The Stalker Returns

I had trouble focusing last evening.  Work that I’d hoped to do before bed became impossible.

What happened is that a stalker re-emerged from the swamp known as the internet.

I was terrified, afraid for my career, afraid for my reputation, afraid for my very existence.

As was the case last time, it took two tries to stop him (after the first request he characteristically escalated).

The last time around–when the same stalker inflicted nearly fatal damage to my career–there was no #MeToo, and James David Christie still had a life.  Things change, don’t they.  Für Christie und auch für seinen Kreis.

In the meantime–while I wait to see if creepy clown appears again–here are resources if you are handling a pathological narcissist, abuser, flying monkey, gaslighter, or other crazy shit-person.

Visit these links at your own risk, and do not regard this post as professional advice–it is not.  I’m not that kind of doctor.  Use your own judgement and proceed at your own risk.

I, Psychopath.  Documentary on the life of Sam Vaknin, who runs a large narcissism website.  He claims to be a narcissist; this documentary says otherwise.  I found it fascinating.  Learn the term “social predator.”

In the Mind of a Stalker.  Article in Psychology Today magazine.

James David Christie’s Downfall.

That’s it for now.

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Cibells and Cebells

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A strange title appears in some English keyboard scores of the latter 17th century.  A number of pieces are titled “Cibell” or “Cebell,” or allude to that name in their title (as in Purcell’s “Trumpet tune, called the Cibell”).

Merriam-Webster defines it as a kind of gavotte, origin of the term “unknown.”

However, my score of William Croft (edited by Howard Ferguson and Christopher Hogwood) has a footnote.  It says that “cebell” pieces were written in emulation of a scene in Lully’s tragic opera Atys, 1676.  This opera had an “invocation of Cybele,” which was apparently so very popular that it spawned a mini-genre of emulation.

The “mini-genre” includes trumpet tunes and minuets; the obscure William Richardson has a “Jigg Sebell” in his A minor harpsichord suite. So what is distinctive about it?

The principal feature, it seems, is the unaccompanied bass interlude.  These pieces are odd and quickly recognized by the long left-hand solo lines…I suspect an off-putting feature for many a player today, bursting with Lore and eager to show off.

Another feature is a preference (save in the minuet) for the gavotte form:  four-four time and a two-beat upbeat.  What is not required is a quotation of the original tune!

Eventually, even the bass line became dispensible, and the cebell turned into a sort of gavotte.  John Walsh published The Division Flute, a collection for the flute (recorder), including ground basses, in 1706 and this collection includes a good number of cebells.  (There is even a cebell by “My Lord Byron,” leading one to wonder mightily about the George Gordon, Lord Byron’s musical ancestry.)  These pieces could be keyboard cebells reduced to the soprano line–removing the distinct bass feature but evoking the craze from late in the previous century.  In any case, they are more or less gavottes.

Fuller-Maitland published an anonymous “Cibell” (Contemporaries of Purcell, vol. 6) in what I suspect is a heavily edited and filled-in form;  suspiciously active bass lines have tame right-hand parts, which I rather think Mr. F-M provided.

The selection above, from the second edition of 1709, fills the bill and is surely the model for the cibell. It is Act I, Scene VIII.  The Chorus of Phrygians has just made their elegant entry, to not one but two dances.  (What a title for transcription:  Second Air of the Phrygians!)  Cybele enters and sings a splendid recitative, then the aria “Vous devez vous animer.” This aria has unaccompanied, or nearly unaccompanied, bass interludes.  It is also in the form of a gavotte.

It’s an exciting scene if presented well, in the grand conventionalist ritual of the French opera.

The only way to render this effect at the keyboard is to give the bass line alone, with no chording, in the interludes.  This way–though the original has figures–the effect is preserved.

Louis XIV is said to have loved this opera so well it came to be called “the king’s opera.” It’s a grim tragedy, ending with dead bodies onstage;  if the opening chorus weren’t the Twelve Hours of the Day and the Twelve Hours of the Night, frolicking in the Palace of Time– why, you’d think it was Puccini.

