It’s been a
rather trying time here—I have been battered for four months with construction
in the street; at one point there were two jackhammers, an electric generator,
and a tractor busy breaking up cement. And last night, I arrived home from the
café which provides me escape as well as coffee to discover that there was no
water. What had happened? Well, the construction workers had broken our water
main, and had deemed it easier to turn a valve before the break than actually
repair the break. So that they had done, leaving me very sweaty on one of the
hottest days of the year.
Nor was
calling the water company the solution, since I had no idea what our account
number was, and of course had thrown the bill away after I had paid it. This
prompted the less than helpful observation from Mr. Fernández that he
always has the most recent electric bill in his wallet.
With the
restraint for which I am famous, I forbore to point out that Mr. Fernández has
the last 20 years of electric bills—as well as every receipt for
everything he bought in the last two decades. And why is that? Because he
throws nothing away. He also, however, can find nothing.
Right—got
the account number by accessing “edit payees” on my bank’s electronic site.
Then Raf called the water company, and waited for twenty minutes for a voice
that was attached to a person, and then spoke for another twenty minutes to a
charming lady who managed to locate our account—though incredibly it was under
neither of our names, social security numbers, or any current address. That
done, the nice lady gave us a work order number, with the assurance that
someone would come and repair the break—or at least turn the valve a quarter
turn.
Did they?
Well, it
was nice to have the number.
And today,
the little guy with the two pierced lips was busy at work, having been
encouraged by Mr. Fernández. At this point, I have traveled through annoyance,
anger, outrage, fury and am now squarely in abject misery. A sort of Stockholm syndrome
has taken over—the little guy was my best friend, my savior.
“You
won’t,” I said, “ever, ever take away my water again. Please!”
So I trotted
off to see my shrink, who assured me that he wouldn’t sniff me too closely.
Then I came home and thought to check in on a classical music website
that was going to tell me a list of the 10 greatest gay composers. Well, I had
a good idea—there’s Copland,
Barber, Poulenc, and…duh, Tchaikovsky.
But I had forgotten some big ones—most notably Franz Schubert
(contested, but likely) and Handel
(ditto).
And then
there was Ethel Smyth.
Say whah?
Yes, in
fifty years of listening to music, I had somehow never come across Ethel Smyth,
1858-1944, who studied composition in Leipzig with Carl Reinecke, where she
also met Dvorak,
Grieg, and Tchaikovsky.
And it was Tchaikovsky who said, "Miss Smyth
is one of the few women composers whom one can seriously consider to be
achieving something valuable in the field of musical creation."
Well,
the lady got around—among other passions was the Suffragette movement, and
when Mrs. Pankhurst
urged her followers to break the windows of any politician who opposed them,
Miss Smyth did, and then paid for it by spending two months in Holloway Prison.
The conductor Thomas
Beecham went to visit, and found Miss Smyth conducting a group of
Suffragettes in a rousing anthem called “The March for Women,”
which she had composed, and which had become the anthem for the movement. The
Suffragettes were in the courtyard; Miss Smyth was conducting—with a
toothbrush—from out a second floor window.
And
she was vigorous in other ways—golfing, mountaineering, and fox hunting. Here’s
how she described herself:
Because
I have conducted my own operas and love sheep-dogs; because I generally dress
in tweeds, and sometimes, at winter afternoon concerts, have even conducted in
them; because I have written books, spoken speeches, broadcast, and don't
always make sure that my hat is on straight; for these and other equally
pertinent reasons, in a certain sense I am well known.
Throughout
her life, she had passionate affairs with women, but apparently only one male
lover. At the age of 71, she fell in love with Virginia Wolf, who
described it as “being like caught by a giant crab.” Nonetheless, they became
good friends.
Right—and
the music? Wow! Check out the cello sonata below—it’s original and fresh. Is it
top drawer? Perhaps not, but it’s well above floor level….
