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Dmitri Shostakovich – “Symphony No 4” in C minor, opus 43

“Portrait of Joseph Stalin (Iosif Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili)“ (1936)

_________

if you’ve been waiting for a Shostakovich
to write home about among his early
symphonies, here’s the one, his
Symphony no 4 in C minor, opus 43 will
knock your socks off from its very
opening gambit, have a seat, settle in,
and get ready for an explosive hour

the Fourth was written in 1936, some
years after the death of Lenin, and the
instalment of Stalin as the supreme,
and ruthless, authority, after several
years throughout the Twenties of
maneuvering himself, cold-bloodedly,
into that position

from Stalin, “Death is the solution to
all problems. No man – no problem.“

fearing retribution after Stalin had
criticized his recent opera, “Lady
Macbeth of Mtsensk“, Shostakovich
cancelled the first performance of
this new work, due to take place in
December, ’36, others had already
suffered internal exile or execution
who had displeased the tyrant, a
prelude to the infamous Great Terror

the Symphony was eventually played
in 1961, 25 years later, conducted by
no less than Kirill Kondrashin, who’d
partnered Van Cliburn a few years
earlier in Cliburn’s conquest of Russia,
but along with this time however the
long-lived Leningrad Philharmonic
Orchestra

to a friend, I said, this is the biggest
thing since verily Beethoven, no one
has so blown me away symphonically
since then

he looked forward, he replied, to
hearing it

the Fourth Symphony has three distinct
movements, to fit thus appropriately the
definition of symphony, though the first
and third have more than one section,
something Shostakovich would have
learned from already Beethoven, it gives
the opportunity of experiencing a variety
of emotions within one uninterrupted
context, add several movements and
you have a poignant, peripatetic musical
journey, more intricate, psychologically
complex, than many other even eminent
composers, Schubert, Chopin,
Mendelssohn, even Brahms, for instance

it’s helpful to think of film scores, and
their multiple narrative incidents,
brimming with impassioned moments,
however disparate, Shostakovich had
already written several of them

let me point out that Shostakovich’s
rhythms are entirely Classical, even
folkloric in their essential aspects,
everywhere sounds like a march,
proud and bombastic, if not a
veritable dance, peasants carousing,
courtiers waltzing, and repetition is
sufficiently present to not not
recognize the essential music
according to our most elementary
preconceptions

but the dissonances clash, as though
somewhere the tune, despite its rigid
rhythms, falls apart in execution, as
though the participants had, I think,
broken limbs, despite the indomitable
Russian spirit

this is what Shostakovich is all about,
you’ll hear him as we move along
objecting, however surreptitiously,
cautiously, to the Soviet system, like
Pasternak, like Solzhenitsyn, without
ever, like them, leaving his country
despite its manifest oppression, and
despite the lure of Western accolades,
Nobel prizes, for instance, it was their
home

and there is so much more to tell, but
first of all, listen

R ! chard

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August 29, 2017

patience

“Community“

Vicente Manansala

_________

in the regular line at the market today,
not the express line, the man ahead of
me turned towards me and looked at
my basket quizzically

are you after my crackers, I said,
jovially, I’ve been stocking up on
a favourite brand on sale

no, he said, but you could be in
the express line with your only
five articles

I don’t mind the wait, I replied, and I
didn’t take the time to count

I hate waiting in line, he said, I want
to get out of here as quickly as
possible

I’ve slowed everything down to a
snail’s pace, I said, it makes you,
I think, a nicer person, plus you
get to smell the basil and the
raspberries

I guess I’m not a nice person, he
countered, not at all, I replied, you
are evidently friendly, you addressed
me, you were concerned, put forth a
desire to help

he glistened, blushed, was manifestly
nonplussed, speechless, then his turn
came up at the check-out counter

at the cash he glowered at some
empty baskets that had been left
there unattended, discombobulating
his station, I refrained from
instinctively moving them myself,
since I would’ve lost my place in line
in the process, and though I might
sometimes be gracious, I am mostly
not subservient, though that’s up still
for some metaphysical consideration

