"Love is my religion - I could die for it" John Keats

And evidently one of my former advisees did last week, by his own hand. Tragic. A beautiful boy, a sensitive soul of thirty years. I'm haunted by his death these days.

I always think at the end of a love affair that I will die (or must die, or should die), but I don't. Perhaps that's my tragedy: I live on. I put one foot in front of the other, I breathe, I take meals, I work, I see friends, I shop, I make plans for the future. My life goes on. I survive. But, truly, a part of me has died forever -- the part of me I shared only with my lover.

But, perhaps, with each ending something is also created? A timeless, transcendent space, a kind of metaphysical empty room full of blinding light? An intimate space that may only be shared with one other human being in all the world? And maybe will be again someday? Or so it seems to me.

"In my father's house there are many mansions." And in some of them dwell those I once loved so much I believed I would die if they ceased to love me. Perhaps one day, outside of time and space, we will love again in those rooms full of white light.

I had the most splendid...

Parent-of-a-Specified-Gender Day with my family! Thank you, Jimmie and Cindy and Maya Naomi and Autumn for the gifts and swimming and fun! Love you guys!

And thanks for a wonderful show on Friday, the Kings 'N' Things Seventh Anniversary. Hard to believe you guys are now senior kings of the troupe!

I got leopard spats made for me by Cindy for Mother's Day. I am gonna rock them all over town, and in Paris, too!

Happy Mother's Day to one and all.

Man, woman and child. Because isn't trying to learn be good mothers to each other why we're all here? You know, nurturing, unconditional love, a shoulder to cry on, to teach one another? Without the icky parts of motherhood like constantly worrying, being neurotic or controlling or too critical? I think we should all be like the mother birds and protect each other so that we develop the confidence and independence to fly!

How I love to sit on my patio in the dark..

and play melancholy gypsy melodies on my accordion!

Can't shut my mind off = insomnia, followed by nightmares

A terrible dream last night:

Ali and I were doing a photo shoot in a long, narrow space, walls and floors like my apartment, but easily a hundred yards long and only about six yards wide. The dream had three passages to it, and we moved down the space in thirds.

1. People bundled up in coats and scarves came in as we arrived, as if coming into the space from winter weather. This seems to set my dream in Italy. And the people were all academics known to me from meetings at school or X's colleagues in Italy. Academia. They ignored us as we set our lights and began the shoot.

2. We moved on to the middle of the space. Today the second passage is wiped from my memory, although it was vivid and I didn't think I'd forget it when I awoke from the dream. I think it had to do with X and a tattered top hat in need of repairs. The photo shoot continued in the middle of the space.

3. At the far end of the room we continued the shoot but were having trouble getting my arms in the position needed for the picture. There was a small curtained window in the wall there, and the space behind it was dark, seemingly a deserted, cluttered storage room. It occurred to us that if I put one arm on the sill of the window we could get the shot.

My hand accidentally went into the space behind the curtain as I took the pose. Then, out of nowhere, a dry, hot hand seized my wrist violently and angrily held on. The hand's skin was old, papery. I was terrified and screamed for Ali to help me detach myself from the hand, which would not release its death-hold on my wrist no matter how I twisted and jerked. She couldn't force the hand to release me, either, so reluctantly I struck out with my nails at the person who attacked me behind the curtain. With a sickening feeling I realized I was scratching my attacker's face as my fingertips dug into eyes and a mouth. I didn't want to hurt this invisible attacker, but felt I had no choice since she wouldn't release my wrist and clearly meant me harm. I told myself to wake up so I could end the dream.

The hand belonged to X's friend J, I realized upon awakening.

Horrible! I could venture a psychological analysis but will abstain.

I hate the end of the semester when I am so stressed out at work that it carries over into my dreams!

Photoshop: cheaper than surgery

What I wanted out of life when I was a little girl.

The reality of how it's turned out for me.

These are two things I ponder sometimes as I take Buster on one of our hour-long walks through the park with the iPod earbuds in and music playing in my brain. Listening to music while I walk really facilitates deep thoughts, I find.

