Richibi's Weblog

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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May 28, 2016

a coronation anthem – Handel‏

“the Battle of Hastings” – the Bayeux Tapestry

______________________

among the ruling entities in our, indeed,
global history, none apart from the Catholic

Church has lasted so long as the English

monarchy, not even the Roman Empire,

from Julius Caesar in 48 BCE, the year he

took power, called himself emperor, until

Charlemagne, King of the Franks, who on

the highly political date of December 25,

800 CE, and at St Peter’s very Basilica in

Rome, wrenched power from Leo lll, then

Pope, and claimed the title of Holy Roman

Emperor, Protector, thus, of the Church,

changing thereby the face of Europe, and

burying forever Ancient Rome’s aegis,

yes, aegis, protectorate

in 1066, once again on the propitious,

apparently, date of Christmas Day,

William the Conqueror, after his Norman

Conquest, and the Battle of Hastings,

proclaimed himself first king of England

in London

we count from there to Queen Elizabeth ll,

still monarch after all these years

here’s a pictorial rundown to the tune of

England’s musical specialty, the ceremonial,

one of Handel‘s Coronation Anthems

commissioned for George ll by his dad,

George l, for his 1727 coronation, though

not, this time, on Christmas Day, sung at

coronations apparently ever since

this still performed anthem is called Zardok

the Priest after the mystic who anointed

Solomon

long live the Queen, I guess

Richard

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May 27, 2016

“The Condolence Call” – Marsha Barber‏

“The Princes in the Tower“

John Everett Millais

_______________

when you’ve known this, or know

someone who’s known this, this

poem will be profoundly affecting

Richard

______________

The Condolence Call

I cradle the phone gently.

You are so far away.

Your grief surrounds you now

like a moat full of dark water.

I cannot reach

far enough to comfort you.

My words flit around useless

as flies.

What, after all, can be said?

It’s a parent’s worst nightmare, you say.

I imagine I would have howled.

I imagine I would have rolled on the floor.

But in the end, I cannot begin to imagine.

I’ll be okay, you say,

but your voice is so remote,

as if you’ve left us all

behind,

for a bleaker planet

where the air is charred,

and you cannot find the path

that leads

back home.*

Marsha Barber

* once there was a way to get back

homewards …

and in the end, the love you take

is equal to the love you make

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May 24, 2016

Concierto de Aranjuez – Joaquín Rodrigo (Cañizares)‏

el-jaleo-1882.jpg!Large

“El Jaleo“ (1882)

John Singer Sargent

__________

not much is heard from Spain during
Western music’s Golden Ages, Baroque,
Classical, Romantic, Impressionist,
now even Pop’s, Rock’s, Punk’s, Rap’s,
Post-, in all their incarnations, Modern’s

nor of Art, for that matter, where most

of its bright lights seem to have fled

to Paris for its freedom and inspiration

and where other nationalities, rather,

sang or painted their praises more

successfully – think of “Carmen”, for

instance, of France’s Georges Bizet,

or, of course, Picasso

but listen to this wonderful concerto

of Joaquín Rodrigo, the Concierto de

Aranjuez, which nearly single-handedly

should allow compatriots to claim their

place among the very cherished elite

like Grieg did for Finland, for Poland,

Chopin, for instance, who also,

incidentally, found his fame in Paris,

perhaps because France had only

recently then become a republic, if

you’ll remember, maybe

the Concierto de Aranjuez is for guitar

and orchestra, an unlikely, though not

at all unwelcome, prime position among

a swell of other musicians, especially

after listening to bassoons, for example,

take in front of them centre stage

Cañizares, a flamenco guitarist of

extraordinary gifts, deft fingers flying,

fashioning frets into filigree, latticework,

lacework, of irresistible artistry, does the

coveted honours, along with an impeccable

Simon Rattle wielding a brilliant baton,

while the Berliner Philharmoniker, however

improbably, make up the rest of this dream

combination

this is one you won’t want to miss, I utterly,

and unreservedly, promise

enjoy it

Richard

psst: remarkably, Rodrigo, blind from the

age of three, having lost his sight to

diphtheria, wrote all of his music in

Braille, for it to be transcribed later

to the question, how would you like

to die – he lived to be ninety-seven –

he answered, I think, cleverly, and

delightfully enigmatically, under no

circumstances

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May 17, 2016

“Head Shot” – C. Wade Bentley‏

“Spring, 2016” – The Maynard

Link Nicoll

________________

The Maynard is a collection of poems,

Canadian, I think, culled from a flurry

of submissions, then published

quarterly, I think

on the strength of this last issue, plus

the previous one, I’ve gleaned only this

much for having been more interested

in the poems themselves than in their

provenance

I’ve long gone into museums and taken

out one work, my favourite, as a way of

focusing my attention, the work I choose

must be considered, by definition, against

the other, often comparable, works which

compel me, I come out having seen them

all

this extraordinary poem, to my mind,

this quarter, “Spring, 2016“, is the one

I take home, where I’m already finding

a special place for it in my mind

Head Shot

My friend who is Hindu refuses

to take a shower, in deference

to the millions of bacteria

he would dislodge, or to move

from the couch to the carpet

where he might crush unknown

numbers of pyroglyphids. I say

he’s a lazy son of a bitch.

Speaking of which, I hear my ex-
wife now teaches Goddess

classes. On our last vacation together

she was reading the complete

The Secret series as we sat in our beach

chairs, me using Corona bottles

to fry sand flies while noticing out

the corner of my eye how

she seemed to be intently wishing

something in my direction.

I meet my therapist weekly
at the gun club and he tells me

not to dismiss so easily the ways

others choose to find meaning,

and also to breathe out through

my nose, to picture the smoke

of the Marlboro reds he made me

quit smoking curling from my

nostrils, hanging in the air

along with the anxieties that had also

lodged deeply in my chest,

to squeeze the trigger only

as the last one leaves, to let

the 9-millimeter projectile fly where

it is meant to fly, obliterating

whichever part of the cardboard

human target currently hosts

my deepest dysphoria—the meaning

and etiology of which, so he says,

can only then be made clear.

C. Wade Bentley

Richard

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