I made it home with my five items,
the sky was blue, but again there’s
smoke above the mountains
shrouding the eastern horizon,
from forest fires burning inexorably
in our Interior

the sky is falling, we need to take
care of each other, ourselves

R ! chard

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June 21, 2016

me in the key of B major – my birthday‏

“Bad Boy”

Eric Fischl

______

le coeur a ses raisons que

la raison ne connaît point

( the heart has its own,

inscrutable to reason,

reasons)

– Pascal

my birthday is coming up

long I held that I’d been premature,

my birthday was not after the

requisite number of months for a

legitimate pregnancy, but I held to

the private drama of my story rather

than ask my parents any questions,

only later during adolescence did I

find out from my sister that I had

not been premature

that I could have so misconstrued

astonished me at the time, how

narrow could be one’s apparently

infinite perspective, how confined

and misdirected, a lesson never

easily, however recurrent, learned,

see love

my father would never have forsaken

my mother, nor ever has, he was a

principled man, a responsible man,

a man who prized his honour, his

friends’, his family’s

the men in his family were such, all

devoted husbands, though one, late

in life when the children were grown,

left his wife for greener pastures,

became a nudist, his wife used to

change her clothes in the closet,

he later on complained

as a corollary, he cultivated in his

new environment many girlfriends,

it appears, despite, by then, his

advanced age

about my aunts, however, my other

uncle used to say that though he

had five sisters, he had 17

brothers-in-law, which isn’t counting

the ones who hadn’t been husbands,

I’d add

put some clothes on, Cid, my aunt

Doris, his sister, said, one morning

when he was visiting, he was coming

down the stairs to breakfast – they all

then, three sons, Aurèle, or Aurelius,

Cid, Alcide, and my dad, Conrad Hector,

had the heroic names of Greek and

Roman warriors, of even, some more

distant uncles, Hebraic characters,

Ephraïm, for instance, owing to our

French, therefore Latin, background

my aunts’ names were, however,

more prosaic, common

my aunt Doris, of the sisters, was,

perhaps the most uncharacteristically,

prim, though I suspect she didn’t

change in a closet, but I would’ve

never used even the word “penis” in

front of her for fear of causing her

alarm, though clearly she’d grown

up among them

she is also the first aunt I confided

in about my controversial then

situation, after, of course, having

told my parents, they would know,

I knew, I had therefore to be the

first to tell them, but only once I’d

found my own closet, my own

home of my own

I’m in love, I’m in love, I’m in love,

I said to her over the phone

what’s her name, she asked

his name is John, I retorted

how wonderful, she replied, but,

let me hand you over to your

Aunt Anne, her sister, she said,

while I pick myself up off the

floor

my Aunt Anne was, as usual, only

love and compassion, though she

never had any children she raised

at least six, none her own, all of

whom remained ever profoundly

devoted

to my other relatives, that information

was later on only implicit, and I was

grateful to have found from them only

ever love and acceptance, my own

particularities were understood to be

anyone’s, everyone’s, we all had our

inclinations, what mattered was the

bond

Richard

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June 19, 2016

me in the key of B major – 60 Jubilee East (the master bedroom)‏

“Krefeld Project Bedroom Scene 1“ (2002)

