Archive for the ‘My life’ Category

You were dead, you know

March 27, 2025

The first follow-up to my posting yesterday “A gay life”, which had material about my first male lover, Larry Schourup, from earlier postings of mine. About 55 years of the loving friendship that succeeded our original relationship, a lifelong conversation carried on through enormous changes in our lives. LS ended up in Japan, with a long-time Japanese partner, Isao; they had to conceal their homosexuality and their relationship for many years, until recently it became possible for them to live openly, and to apply for domestic partnership in Kyoto (which I now have learned was granted on 5/29/24, wonderful thing).

My intention was talk about integrating sexual lives, relationships, and identities with lives of accomplishment (like LS’s teaching and published research in linguistics) and value, with a bow to the poet Frank O’Hara (who LS introduced me to many years ago). I am, however, overwhelmed by the firehouse of fascism being sprayed on a daily basis by the overlords in my country, which needs a variety of responses, all of which take time — so I’ve trimmed this post down to its other aim, which is to report on the last year or so of the LS/AZ correspondence.

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Yesterday’s news from my house

March 26, 2025

Yesterday morning was bright and warm.  But the weather report said that in a day it would get cooler and then there would be several days of rain. Meanwhile, I had garden work — mostly, edging the garden strip to cut back the ivy sprawling from the strip onto the patio, which it clearly intended to vanquish — that I’d put off for weeks because of earlier rains, so this was my chance to clean things up.

It’s hard work for someone with my disabilities who gets around with a walker. A heavy long-handled lopper is involved, also a clever long-handled grabber tool to pick up the clipped stems and leaves and put them into a plastic bucket (so that I can take them inside to very slowly and methodically use sharp-edged hand tools to reduce them to short bits of stuff usable as compost back on the garden strip). The ivy trimming is demanding, sweaty work, but satisfying because the result is a handsome garden and then, eventually, a pile of excellent compost. But there’s a nice rhythm to the labor — and it sets my mind free to wander on other things, like the postings I’m always composing.

Very quickly I realized that it was in fact blazing hot — 85F, high-summer-hot — so I speeded up, and  got considerably less fastidious as I worked along the strip. Retreated inside the house, did my slicing and chopping until I had a pile of compost bits.

By then my caregiver J had arrived. I gave him the bucket of bits to distribute in the garden, he came back to quiz me about my medical state. Looked anxiously at me, because I was flushed and speaking slowly, but he went on to ask some general medical questions. He asked if I’d weighed myself, adding that he’d seen in the bathroom the … umm … what do you call that in English? And I couldn’t think of the word. I went on haltingly to explain that I was having trouble finding the word, but not to worry, this was normal, I was just hot and tired, I wasn’t having a … what do you call it when you get a blood clot in the brain? or even that thing that Jacques had when he suddenly couldn’t talk or walk, it has a name with letters and another long technical name.

I know, I know, not being able to find words for not being able to find words.

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A gay life

March 26, 2025

A re-play of some material about my first male lover, Larry, as background for two other postings: one about him right now (well, as of yesterday); and one about GBTQ guys and how they fold their sexual desires, practices, and identifications into lives of accomplishment, as Larry has done — and as the linguist Aaron Broadwell (celebrated in the second posting) has done.

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Good morning, good morning

March 23, 2025

I woke at 3:30 am, after 8 hours of good sleep, to the sound of Scott Ross playing Soler keyboard music on his power harpsichord — the Fandango and an assortment of sonatas — which filled me with delight and promised a good day to come. Eventually I worked my way to my computer, and found one odd surprise and one very sorrowful one.

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Morning name: barramundi

March 18, 2025

Awakening at 3:51 am (to a performance of Richard Strauss’s comic opera Intermezzo, which has nothing to do with any of what follows, beyond evoking operatic singing), what was in my head was the word barramundi (pronounced boldly, with a big tongue-trilled R in it, so that it was simultaneously ponderous and ridiculous). I immediately recalled why the name of an Asian / Oceanic fish was calling to me: a recent Facebook posting by an American who was startled to find the fish on sale in a supermarket near them.

So: the fish, in the water and on the table. Then the name: metrically, a double trochee, of the back-accented type (Barbarina, ` ˘ ´ ˘  ) rather than the front-accented type (manicurist, ´ ˘ ` ˘ ) — which led me to operatic singing, not Strauss’s Intermezzo, but the marvels of Verdi’s Rigoletto, in particular the duet Si vendetta, whose title is, well, yes, a back-accented double trochee.