I've been fighting off a teeny tiny little attack of the blues; part of that, I'm certain, is my still dealing with the emotional aftermath of the end of my relationship with X. If I get a little blue I always get extremely philosophical. And part of it is probably being 54; it's clear my life is more than half over and I can't waste a moment of what's left for me.

What I wanted "when I grew up" when I was a little girl:
1. To have two children, a boy and a girl, with two different fathers. I wanted one of my babies to be black because I thought black children were much more beautiful than white children :)
2. To join the circus and become an aerialist, trapeze performer or tight-rope walker.
3. I said I never intended to marry.
4. The technical skill to draw, fabricate or sew whatever I imagined -- drawings, dolls, costumes, books.

And, when I became a teenager, these things were added to my wish list:
5. To speak French, to go to Paris and maybe even to live there permanently.
6. To be a stage actress or dancer. Or a writer. Or an artist. Or a photographer. To be famous. To live "la vie Bohème" as much as it's possible in the U.S. in the 20th century.
7. To live in a gypsy vardo or an Airstream. Or an Airstream tricked out like a gypsy vardo.
8. To get my fair share of love, affection, kisses and great sex out of my life. To be thought beautiful by my beloved.
9. To march to the beat of my own drum and be true to myself. To be authentic and sincere.
10. To travel the world.

And then, as a grown-up, after my children were raised and I had fulfilled my obligations to others:
11. To own prescription designer sunglasses, a Louis Vuitton wallet and an Hermès scarf.
12. To make love in and have a great romance play out in Paris and Venice.

It's interesting to assess, at mid-life, how well I succeeded in my original goals. Pretty well, n'est-ce pas, all things considered. I find myself at this stage of my life worrying more about the "will I have time" issues: Will I have time to make every drawing I wanted to make? Will my health and vitality hold up so that I can continue to travel and hoof it relentlessly once I'm at my destination?

Why do I have to sleep eight hours a night? I'm wasting time!
Why does work have unpredictable hours and so many special events that derail me from my personal agenda?
Why do I often just walk around my house in circles finding stupid little putzy things to do rather than the grand projects? And then another evening's wasted, and how many more of them will I have in my lifetime?

That's the issue that seems to emerge as critical for me now, as a woman of a certain age: is there enough time?

And did I get all the kisses and great sex and loving I hoped to get out of this one life of mine?

Another semester draws to a close.

I've felt "meeting'd" to death recently, but things should really begin to wind down next week when the students are no longer attending class. Because of the swine flu epidemic I'll be gladder than usual when class is no longer in session and students aren't thrown together in confined spaces. We'll have a full stop for a couple of weeks before summer term and orientation start up, so maybe that will put the brakes on virus transmission here on campus. I do worry a little about our many international students who'll head home to Mexico at the end of the semester, but perhaps most will stay away all summer.

Awards banquets and concerts and other special end-of-semester activities have kept me up on campus later than usual most nights lately. I look forward to getting back into a routine with walking Buster and drawing nightly once all these special events cease for the summer. We'll have to shift our nightly walks to just before sundown soon due to the oppressive heat and humidity.

Commencement is the 22nd, and, after that, it really will become deathly quiet up here for a while. Honestly, I look forward to that. It's spooky, though, not to be leaving for Europe the day after graduation as I usually do. It will be interesting to be in Austin all summer this year. I'll find ways to stay busy and entertained, I'm certain!

A Woman is a Woman homage...

A woman is woman edit
Originally uploaded by diebuechse

quite tongue in cheek.

The shoot with Ali was exhausting, but fun. I will likely be editing for days, and we didn't get to do six more setups I had planned because they're exteriors and we lost the light. Plus we need to shoot downtown when there's no one around to see the madness! Maybe in the next couple of weeks we'll finish, but it's a good start. 250 photos, but only about two dozen will go in the project.

Violetta? Mimi? No.

Musetta a little. Carmen: yes.

*****

I passed a man on the hike and bike trail today walking Buster. When he was completely past me, I suddenly thought, "Wait! Was that my second husband?!"

Je m'ennuie aujourd'hui!