Students:  feel free to quote me, but please give me a footnote.

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Choir and Handbell Party

The choir and handbell choir met last evening at a delightful house in this county last evening for a post-holiday get-together.  It was a quiet evening, given to good conversation and good food, but nothing to excess.

I particularly enjoyed a long conversation with the hostess, who is a cultivated woman of taste.  Conversation ranged from a priceless alexandrite ring she was able to examine as a young lady to the queen’s aquamarine tiara (check it out) to boating on the Chesapeake to shared memories of ancestors who rode mules to wonderful local painters to old books to the lore of Philadelphia …to God only remembers what…a conversation to cherish.

Alas, my mother’s chutney cheese ball, a recipe unchanged since the 1970s, didn’t excite.  I gave its mate to a neighbor today in exchange for some homemade quiche, and perhaps I got the better of the deal.  Or perhaps just the more fashionable part…the cheese ball is really addictive, regardless of the decade.

Then again, it was a quiet party, enjoyable but not overly energetic.  The holidays are getting tiring for some of us.  However, the memories, the culture, the context, were all just right.  It was a wonderful party and I will always remember it.

Today, I spent time at church filing and organizing music, and making choices new music for the spring season.  Onward and upward.

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Reiki Presbyterianism

This howler just crossed my digital transom.  I’ll post the juiciest paragraph in its entirety, then go back through it point by pointless point.

This is a Presbyterian-endorsed Reiki workshop, on Presbyterian property.  The presenter is an ordained ruling elder in the Presbyterian Church (USA)–the role that gay people, till 2011, were “too sinful” to occupy.  Precious few occupy it to this day.

I expect, given such rigidity, that doctrinal orthodoxy DAMN well better be hewed to, strictly.  So, let’s see:

You are an eternal energy being having the experience of being human in a dense world of polarity. Learn about the multi-dimensional nature of energy, universal energy principles, vibrational frequency, and gain a new perspective of yourself, others, and the power of God.

Now, phrase by phrase:

“You are an eternal energy being”
–No I’m not; I’m a human, made of body and soul, both of which were created in time and hence not eternal.  Only God is eternal.

“…having the experience of being human…”
–No, I am human, really and truly.  Trust me.

“…in a dense world of polarity.”
–This is what you technically call bullshit; as it is meaningless it cannot be refuted.

“Learn about the multi-dimensional nature of energy…”
Bullshit. The word “energy” is screaming for definition.  I see it literally as matter with the conversion factor of C-squared applied.  Metaphorically, I see it as enthusiasm, zeal, or gumption to do things.  My soul is not “energy”; energy pertains to the material world, unless some other “secret” meaning is hinted at.  Clearly, the presenter is not offering a definition, expecting the reader to do all the heavy lifting.  Uncivil bullshit.

“…universal energy principles…”
Bullshit.

“…vibrational frequency…”
Bullshit, unless we’re talking about A 440 versus A 415.  And in any case, “vibrational frequency” is a redundancy, like “heat temperature” or “aquatic water” or “edible foodstuff.”  I once heard a Chicago prison chaplain call himself “theologically ordained.”

“and gain a new perspective…”
–run-on sentence.  And bullshit.

“…of yourself, others, and the power of God.”
–Nice that at least the power of God, if not God Himself, gets a mention.  The key, I suppose, is that wonderful sense of power.

The subsequent paragraph, which I will not kill photons for, mentions “select” Bible verses interpreted through an “energy perspective.”

By strongly suggesting that human beings are actually not human beings, but rather “eternal energy beings” currently “having an experience” of humanness, the presenter denies human nature as the Bible and Christian tradition describe it.  Inevitably, this brings down the doctrine of the Incarnation, replacing it with mere Docetism.  The implied opposition of body and soul (we are “eternal energy,” not flesh and blood, remember?) is Manichaean.  In the wake of these casually-invoked and long-debunked heresies, everything that logically flows from the Incarnate Word collapses, including the visible church itself.

The ignorance is panoramically broad, deep as the ocean, entirely destructive, and horribly offensive.

