Moristotle” became “Moristotle & Co.” It’s published again today to celebrate the author’s answer to his opening question, and to recognize again the part he played in “& Co.” being added.]

Original note: [The timely communique below comes from a mystery friend who calls himself “motomynd.” Anyone who can write this well and significantly can find a receptive editorial staff here any time.]

Your intriguing posts about the conundrum of leap-year birthdates, and your follow-up about tiredness, motivated me to question why we even bother to measure life in years.

Fiction: A Killing on a Bridge (6) A historical fiction

Saint Sebastian River Bridge
[Click image to call up
all published instalments]

By Roger Owens

June 1922, continued

It was now about seven in the morning and the boys had their whole load sold. Guy went back to the truck and laid out in the bed for some more shut-eye.
    Before the black man drove the mule wagon away, Red asked Senegal if he was supplying any of the “comestibles” for the social. “No suh, dem Indian River fellas got they own supply, and I hear it be from de same suppliers as me. Dem Ashley boys pretty much got that bidness sewed up tight ’round here. And dey don’t take kindly to anybody go messin’ in dey bidness, if’n you knows what I mean.”

Goines On: A little less order, please!

Click image for more vignettes

Goines abruptly decided one morning that he would just stop putting the dishes back with the most recently washed on the bottom and arranged in their respective stacks according to pattern. He would thenceforth just stack them on top in whatever sequence they came to hand.

    Sure, he would soon use these recently washed over again while the ones on the bottom wouldn’t be used for several days. So what? Eventually they would be used. It wasn’t as though he was putting them in storage for years.

Highways and Byways: In a Perfect World

By Maik Strosahl




Recently I saw a beautiful girl with the skin condition Vitiligo. From the way she held herself, you could tell she did not see that beauty through her own eyes.

Fiction: A Killing on a Bridge (5) A historical fiction

Saint Sebastian River Bridge
[Click image to call up
all published instalments]

By Roger Owens

June 1922

Red Dedge picked the next-to-last row of tomatoes and eased them into the sack slung over his shoulder. He dragged a wrist across his brow, raining sweat on the already damp soil. The sun roared silently overhead, the screaming cicadas deafening without being noticed. The white heron he’d seen on the shed roof early that morning had sailed off towards the creek, seeking lunch.
    As the sun rose, he’d picked the okra, each about the size of a fat finger, just big enough to be profitable without going hard and woody. The weedy bushes were taller than he was, with scant leaves and pretty white-and-purple flowers.

From the Alwinac: Bulgarian Rhythms: Lyubomir Pipkov’s Spring Caprices

[Click on image to
go directly to
the Alwinac’s home page]

[The Alwinac blog is part of the schroeder170 project, honoring the life and musical career of cellist Alwin Schroeder (1855-1928) and exploring the history of cello playing in the US.]


Listen to Five Spring Caprices by Pipkov, arranged for cello and piano by G. Dean.

In Bulgaria, the month of March is named after Baba Marta (Grandmother Marta), who ushers in the long-awaited spring. On the first of March, red-and-white woven bracelets called martenitsi are exchanged among friends and colleagues, and worn until the wearer sees a stork, another important local symbol of the arrival of spring and the rebirth it brings. I personally link the promise of spring to the possibility of peace in the world. It is a hope that seems harder to hold onto as another world leader, obsessed not by the power of love, but by the love of power (to paraphrase Jimi Hendrix), attacks rather than embraces his neighbor. This year, many Bulgarians are wearing special martenitsas with a different pairing of colors: blue and yellow, in solidarity with their neighbors in and from the Ukraine.
    Lyubomir Pipkov, one of Bulgaria’s esteemed second-generation composers, embarked on a project late in life that he called his Ludus ritmicus (Game of Rhythm), likely envisioning it as the rhythmic analogue to Hindemith’s Ludus tonalis. In several extended cycles of piano pieces, Pipkov explored rhythmic patterns inspired by Bulgarian folk music and notated using unusual meters, often involving prime numbers and alternating beats of 2 and 3.
    For almost thirty years now, I have been obsessed with one of these Pipkov piano cycles, called Proletni priumitsi (translated variously as Whims of Spring, Spring Whimsies, or (my current favorite) Spring Caprices). Since creating a violin-and-cello version as a wedding present for John and Beth Fadial around 1993, I have arranged ten of these pieces for two cellos, six for violin and cello, five for cello and piano, and two for cello ensemble. Lately I have been experimenting with string orchestra arrangements of several of these.... 

_______________
Read on….

Copyright © 2022 by Geoffrey Dean

All Over the Place: The Big Fight

From My Teaching Book

By Michael H. Brownstein

The afternoon Big Ronnie almost mortally harmed Little Ronnie I was standing on the corner of 44th and King Dr. with the security guards. One of them said he thought he would walk down to 45th to see if all was well. He was out of screaming range when I heard the loud shouts and yells of students running behind us. They were quickly forming a three-quarter semi-circle blocking the teacher’s parking lot entrance.

Goines On: Word hurdling

Click image for more vignettes

Goines was tired out yesterday, and he would have emphasized the word out if he had the strength. His left nostril bled several times and he grew tired of stuffing it with tissue and dabbing up the occasional blood splotch. He was too tired, too, to diagnose his condition. “I am SO TIRED today,” he’d emailed a friend simply.
    Mrs. Goines came to the rescue with some advice: Don’t blow your nose so hard, use the saline nasal mist, take Claritin.

Fiction: A Killing on a Bridge (4) A historical fiction

Saint Sebastian River Bridge
[Click image to call up
all published instalments]

By Roger Owens

April 1922, concluded

The man was probably fifty—like Red had thought, old—and looked more like a hillbilly than a swamp rat. He stood a hair short of six feet, with brawny shoulders and a bit of a belly. He wore jeans so old and dirty they were no longer blue but more grey. A white cotton work shirt and a leather hip coat covered his upper body, and he sported a wide-brimmed, low-topped hat almost like a country parson but with the top stove in.

Highways and Byways: Reporting from Convict Road

By Maik Strosahl

While doing a load in eastern Iowa a few weeks ago, I saw a street sign for “Convict Road.” I figured there must be a prison nearby, but never saw one. After stopping at my next store, I decided to satisfy my curiosity and look it up. Turns out, there is no prison, but it is a historic stretch of road.
    When cars started becoming more abundant in the early 1900s, there was an area east of the Fredonia bridge over the Iowa river that was difficult for vehicles to pass through due to all the sand. They tried several solutions, but nothing was working well enough to support the growing traffic.

Goines On: Why no gift from Santa?

Click image for more vignettes

Goines had to go walking without his cane this morning. They had been smelling gas around the clothes dryer and when Mrs. Goines called the gas company, they said they’d treat it as an emergency and send a man out. The Goineses should vacate the house immediately without turning anything on or off and go at least 330 feet away from the house.
    They put on their coats and did as advised. Goines hadn’t been able to collect his cane from the garage because opening the door from the laundry room would have turned on a garage light.