Hi Boogieman,
My story from the other night concerning a disturbed, but beautiful young woman is really not all that earth shattering. Having absolutely no connection with the artist mentioned in the above caption, she graced my door unannounced, but not unappreciated. Her name witheld to protect the innocent (actually lifted from an astounding Bill Frisell composition of the same title, that should be rerequired listening for all, before passing from this tenuous existence). To make things PERFECTLY clear, her Mom is my" Butinski" neighbour, often focused on the comings and goings of single males in the neighborhood. Having noticed that my girlfriend's car was no longer dutifully parked in front on weekends (wonder why...since we are no longer seeing each other), she "sent" her young daughter to check me out. Well, let me preface what happened next by saying that they were both sitting out on the patio talking loudly and drunkenly, while I was trying to have a pleasant spring evening..grilling out, and albeit quietly drinking myself. When something disturbs my sense of privacy, and tranquility, I can sometimes REACT. In this instance, what better way than to combat the SOFT jazz they wwere listening to with a little Cecil Taylor? Not exactly dinner music, and I probably had it on too loud. As I go to the kitchen for mo'fixins', I hear a rap at the back door. It is she...and splendid, she is. Amazingly, she did not complain about the music, but invited me over for a drink. There she was, bathed in the fading light, and I could feel a certain tingling in a certain locus.
What ensued next though, was not a pleasant two-way conversation. As Bukowski would/has said (somewhere), "we talked and drank, and drank and talked", except I might as well have been talking to the night. We tried to embrace different subjects including art, music and nature, but all I could gather during the time of our interaction was that she knew something of Billie Holiday, and I think Betty Carter, but not much else. The rest of the night was filled with vacuous laughter, on her part, or stunned silence, as I was trying to connect in some way; my loins doing some of the talking, but that too was fading as time wore on.
I think Emil Kraepelin termed it best when he described the feeling one got talking to Schizophrenic patients was a "Praecox Feeling", but that's how I'd summarize the interaction. There was an emptiness on her part, and an absence of emotion..the "flat affect" that has been associated with disturbed individuals, or maybe it's just me. In any event, when the beer ran out, I stood up; we shook hands, and I returned home. I don't think I have to change the locks on the doors, but who knows?
Since we here at the Baerwald page seem to be a big, happy family, I think it's allright to write this, especially since you and David were interested. There's actually more intricacy, but that would best be discussed in a scenic cafe with one's favorite libation at hand; perhaps at another time and place.
Hope you are well,
Gene
Remedios the Beauty
Eugene
location: Maryland
listening to: Alexander Scriabin-The Solo Piano Works, Maria Lettberg
registered: 1999.08.12
posts: 3540
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Eugene
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Hi Boogieman,
My story from the other night concerning a disturbed, but beautiful young woman is really not all that earth shattering. Having absolutely no connection with the artist mentioned in the above caption, she graced my door unannounced, but not unappreciated. Her name witheld to protect the innocent (actually lifted from an astounding Bill Frisell composition of the same title, that should be rerequired listening for all, before passing from this tenuous existence). To make things PERFECTLY clear, her Mom is my" Butinski" neighbour, often focused on the comings and goings of single males in the neighborhood. Having noticed that my girlfriend's car was no longer dutifully parked in front on weekends (wonder why...since we are no longer seeing each other), she "sent" her young daughter to check me out. Well, let me preface what happened next by saying that they were both sitting out on the patio talking loudly and drunkenly, while I was trying to have a pleasant spring evening..grilling out, and albeit quietly drinking myself. When something disturbs my sense of privacy, and tranquility, I can sometimes REACT. In this instance, what better way than to combat the SOFT jazz they wwere listening to with a little Cecil Taylor? Not exactly dinner music, and I probably had it on too loud. As I go to the kitchen for mo'fixins', I hear a rap at the back door. It is she...and splendid, she is. Amazingly, she did not complain about the music, but invited me over for a drink. There she was, bathed in the fading light, and I could feel a certain tingling in a certain locus.
What ensued next though, was not a pleasant two-way conversation. As Bukowski would/has said (somewhere), "we talked and drank, and drank and talked", except I might as well have been talking to the night. We tried to embrace different subjects including art, music and nature, but all I could gather during the time of our interaction was that she knew something of Billie Holiday, and I think Betty Carter, but not much else. The rest of the night was filled with vacuous laughter, on her part, or stunned silence, as I was trying to connect in some way; my loins doing some of the talking, but that too was fading as time wore on.
I think Emil Kraepelin termed it best when he described the feeling one got talking to Schizophrenic patients was a "Praecox Feeling", but that's how I'd summarize the interaction. There was an emptiness on her part, and an absence of emotion..the "flat affect" that has been associated with disturbed individuals, or maybe it's just me. In any event, when the beer ran out, I stood up; we shook hands, and I returned home. I don't think I have to change the locks on the doors, but who knows?
Since we here at the Baerwald page seem to be a big, happy family, I think it's allright to write this, especially since you and David were interested. There's actually more intricacy, but that would best be discussed in a scenic cafe with one's favorite libation at hand; perhaps at another time and place.
Hope you are well,
Gene
My story from the other night concerning a disturbed, but beautiful young woman is really not all that earth shattering. Having absolutely no connection with the artist mentioned in the above caption, she graced my door unannounced, but not unappreciated. Her name witheld to protect the innocent (actually lifted from an astounding Bill Frisell composition of the same title, that should be rerequired listening for all, before passing from this tenuous existence). To make things PERFECTLY clear, her Mom is my" Butinski" neighbour, often focused on the comings and goings of single males in the neighborhood. Having noticed that my girlfriend's car was no longer dutifully parked in front on weekends (wonder why...since we are no longer seeing each other), she "sent" her young daughter to check me out. Well, let me preface what happened next by saying that they were both sitting out on the patio talking loudly and drunkenly, while I was trying to have a pleasant spring evening..grilling out, and albeit quietly drinking myself. When something disturbs my sense of privacy, and tranquility, I can sometimes REACT. In this instance, what better way than to combat the SOFT jazz they wwere listening to with a little Cecil Taylor? Not exactly dinner music, and I probably had it on too loud. As I go to the kitchen for mo'fixins', I hear a rap at the back door. It is she...and splendid, she is. Amazingly, she did not complain about the music, but invited me over for a drink. There she was, bathed in the fading light, and I could feel a certain tingling in a certain locus.
What ensued next though, was not a pleasant two-way conversation. As Bukowski would/has said (somewhere), "we talked and drank, and drank and talked", except I might as well have been talking to the night. We tried to embrace different subjects including art, music and nature, but all I could gather during the time of our interaction was that she knew something of Billie Holiday, and I think Betty Carter, but not much else. The rest of the night was filled with vacuous laughter, on her part, or stunned silence, as I was trying to connect in some way; my loins doing some of the talking, but that too was fading as time wore on.
I think Emil Kraepelin termed it best when he described the feeling one got talking to Schizophrenic patients was a "Praecox Feeling", but that's how I'd summarize the interaction. There was an emptiness on her part, and an absence of emotion..the "flat affect" that has been associated with disturbed individuals, or maybe it's just me. In any event, when the beer ran out, I stood up; we shook hands, and I returned home. I don't think I have to change the locks on the doors, but who knows?
Since we here at the Baerwald page seem to be a big, happy family, I think it's allright to write this, especially since you and David were interested. There's actually more intricacy, but that would best be discussed in a scenic cafe with one's favorite libation at hand; perhaps at another time and place.
Hope you are well,
Gene
