High water everywhere

When asked about my history as a poet, I have always alluded to the wealth of cataclysmically bad poetry that I wrote in elementary school, and opined that if ever I found it again, I would probably burn it.

A quantity of papers answering to the proper description have just been found. Drowned when the storeroom in my parents' house flooded with this latest tropical squall. (For the record, they live in Boston.) Probably unsalvageable.

I'm actually a little upset about this. Let that be a lesson to all grand statements located in the future.

In other news, I've been listening obsessively to my two recordings of Les Contes d'Hoffmann (Placido Domingo, Joan Sutherland, Gabriel Bacquier, 1971; Stuart Burrows, Beverly Sills, Norman Treigle, 1972; the former is the first version that I ever heard, and I particularly love the character actors in the supporting roles, but the second has Norman Treigle, and he is one of my operatic culture heroes*) as well as Schönberg's Pierrot Lunaire (Christine Schäfer, 1998). I'm not sure exactly how they go together, except in the supernaturally skewed Romantic sort of way, but my brain seems pleased with the soundtrack. And so far I haven't lost my shadow, fallen in love with clockwork, or had my head turned into a pipe,** so I must be ahead of the game.

But I have been meme-tagged by gaudior, so watch this space. Back to grading Latin homework.

*I encountered him first my sophomore or junior year at Brandeis, when I was learning "Ain't it a pretty night?" and "The trees on the mountain" from Carlisle Floyd's Susannah. Toward this end, I purchased the 1962 live recording with Phyllis Curtin, who originated the role of Susannah, and Norman Treigle as the Reverend Olin Blitch. I'd never heard him before. I fell in love. I've since acquired a number of recordings for his sake, including ones I wouldn't otherwise have looked into, like Floyd's Markheim or Boito's Mefistofele—face it, if there were a record entitled Norman Treigle Sings His Way Out Of A Paper Bag, I'd own it. Although, really, I'd want that one for the title alone . . .

**See #16, "Gemeinheit": Dann dreht er ein Rohr von Weichsel / Hinten in die glatte Glatze / Und behaglich schmaucht und pafft er / Seinen echten turkschen Tabak / Aus dem blanken Kopf Cassanders! (Then he twists a tube of cherrywood / Into the smooth bald head from behind / And comfortably he smokes and puffs / His real Turkish tobacco / Out of Cassander's bare head!) Also, Denis Leary: "Remember that friend in high school wanted to make bongs out of everything? Making bongs out of apples and oranges and shit? Come home one day and find your friend going, 'Hey, look, man, I made a bong out of my head! Put the pot in this ear and suck it out of this one! Go on, take a hit!'" Coincidence? I think not.

Parsifal and Valentino riding winged palominos

The following broadcast courtesy of Mike Allen. If you are a Mythic Delirium subscriber, please e-mail Mike ASAP with your address and the remaining length of your subscription. They've had computer problems and have some concerns about the accuracy of their subscriber list as it stands, so they want to do some cross-checking. If you're a subscriber from outside the U.S., no need to be concerned. Everyone else, e-mail! You don't want to lose all that crazy mythic goodness, do you?