In other words, this workshop is not, in any meaningful sense, Christian.  I strongly discourage you from attending anything like it, whether you are Christian or not.  For a Christian, it’s a mess of pottage; for a non-Christian, it’s worded so vaguely, pompously, and deceitfully, that it’s clearly worthless to you, too, before we even unpack its bullshittiness.

I mean, cripes: no definition of this all-important concept of “energy”?  How many dollars does it cost to learn what we’re talking about?

But this is what an ordained ruling elder in the PCUSA can get away with.  Said ruling elder, incidentally, is an ongoing student of what’s called “metaphysics,” a term which no longer means what it did when I studied it in college.  It now chiefly applies to anything Gnostic, new age, pagan, or witchy-twitchy.

But gee whiz, people must be staying home because the organ is so conserrrrrrvative.

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Social Media Metaphor

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If the internet is the “information superhighway,” then Facebook, Twitter, et al. are the “information Superfund site.”

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Plough Monday, Distaff Day

Today, January 7, is both Plough Monday and Distaff Day.  The two don’t always coincide.

Plough Monday, as the name indicates, is a Monday:  specifically, the first Monday after Epiphany, January 6.  Distaff Day is the very day after January 6.

The two days mark the return to normal work after the Christmas holidays.  On Plough Monday the agricultural season began, and the men returned to the plough.  On Distaff Day regular housekeeping resumed, including working at the distaff (later replaced by the spinning wheel).

The old rhyme goes,

Yule has come and Yule has gone,
And we have feasted well;
Now Jack must to his plough again
And Jenny to her wheel.

This year, the day after Epiphany is also the first Monday after Epiphany, so the two days coincide.

So there you are.

(This information is drawn mostly from many past issues of The Old Farmer’s Almanac, which I’ve read faithfully since 1976.  Though it’s a reliable publication, fact checking is always a good idea, and was done.)

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The Stars Just Now

Just stepped out on a bitter cold morning–Eleven Ladies Dancing!

In order, I saw Arcturus, Venus, a shooting star, and the Big Dipper.

Hardly the stuff of an astrophysics journal, but how often do you bother to go outside and look at crown jewels for free?

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Getting Underway

Happy Ten Pipers Piping!  It’s still Christmas.

It doesn’t quite feel like Christmas this late in the season, does it?  But it is.  Saturday is Twelfth Night.  Feel free to have one more party!

Looking ahead, Septuagesima Sunday is February 17.  Ash Wednesday is March 6.  Good Friday is April 19, and Easter is the 21st.

It’s not too early for my usual admonition to observe Septuagesima!  More to come on that.

Life cannot stand still for a fortnight’s winter holiday, alas.  Work has begun again in earnest.  A major writing project will have to be finished quite soon, and there will be the spring semester to plan for.  But that doesn’t mean that one packs away the Christmas spirit on the 26th–like radio stations that play all Christmas, all the time, from Thanksgiving till the last moment of the 25th, then go back to top 40.

In other news, earth reaches perihelion today, January 3, 2019.  Our orbit around the sun is slightly elliptical (for mathematicians, the ellipse is measured at 0.02).  Now, you never orbit around the center of an ellipse, but rather around one of its two foci.  The sun is precisely where it should be, in one of these focal points.  As it happens, the earth reaches its closest point to the sun a few days after the longest night in the northern hemisphere.  Our moment of aphelion this year will be the Fourth of July.

Meanwhile, the sun is already slowly returning, having gained just under a degree of declination since the solstice.  It goes slowly at first, but by later this month the change will be very noticeable and much more rapid.

I know someone with seasonal depression–something I’ve never had an issue with.  It perplexes me how she begins to dread the darkness in the middle of summer, and is so profoundly cheered by that first day in January when it’s not pitch black at 5 PM anymore.

I enjoy the orderly movement of the heavens, and welcome every season.  I don’t see the return of the sun as a “lifeline,” nor its withdrawal as impending disaster.  It’s all good.

Onward we go.

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New Year’s Day

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So MMXIX begins.

I’ve been disenchanted with this holiday for many years.