I bore myself and I am bored, that is. It's been terribly quiet all day at the office due to horrible black skies and rain. We've had barely anyone come in for assistance with anything. I've busied myself cleaning out my email box and other housekeeping tasks, but the day has seemed terribly long. If I had been home there are so many things I could be doing. And now, because of the rain, I won't be able to take Buster on his long walk when I go home and both of us will feel off. I'm really addicted to our hour-long daily walk and get so cranky without it.

But I suppose I can hoop to music indoors if all else fails.

I've been thinking about the next drawing suite I will start, and I think it's Things I Thought I Saw at the Water's Edge -- because as I walk along the shore of Town Lake daily with Buster, a trick of the eye often makes me think I see something I didn't really see at all in the water. Maybe the series will be about a dozen black and white drawings, but the one that gave me the original idea will be big, and in color. I need to tear down paper now that I know what I'm doing next, and do some preliminary studies of water movement and ripples. I've had six months off since I wrapped the last series -- always need battery recharge time between projects -- but I couldn't start the next series without committing to a theme. So, that's settled. The reflective nature of water also will be a good opportunity -- images of duality.

I doubt I'll get much drawing done this week, though. Two evening events for me as the semester wears itself out and ramps down.

I was thinking as I walked Buster yesterday about French popular music, and how common it is in French love songs for the singer to face up to the likely eventual failure of the love affair in advance. They sing things like, "If tomorrow you should cease to love me..." "If you go away.." "If you should have a change of heart..." "If you should no longer love me.." It's odd. I don't think English-language songs as often acknowledge the transitory nature of romantic love. Because my iPod is loaded up with French pop music from the 1920s until now I seem to listen to a lot of those "it's inevitable that our love will end" songs. Piaf sang her fair share of them -- L'Hymne à L'Amour, for instance. And so did Charles Aznavour. I think it's healthier just to confront that probability head-on. Maybe it's a very French thing to realize the love affair is doomed just as you begin it with the first kiss? I always have that feeling myself, I must admit. Still, it doesn't stop me from loving. Because, as Piaf sang so movingly,


If the sky should fall into the sea
And the stars fade all around me
All the times that we have known here
I will sing a hymn to love

We have lived and dreamed we two alone
In a world that's been our very own
With its memories ever grateful
Just for you I sing a hymn to love

I remember each embrace
The smile that lights your face
And my heart begins to sing
Your eyes have never lied
And my heart begins to sing
And my heart begins to sing

If one day you should ever disappear
Always remember these words
If one day we had to say goodbye
And our love should fade away and die
In my heart you will remain here
And I'II sing a hymn to love

O for love, we live eternally
In the blue we'll roll this harmony
With every day we are in heaven
As for you, I'll sing a hymn to love

Don't you ever worry, dear
And the stars shall fade from the sky
All the times that we have known here
I will sing a hymn to our love
Oh darling,
Just for you I sing
A hymn to love

****

Speaking of Piaf, over the weekend I bought my ticket to Paris for October and reserved my hotel rooms, one on the Droit and one on the Rive Gauche. I'll mix it up and enjoy two neighborhoods this trip. I can't stay away from Paris much longer than a year, and passing through those two snowy days at Christmas at the airport don't count. Life is too short not to spend as much of it as possible in Paris.

Detective Movie

Detective Movie
Originally uploaded by diebuechse

Fun photo shoot tonight with Ali as her persona Carmelo Carillo. I'll tidy them all up and post to Flickr soon!

Dialogues of the Carmelites

It will take a long time to get it out of my head. The sickening sound of the metallic clank that accompanies each chop of the guillotine as all the little nuns are beheaded at the end of Poulenc's gorgeous opera Dialogues of the Carmelites, that is. I went last night to see it performed (beautifully!) by Austin Lyric Opera. I could only afford a third balcony seat, but the acoustics were marvelous even there and I do have those mother-of-pear folding opera glasses.

The first time I was exposed to DotC it was twenty some-odd years ago on the radio -- probably one of those weekend broadcasts from the Met. I had been cleaning house and not paying very close attention until the middle of the third act and I still remember how the sound of the chops of the guillotine triggered actual dry heaves in me that first time. I find this work so incredibly powerful and I read it on so many levels.