Eric Fischl

______

at the bottom of the stairs on the left,

there was my parents’ bedroom, the

master bedroom, an inner sanctum

where things of only great import

took place, where behind its closed

doors, my mom and dad would

propose, concoct, discuss, ponder,

deliberate, envision, enact, create

the structure that would be the

elements of our lives

interestingly, no children were

conceived there, we, my sister and

I, had shown up earlier, and by then

my parents had settled on only two

children, were already blessed with

the order they had preferred, an

older boy, and a slightly younger

girl, where more would’ve been

financially impracticable

the Catholic Church disapproved

of such practicality then, and my

folks would’ve been refused

communion had they ever been

to church, but by then such

observance had become irrelevant

to them, despite their Christian still

trappings

and their plans were to transcend

rather the humble beginnings the

Church would’ve confined them to,

if not also the very mores of the day,

it was still only the mid Fifties, God

would die in the early Sixties only,

after which women would get the

pill

and the world changed

there also had I been taken to heal,

in the darkened room, when I had

the measles, I remember waking

up weary in someone’s arms, my

mother’s, my father’s, to be paraded

into the kitchen for a moment, then

returned to the inner, recuperatory,

chamber

also, for the talk, when my dad

figured it was time to speak to

me about guy things, girl things,

birds, bees

I told him they were called penis,

and vagina, but he already knew

nomenclature had nothing to do

with it, that a rose by any other

name would smell as sweet

otherwise our chambers were

private, each our place of private

recuperation, regeneration,

contemplation, creativity, sleep,

dreams, all of us respectful of

each others’ inviolable space

ever, each with a room of our

own

Richard

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June 16, 2016

me in the key of B major – 60 Jubilee East, the bathroom‏

me, at 54 Jubilee East, by the woodpile

___________

réveillez-vous, les enfants, my mother

would call, wake up children, it’s time

to get ready for school

we’d scuttle down the stairs from our

bedrooms, pink and powder blue, to

the vent that crouched between the

toilet and the wall that enclosed, at

a ninety degree angle to the toilet,

the tub

the vent allowed hot air to come up

from the oil furnace my dad ‘d only

recently put up in the basement, the

foundation for the house he would

slide the old chicken coop from the

back of the property onto, to build

our new home

where the bathroom would be, there’d

been a wood stove, we children would

dress there, beside the hot oven, then,

while my mom got ready for work, the

lady up front, in the only house that

had been there at the start of all this,

54 Jubilee East, now rented from my

folks, and took care of us while both

my parents were working

I very vaguely remember this, but I

remember well heading towards the

heat, putting on my socks,

underclothes, there, until the chill

fell out of the morning

often my sister got there first, but I did

so also often, there was never any

dissension, we were two consensual

peas in a pod, each the other’s keeper

my mother had had to chop wood, she

told me, and haul water, during the winter

my dad had gone north to work, up near

James and Hudson Bays

she’d heat the water on the stove, there

was no electricity, nor power tools, my

aunt, her sister, had had to chop the

wood cause my mother couldn’t

manage, the axe ‘d bounce off the

block she’d be trying to chop

my dad ‘d set up timber against our

meagre living quarters, what I’d later

call, sardonically, our manger, to

supply my mom for the winter he’d

be gone

my mother couldn’t’ve been more than

twenty years old, then, her sister a few

years younger, my own sister had barely

been born, would’ve been not one

this could explain why my mother cried

when she got her first refrigerator

I would’ve

Richard

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June 12, 2016

me in the key of B major – im/patience‏

“Patience“ (1542)