A few years ago, I posted a New Year’s Day meditation that, oddly, I partly replicated and partly contradicted in the first version of the present post.  Perhaps I’m human after all; every story has multiple angles; still, I’ve edited for consistency.

I began 2015 commenting on my early memories of televised NYE programs, switching between the Waldorf Astoria and Times Square.  The entire sound track was the Royal Canadians, led by Guy Lombardo.

But on re-reading those thoughts four years later, I find that big band music–which I probably did ignore in my wait for the ball drop, as I wrote–has grown on me.  The images of stout men and their matronly wives “jiggling around the dance floor to the strains of ‘Boo Hoo'” sticks with me, but the music itself has stolen its way into my holidays.  It’s really the only New Year’s Eve I know.

As a child I watched the ball drop when old enough to stay up that late–I have early memories of being told “when you wake up it’ll be the new year!” as mom and dad went off to a party.

Lombardo ruled the festivities and always did the countdown.  Eventually, midnight became the cutoff time or witching hour, and the rock-and-roll after-party started.  I clearly recall watching the Times Square and Waldorf Astoria scene give way to a loud blast of the “now” scene.  That was the bedtime signal.

Now, it’s all the “now” scene, and there’s no black tie option, at least on TV.  Perhaps, when the Waldorf Astoria is reopened in a few years, I can finally make the scene in a tuxedo and shiny paper hat.

I’m definitely not going to be in the Times Square crowd, ever.  I’ve done some “First Night” kind of NYEs, too, but somehow they haven’t appealed to me either.  My harpsichord teacher in Chicago used to stride out at midnight and play the Goldberg Variations for a thrilled audience at his super-high Anglican church.  A great event, I’m sure, but it’s not my kind of party on that night.  (Neither were the “watchnight” services I was stuck with myself.)

I want to be with friends at a quiet, somewhat elegant celebration, listening to music and then watching the iconic ball drop.  Either that or in that vanished world of roast beef and “Boo Hoo.”

As far as TV coverage, this year it was disgusting, ugly.  I had to mute my set after one young woman too many bragged about the diaper she was wearing.  Worst moment:  a commentator with a microphone, at a party in Miami, accosting two inebriated young women.  “What’s your new year’s resolution?”  “To be a little bit less of a bitch,” one answered.  Actually, that may have been the best moment:  one twinkle of honesty amidst the bullshit.

The NBC idiots couldn’t even show us the ball at the last moments, as their camera angle was all wrong and we saw mostly smoke from fireworks.  They did make sure we heard all about “vaginal steaming” from one of the reporters.

The Dick Clark show that replaced Lombardo is awful, one overdone, oversexualized number after another, with Ryan Seacrest trying to keep up and look ageless.  (Lombardo didn’t have to try.)

The big idea of generational change–Lombardo giving way to Clark–is an old, failed idea.  Time for a return to civility, not to mention civilization.

It’s been forty years, and nothing has yet replaced Guy “Lumbago” for the holiday.  Of course, there’s no a priori reason he should define New Year’s Eve forever; but I’m quite certain that nothing worthwhile has replaced him.

At midnight, they now play one half of “Auld Lang Syne” and nobody sings along.  They go into a medley of other tunes–“New York, New York,” “What a Wonderful World,” “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” in a calypso version.  A few giddy kids may do mock kick-lines and sing Noooo Yorrrrrrk out of tune, but nobody sings together.

As to parties, my journey has included only a few.  I remember one–only one–in Port Washington, a few in Chicago, one fine evening in Bloomington as 2000 began.  In New Jersey, there were quite a few delightful get-togethers with the upstairs neighbors.  I have pictures of paper hats and noisemakers and streamers.  The conversation and late supper allowed us to dim the TV volume and exclude the crassness.

Since those days, there has been another dull stretch.  But I made last evening special, all the same.  A dinner of homemade crab cakes and a crisp salad and lobster dip, a dessert gathering with some neighbors, and then channel surfing till the moment of the ball drop.  Shortly thereafter, the first sleep of the new year.

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