There's, first, the primarily female cast; rare in opera. The men are the throw-aways in this one. There's the mothers and daughters motif, although they are nuns and spiritual sisters. I can put some feminist reads into it, and a would-be lesbian love-at-first-sight story. There are the existential issues of freedom and transcendence. To me, DotC is less about religion and more about fear, and about the fear of fear. I know those are probably not the things Polenc wanted me to ponder, but I'm a post-modernist and I can't help it.

And there's one of the greatest lines in opera: to paraphrase, "She got somebody else's death, as one might mistakenly be handed someone else's coat in the cloak room."

Rocking that Missionary Look

...like I said I would!

Love these Dutch wax African batiks. I got two skirts, one black, one turquoise, on ebay! I wear them with the Massai-inspired towering sandals and the ubiquitous leopard sweater of which I am so fond. This is a happy ensemble!

But I am still trying to get over that damned stye.

Everything's moving so fast.

It's dizzying, like being on a crazy carousel, as Jacques Brel sang. But it always happens like this in the spring semesters. Everyone waits until the very last moment to conduct business they were either in denial about, or procrastinated beginning. That goes for faculty members AND their students, by the way. Of necessity, this is the season for final recitals, exhibitions, defenses, presentations. And end-of-year banquets and ceremonies and receptions.

As a result, I don't have time to fully write about the many wonderful happenings lately. (B)Easter with Jimmie and Cindy and the little girls was marvelous. I went out to their place for brunch and enjoyed hiding Easter eggs for children to find, something I haven't done for many years. Jimmie made some nice photos of the day which you can see in a set on flickr if you click through from the image of my grand-beauties below.

Friday night's premiere of Queenie Pie, Duke Ellington's opera, was also marvelous. The young, vibrant African-American cast really delivered, and it was a memorable production. Unbelievably, the ninety-something year-old white woman whose notes are what made this staging possible attended the premiere. She had broken her hip a week ago, so none of us expected she'd be able to travel. But travel she did, and made her pre-performance appearance on stage wearing a colorful sequined gown she said Ellington bought for her years ago, with her red-dyed hair and six handsome young men in zoot suits escorting her in in her wheelchair. I loved Queenie Pie's plot about dueling beauticians -- rather Carmen-esque, and the magical Bali Hai island Queenie Pie sails to on a 1930's ocean liner like the Normandie. Hard to believe it hasn't been fully staged somewhere with all the trimmings -- wouldn't it probably do well in London? It needs the kind of production values that, say, Cole Porter's Anything Goes had; the orchestra was also on stage in that one when I saw the 2004 revival.

It enjoyed getting all dressed up to meet up there with friends and to go to the reception afterward to congratulate everyone involved in this ambitious production. I have to work on overcoming my shyness and getting out to do these kinds of things more often. I'm fine, once I'm there. I just don't know what to say to people when it comes to small talk, but it seems to get a little easier with each outing. Practice helps with overcoming the shyness, I'm finding.

Saturday night was my Grey Gardens viewing party. I got HBO just for the week and Alison kindly let me borrow her monstrous television for the evening. It was a potluck affair with cuisine inspired somehow by Grey Gardens, and bizarre couture was required. It was fun to be in a room full of Little Edies, and my photos later revealed an orb hovering over performance artist Jill Pangallo's head. I can only assume it was Little Edie giving us her blessing. The Barrymore/Lang Grey Gardens piece was all I expected and hoped for and I really enjoyed its visuals and insights. Great acting on the parts of the stars! Loved the very believable prosthetic aging effects, too, particularly Barrymore's arms. I haven't watched the Maysles' original documentary for a couple of years and now feel I need to add looking at it again to my already lengthy to-do list for the near future. The viewing party did cause me to have to undertake a major no-holds-barred housekeeping incident, so that was a good side effect. There is still more stuff from those boxes from Italy I need to deal with or find homes for hidden about. There are still materials for future steam-punking projects lurking in cabinets and closets.

Work will be hectic all this week and we've got construction-related activities going on to further complicate everything. Friday night it's Dialogues of the Carmelites. Whee!