Giorgio Vasari

_______

if I would’ve, my mother said

if you what, I interrupted

if I would’ve, my mother said

if you what, I again interrupted

whereupon she became rattled,

disoriented, unable to even see

the sentence, never mind the

words therein swimming, in

very genetic accord with my

sister, see my sister

she took a deep breath, as I much

earlier, on another matter, had urged,

propped herself up, and corrected

herself, if I had, she said, and

continued her sentence with the

proper grammar, if I had, I would’ve

I was relieved, I sighed, surely, that

it hadn’t been the more obstreperous

if I wouldn’t’ve, another related error,

which would’ve required several more

deep breaths to unravel, I’m sure, a

chaos of conditionals confronting an

innocent enough negation can be a

not especially edifying sight

I am, as my father was, exacting, as

has always also been my mom, and

I have a hard time with incorrect

grammar, I cringe at it, much as they

did when I didn’t properly vacuum

their floor

now, of course, but before my new

housekeeper, I would go under the

rug and into all the even most

impracticable corners, a great

lesson having been learned

you’re too impatient, she had

complained, in a wretched voice

that expressed her distress

what do you mean, impatient, I

said, it had been about the

computer that time, how to

learn to use it, for people of a

certain age, it is a new, and

next to inscrutable, language

I was patient

I said take a deep breath, I said,

I said I have all in the time in the

world to wait, which I did, I said

just do it, she did it, and is now

comfortable at her computer

but I touch up her grammar now

and then, when it falters

my sister can also now, of course,

tell the time

I have prayed for patience, it is

the work of a lifetime, and it often

looks like impatience, even to

yourself

also the reverse

Richard

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June 11, 2016

in the key of B major – 60 Jubilee East, the kitchen‏

“Grandma’s Kitchen“

Jacek Yerka

________

coming down the staircase to the main

living areas, a wall on the left, a railing

on the right, after the ladders we’d

scramble up to our beds on while my

father was still building had been

removed, led to the kitchen

had the staircase wall continued, it

would’ve divided that larger, brighter

space from the smaller living room,

where we’d curl up in our pyjamas,

listen to music, watch television, in

grainy black and white then, until

the scheduling day had ended with

a test pattern, then just snow

but at the kitchen table, and from

very early on, discussions took

place about everything, my dad at

the head of the table, with his back

to the kitchen cupboards, my mom

at the opposite end surveying the

counter, my sister up against

the window, while I looked on

my grandmother would often

stand by the cupboards chewing

on a piece of something or other

she’d just served as she made

sure our places were all, and ever,

in order, with more sauce, more

potatoes, more lemon pie or

chocolate cake, if we desired,

before she left to go the bingo

what time is it, my father’d ask my

sister, the clock was above the sink,

whereupon she would become rattled,

disoriented, unable to even see the

clock, never mind the numbers there

swimming, would never get it,

therefore, right, to my dismay, to her

greater distress

just like my mom, I found later,

whenever I ask too pressing a question,

whereupon I presume I must have,

must have inherited, the temperament

of my dad, in my, not necessarily

disapproving, consideration

there are advantages to being held

to account, for both the held and

the holder, though the quality of

mercy must always, and invariably,

be served

my dad had been in the war, believed

in discipline, as it was the ethos of

the time, father knew best, father

ran a tight ship, an unflagging one,

my father applied himself to being

a valiant example of such, and was

my mom, as was her duty then,

followed in my dad’s determined

footsteps, while my grandmother

looked on, wise with her years

I want to be as wise as my

grandmother, I remember telling

myself when I was young, that

was my greatest wish

on the back wall of the kitchen, the

stove from mid wall looked onto

the fridge, while the fridge looked

back on everything, I remember

when we first got the refrigerator

my mother cried, one would buy

things on instalment then, only get

it once it was paid, long before credit

I remember her burning the popcorn

at the stove, flying out the back door

with the popcorn grid all in flames,

long before microwaves

Richard

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June 6, 2016

me in B major – 60 Jubilee East, the attic‏

I’m the one on the right

____________

the window from which I’d hang

my sister by the ankles had actually

been a door originally, from which

they would’ve swept out hay, I’d

think, where chickens might’ve

roosted, but my dad had built a

couple of bedrooms for us there,

my sister and I, one at either end

of what would’ve been that attic

much of this is conjecture, I don’t

remember living in the chicken

coop, though I remember living

in the garage, there’d been an

outhouse behind it, and men

