Monthly Archives: June 2011

What did I tell you? Mordecai returned yesterday, after only two cycles of the Rachmaninoff.

And, as usual, he brought me a gift. I’ve been sipping coffee and reading T.S. Eliot to muster up the courage to try it out.

It’s a Listening Chair. My brother tells me that it will play what you need to listen to. I’m not sure what that means. It’s both intriguing and troubling. Much like Mordecai.

I’m sure I’ll have much to report tonight once I’ve tried it out.

Being that he has been gone for nearly a month, Charles and I decided it was time for Mordecai to come back from whence he’d gone.

The surest way to lure my brother back is to play Rachmaninoff’s Largo section of Symphony Number 2 in E minor (Op. 27). The piece speaks to him. (Incidentally, if you’d like to get rid of my brother, play Ornette Coleman’s Sound Museum.)

So I set up the record player in the garden beneath the DictaTree; this way, the many trumpet-shaped blossoms will amplify the music and reach Mordecai. Wherever he is.

Symphony Number 2 in E minor will be playing all day here at the house. The overcast weather is perfect for it, don’t you think.

Take a listen, though I warn you, Mordecai might show up expecting a snack and a full pipe. Rachmaninoff Symph No 2 Op 27 I. Largo

This evening I read The Rime of the Ancient Mariner aloud to the jellyfish while Bubo dropped bits of brine shrimp into their tank. It lent a marvelous air to the usual feeding ritual, and while Bubo prefers T.S. Eliot, I was in the mood for some Coleridge. We are great lovers of poetry, Bubo and I, therefore we are not musophobists.

Musophobist is a noun meaning a person who dislikes or mistrusts poetry.

A.C. Swinburne wrote in 1880 “But, be it said with leave of our most illustrious Musophobist, they are equalled at their best if not excelled [etc.].”

Odd, isn’t it, that there should still be musophobists scampering about? I can’t imagine mistrusting poetry. Now, mistrusting a musophobist, that I can understand. Perhaps I can find that word in one my old dictionaries.

Unless you know the word for that. I’m sure you do. You’re rather clever.

Lest you believe that birds and whales are the only creatures that sing in nature, take a gander at these fabulous rodents, the Alston singing mouse.

I know it’s Monday, and for many of you a week of doing what someone else wants you to do has started. I recommend singing to yourself. It doesn’t need to have words. I like to hum classical music, often mashing together different composers’ works to make my own great works.

Bubo often smiles when I get to the heavy percussion pieces. Of course, Bubo also smiles when she eats particularly juicy prey or when Charles tells a joke.

Sing loud and sing proud, my pets.