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Fortuitous soup

March 16, 2025

This is a third Kharkiv Opera posting, about a pleasant, playful, joyous event staged in the face of terrible times. Previously on this blog:

on 3/9, “The dandelion caper”, about the enjoyment of the plants and flowers around us

on 3/11, “Music of the night, about the enjoyment of music

Today, it’s about the enjoyment of food, in particular a 2/17 soup* I contrived from things I happened to have in the house — leftovers from a Chinese food delivery; some leftover crunchy salad greens; rice sticks (maifun), which are staple household supplies in my kitchen cupboard; beef broth in a carton, ditto; and some fine chili power that I got as a gift a while back.  The result was fabulous, and there was enough for three meals. Amazing Wok duet mushroom beef, Taylor Farms Mediterranean crunch salad, Dynasty rice vermicelli, and Penzey’s medium hot chili powder: I salute you.

[*The mills of the mammoth grind exceedingly slowly.]

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Bari soup

March 16, 2025

Elsewhere, in my queues for posting, there’s one in the Kharkiv Opera series on a fortuitous soup, a delicious invention I will probably never have the ingredients for again. Today I write about a soup made from leftovers, but one I have every time I order the base dish, Bari pasta from the restaurant Crepevine in Mountain View CA.

As I was making the soup yesterday, it occurred to me to wonder about the name of the dish (the dish is fettuccine with a fresh salmon, spinach and Parmesan cream sauce — to which I have shrimp and salmon fillets added). I was aware that Bari was a city in Italy, but had no idea whether it had any connection with fettuccine or with salmon and spinach cream sauce; for all I knew, the name was chosen purely for its sound — it sounds crisp and Euro-trendy — or because someone at the restaurant had family from the city Bari (restaurants and their dishes are often named that way) or in honor of someone named Bari (that happens too), or specifically in honor of someone from Bari whose signature dish this was.

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Slices of pi(e)

March 15, 2025

π 🥧 π 🥧 π 🥧 for yesterday (mammoths lumber along majestically, and they are often regrettably late for appointments), 3/14, which was Pi Day in my country, and for some years now, also — delicious pun — Pie Day in many places (so inviting a cascade of formulaic word play: pie in the sky, a piece of the pie, easy as pie, even pie chart)

I’ll jump right into things with a charming and heartfelt Facebook message yesterday from my old friend Paula Stout, who many years ago lived in Palo Alto, but has since moved to the great American Southwest — on a ranch outside Greenville TX, east of Dallas-Fort Worth:

Happy Ecstatic Friday on Pi Day (3.14)

We were in town today, where every store treated the day as a celebration. They were giving away apple pies, chicken pot pies, [pizza pies,] and even eskimo pies. With big smiles, balloons and jubilation.

And it struck me that we are seeing history unfold.

1988 was the first “Pi Day” for a marketing campaign in SF, iirc. Before that, only we geeks and friends of the wonderful Kevin McHargue (who was born on this day) partied it up

And now, here we are. A national holiday of pies!

As David Mamet, renowned playwright, once noted, “We must have a pie. Stress cannot exist in the presence of a pie.”

There’s enough stress brewing in the world, y’all, let us pray he is right and there is pie enough to combat it.

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A revilation of the NYT business department

March 14, 2025

I come to revile the New York Times‘s business department. Don’t tell me to complain to them; I’ve done that, and nothing came of it beyond my getting insulted by the reps on the phone (and this is how I spent the early hours of this day, after naively trying to take up an NYT offer to resubscribe to the paper). So the true background for this posting comes from a Monty Python script: Argument Clinic / Hitting on the Head Lessons (emphasis added):

Man [who has been through arguments and abuse and is now at complaints]: I want to complain.

Complainer: You want to complain! Look at these shoes. I’ve only had them three weeks and the heels are worn right through.

Man: No, I want to complain about…

Complainer: If you complain nothing happens, you might as well not bother.

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Music of the night

March 11, 2025

Another posting in the Kharkiv Opera genre — as in my 3/9 posting “The dandelion caper”, where I described the genre as “a pleasant, playful, or joyous event staged in the face of terrible times” (from my 3/2/25 posting “Three men walk into bar”). That day’s pleasure was the enjoyment of the plants and flowers around us; today I bring you a mixture of pleasure, playfulness, and joy, along with some weirdness, but with an alarming sting in its tail. All from the music that played during my sleep time the night before last (7:30 pm to 4:15 am, with brief waking moments roughly every hour during the night for a whizz — hey, my kidney disease has been brought to a standstill for the moment, and my whizz regimen is the price I pay for that), so that I had ten moments of nighttime music, from the final “Ode to Joy” movement of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony (yes, I can drop off to sleep during the “Ode to Joy”, with its cascade of musical climaxes), to waking with Dvořák songs for violin.

In between there was an extraordinary grab-bag of musical works, listed below, followed by comments on two of the items.

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