would come over to clean it out

every so often

there was also a milkman, who led

a horse and milk wagon, and for

whom we’d clean out and return

the bottles

also in summer, a man with a pony

for kids took pictures, I still have

ours imprinted on a cup

between our bedrooms, my dad had

built a closet, where we could both

hang all our clothes, and beside it,

on either side, a row of shelves we

could individually use adjoining our

separate bedrooms, hers was pink,

mine was blue, baby blue, this was

probably already more than most

other kids had, though I would’ve

been too young to be aware of it

behind the closet, there was a door

into a confined area under the roof,

with beams and an itchy brush that

served as insulation, we were

curious but ever too afraid to go in

there, where confinement lurked,

nor had I wanted to get into the dryer

down in the basement for the same

reason, I might, I told myself, lock

myself in

a short staircase towards the back of

the house led onto a landing, where

a window looked out onto our back

yard, if I remember well, and beyond

that to the brush that preceded the

forest, and a rocky elevation

a longer staircase in the other direction

took us downstairs, into the main living

areas

my sister and I were only a year apart,

I was older, protective, she was younger,

trusting, this has never changed

Richard

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June 4, 2016

me in B major – 60 Jubilee East‏

our home, when I was a boy

________________

a cousin of mine, who, indeed, lived

in the sliver of a house on the left in

the above picture, sent my mom and

I this photo of the house I used to live

in, back when I was a boy

he’d been visiting an aunt of his, who

still lived around the corner, and

noticed that our place was up for sale

should I put in an offer, he asked on

his cell phone

it’s smaller than my apartment, I said,

amazed that two parents and two

children could live till I was at least

fourteen in such a small enclosure

it had been a chicken coop before my

father made it into our home, after we’d

moved out of the garage that went with

my cousin’s house, but my dad’d moved

it forward from further behind its eventual

garage, pictured above, closer to the

street, added an attic, where we children

each had a room, and a basement,

complete with a sauna room that

doubled as a bomb shelter should the

Soviets strike

this was not, to my mind, so far-fetched

cause our town was about midway

between the USA and what we now

again call Russia, the USSR

I was only ten or twelve when this was

going on, and children think like that,

back then, everyone thought like that,

nuclear obliteration was, or is this still

the boy in me talking, not inconceivable,

therefore, like earthquakes on the west

coast of the Americas, potentially

imminent

the lawn is untended, like our

neighbours yard back then, I said,

over the phone, remember, ours was

always mown, of course, I might’ve

been doing it, with those cylindrical

blades before power lawnmowers,

then again I don’t remember being

upset by it so maybe my father had

been taking care of the landscaping,

there had also been hedges

I don’t remember a fence on the stoop

at the front door, I don’t remember

stairs either, for that matter, but that

was years ago, nor have I since then,

but briefly, been there

from the little window at the alcove,

I used to dangle my little sister from

her ankles, suggesting she might

look into the kitchen to watch my

grandmother doing dishes

somehow I always got her back up,

nor did she ever get to see my

grandmother, she neither her, either

of which situation could’ve led to

my dropping my sister onto the

asphalt, which, in fact, had been,

while we were kids, installed

God/dess, I warrant, is merciful, and

perhaps watches over little children

then again, children are smart, I

believe, haven’t lost their instinctive

power

I knew I wouldn’t drop my sister

and didn’t

was that coincidence, or the innate

power of children, to fly, to imagine,

before it is controlled

Richard

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Richibi’s Weblog

Category: me in B major

December 28, 2019

from my dictionary

“Chardenal Dictionary“ (1908)

Max Weber

______

a few indiscriminate selections, not

even in alphabetical order

pity: love, but without the admiration

art: the product of deftness applied to an intricacy

to conceive:

a) to think of

b) to make happen

poetry: the conjunction of Beauty and Truth,

a bridge between language and music

courtesy: a prelude to poetry

prelude: what comes before

nucleus accumbens: the brain’s pleasure centre

religion: the institutionalization of faith

R ! chard

November 17, 2017

Dmitri Shostakovich – “Symphony No 4” in C minor, opus 43

August 29, 2017

patience

June 21, 2016

me in the key of B major – my birthday‏

June 19, 2016

me in the key of B major – 60 Jubilee East (the master bedroom)‏

June 16, 2016

me in the key of B major – 60 Jubilee East, the bathroom‏

June 12, 2016

me in the key of B major – im/patience‏

June 11, 2016

in the key of B major – 60 Jubilee East, the kitchen‏

June 6, 2016

me in B major – 60 Jubilee East, the attic‏

June 4, 2016

me in B major – 60 Jubilee East‏