What I aspire to.

I started this little blog for similar reasons to many people. I fancy myself a writer. By jebus, I even have a degree in it! “No!” you might say. Having read this for the last little while, there’s absolutely no way this woman has a degree in anything that would have taught her to string sentences together in an orderly and interesting fashion. But yes. I do indeed have a bachelors in magazine journalism, photojournalism (a little more talent there, I think) emphasis, and English minor. You would think I’m a better writer than this. Hmmm.

Well, regardless of all that, I do believe that I can identify good writing. I feel the same about music; can’t play it, but can hear it. Better about the writing, though. I don’t know enough about music’s guts to really differentiate the great from the legendary. With writing, I can feel lots of different levels. I certainly have my preferences as to style, but even if I don’t like it, generally I can spot some sort of ability. I know this sounds so self-involved and pretentious, but I’m getting to something here. (See what I mean about my own talents. Rambler.)

James Lileks.

That is who I’m talking about. He is not a novelist. He is a columnist and blogger. His is my favorite blog. I don’t visit every day, because it’s really just ramblings on his daily life. Not unlike many of ours. However, about once a week, he says something that just hits me. Usually it’s something that 100 other people have said. But he just has a way of making it different.

Today, was not one of those days. Today he was talking about something I’ve only heard in passing and only heard talked about a couple of times, with very little interest. I cried. Yes, I cried because of James Lileks' description of … Mahler’s Tenth Symphony. No kidding. I put this here, not only because of the writing, but also because the majority of the three or four of you who read my blog are trained musicians. I’m sure you’re more familiar with this symphony than I am, and Lileks’ description may affect you even more. I don’t know. Whatever. On with the goods…

Odd how I keep writing tonight, even though my quotient of things-to-say is
obviously more dribblicious than usual; I blame the Shuffle. A few nights ago I
stopped writing because the Shuffle came up with the first movement of Mahler’s
Tenth, a piece so suffused with regret and farewell it makes the Ninth sound
like the opening number in a vaudeville revue. You realize that the Ninth was
not the big goodbye; that was just Mahler picking up his hat and coat and
walking to the door. The Tenth is hard to take. It’s easy to say “he knew he
was going to die” – well, yes, but the thought does occur to the rest of us from
time to time, and even though he had a bad ticker, it’s possible he intended to,
you know, live to finish it. A suicide note it’s not. If anything, it’s a love
letter to everything about to be lost, and as personal as the sentiments are it
has none of the solipsism you associate with the self-obsessed. (He said,
sibilantly, by the sea-shore.) It’s the sound of someone feeling their life
unravel in the sunshine of an autumn afternoon. Best learned when you’re young,
I think. You can marinate in the pathos, which is like SO TRUE because
everything is GRIM in that noble tragic romantic way the herberts and phonies
never understand. When you’re middle-aged, it’s unnerving: previews of coming
attractions. Hard to listen to in your own dying days, I’d think. Me, I’ll
want the news and Benny Goodman, an assurance I’m leaving the world as messy and ingenious as the day I came in.

Stunning