Me as Little Edie, Buster as Raccoon

Me as Little Edie, Buster as Raccoon
Originally uploaded by diebuechse

...at my Grey Gardens viewing party last night. Click through to see the whole set, including the ectoplasmic orb!

Beaster at Jimmie's house

DSC_0704.JPG
Originally uploaded by jimmie d. jewell

with my beauties, my little granddaughters. Click through to see the whole set.

Headed out for a night at the opera

... and I am so excited! World premiere of Duke Ellington's Queenie Pie at Butler School of Music tonight!

Streaming video here:
http://www.music.utexas.edu/calendar/details.aspx?id=9595

I don't know if the technology will work, but you can try checking it out. I attended a recital yesterday by the young woman singing Café Olay and her exquisitely lovely and powerful voice made the little hairs on my forearms stand up, so that's probably a very good indication that the production will be marvelous. Full report later.

Today's the twenty-ninth birthday of my firstborn, who is far away tonight in Portland or environs. I miss him so, and it's hard to believe he's now only a year shy of thirty. Twenty-nine years ago he'd just come flying out of my body after only four hours' labor. He was always in a hurry to fly, mon petit oiseau Nicholas. He said he celebrated by going up in a private airplane -- always hoping to get his pilot's license, that one.

Oh, yes I did!

buy that Hermès twilly in the design Brides de Gala. And, yes, I did wear it as a headband and walk the dog in the park just now. And, yes, it felt fabulous!

The little Hermès hat box with ribbons it came in is also a little treasure!

And, yes, I do have a stye in my left eye I'm getting over. I attribute that to the fact that it's been a very stressful week at work. But this gorgeous little scarf has gone a very long way toward making me feel wonderful today!

A letter I won't send: It's tragic that you deprived yourself of all this...

because, when all is said and done, it all boils down to this: truly, you could not take the risk. (You could not eat the peach.) You preferred the familiar sadness, the moral "correctness" of staying in name only in a marriage from which you continually seek to escape, whether through moving halfway across the world or through your several emotional or sexual affairs. It's sad, too, because you were so completely safe with me. But you were afraid. It must have been terrifying, to have all you said you dreamed of right in front of you, for the taking.

This is my family. One of my little granddaughters wears a dress and bonnet made for me in 1961 by my mother; the other wears my leopard heels. My own younger child, out of frame, takes the photograph, and I play the accordion.

The younger of my granddaughters is singing a song, à la Piaf, while accompanied by two melodicas, an accordion, and her sister on one of your minor key harmonicas. Our eight-year-old chanteuse composed her song on the spot. It's about an ended romance. It's about all the things that were sent back in boxes. The last words of her song are, "He's just a little man." She's brilliant, and her lyrics come from a deep, authentic, healthy place. We're a tribe of adherents to a philosophy of radical honesty, you see. We inhabit your Paradise Lost. And we rag-tag gypsies WILL BE HAPPY. We seek, and find JOY on a daily basis.

You've lost not only me, but all this. A tribe of women and girls will now wear what once were your clothes, your ties, your sock garters, your watch, your rings. They will play your harmonicas.

It's a tragedy. You, as my beloved, had earned the right to partake of this magical, nomadic feast, to enter a world of radical truthfulness to which you'll never, ever again be offered an invitation. My people were all standing by ready to welcome you as my chosen one, my beloved. It is a world of great beauty -- unimaginable, in fact, to outsiders -- and I am sorry that you will not be part of it. It might have filled some of that abyss inside you. It might have helped heal some of your terrible wounds.

It's on nights like these that I'll remember you most often and be a little sad. Not because I miss you and you are lost to me. But because of all you yourself deprive yourself of and have lost. Tu es perdu à nous et tout est perdu à toi. But the red wine will flow, we will make the music and I will sing and dance. Because, unlike you, I am always passionately committed to being fully IN LIFE.

Ultimately, that's why our relationship could not work out: I am committed to being fully in life and you most probably have chosen to turn your back on all these joys and spend much of your time in darkness. I'm not angry at you for rejecting ME. I'm angry that you reject life, and joy. What a waste. What ingratitude to life for all its riches.