August 12, 2002 What's too short to be a vacation, feels like it's a world away, and uses the Hudson Valley to serve as a backdrop for the one-upmanship of elitist music aficionados? Why, the Bard Music Festival, of course! It was also an opportunity to tour the campus of, coincidentally, the college too perfect to be real. A tiny liberal arts college in Annadale on Hudson, Bard is student driven. Emphasis is placed on free thinking, customized curriculums and needles to say, the arts. It is decidedly writing intensive, conducive to creativity, and had me drooling all over the campus. It reminded me of Gill St. Bernard's, where I spent the first three months of my high school career before crumbling into heap and losing too much credit. There are mountains, fountains, and classes of twelve or thirteen. The classes are usually positioned around a large table, to allow for discussion. Professors are addressed by their first names, and campus activities include everything from symphonies (some composed by students) to art exhibits to film festivals. Culturally rich and two hours from home, it exudes wild potential. Of course, applying and being accepted will be more difficult than admiring.
1:17 pm
One of mother's friends, Marilyn (a fellow psychologist), invited us to come up for the weekend with her, her daughter and a friend. They have attended three or four musical festivals in the past, and had thoroughly enjoyed themselves each time. Eager to see Bard if not performances honoring the achievements and neuroses of Gustav Mahler, I didn't think twice. We stayed at a charming Bed and Breakfast near the college. There were little knickknacks everywhere one looked: a checker set with plums as pieces, a tassel collection on the chandelier, randomly placed china and silverware, and an ottoman with mushrooms of all shapes and sizes in her foyer. My mother and I stayed in the White Room. Frilly white bed spreads and gratuitously flowered wallpaper stood behind a dollhouse, wicker rocking chair, four mirrors, and four creepy battered dolls on a ledge by my bed, plotting my demise as I slept. The whole house was overdone without blurring its character. One got the impression Linda, the host, frequents every flea market and antique store within a seventy-five mile radius. Marilyn thought she was too garrulous, and we tried to elude her when possible. Linda's stories were interesting though: she used to teach in a women's correctional facility. When girls whispered about the scar on her face, she said, "The other guy is worse." After beginning work on her roof, a man was so inconsiderate as to get Lyme Disease and leave her with patchy shingles. At least I thought it was amusing.
Leon Botstein, the President of Bard College, also conducts their orchestra and a few others as well. He gave the opening lecture, warning the largely silver-haired audience Mahler's music was "beautiful and dangerous." Em's reaction to Mahler was a more descriptive, "Ugh..." Fortunately, it was not all Mahler. Program One, on Friday evening, included the likes of Bach and Bruckner. I am not used to sitting through classical music concerts, especially outdoors in a festival tent with a plastic chair nibbling at my spine. Over time, I got a little antsy, a little achy. It was nice though, laden with German opera and other light sounds.
Saturday, we visited Olana. It is just one of the numerous mansions open to the public, tucked among the mountains. Built and designed by artist Frederick Church on the highest point overlooking the Hudson River, Olana's influences are primarily Middle Eastern. Church hand-stenciled the borders around doorways and windows all over the house. I suppose attempts to describe are futile. It was fascinating and unlike any house I have ever seen.
There was a concert Saturday afternoon, and in the evening they played Mahler's Second Symphony. As frenetic and discordant as the whole thing was, the orchestra was fantastic. Botstein is an amazing conductor. I have little experience or understanding of classical music on which to base impressions, but this was evident. During the standing ovation, people actually yelled, "Bravo!" I thought it only happened in movies, ignorant as I am.
All in all, the weekend was a memorable one. Everyone got along well, and by the end, we all wished we had reservations for another day. The sabbatical had a profound effect on my sense of time. Everyone moves more slowly in the country: my Mom pointed out even the toilets take longer to do their dirty work, unlike city toilets flushing before you are done. There was no guilt wasted on staring at the landscape, sitting on the porch with my journal and some lemonade, not trying to trip up the seconds. Impaired fragments of time limp along while I rush to produce, or hate myself for being listless and acting like it's summer. It was different up there, and now it feels like a year ago. Everything was in place, and I did not torture myself by anticipating its bitter end. My Mom missed an exit or two on the way home, the Tappan Zee was congested, we were delayed by forty minutes and it was fine because everything changed when I walked through the door.
I am not a crier, but was unable to hold back after some psychological probing on my father's part. There he was with a dental abscess inflating the left side of his face and jaw, competing with the tumor lumped on the same side, helping me realize what issues I have got to work through. It is clear to my father how proficient I am at making myself feel awful by believing certain fallacies. I mentioned going back to the bookstore because I have no other options. He was quick to remind me this is not true. Then he fucked with my head, asking me to partake in a little exercise. After observing how I felt, sluggish with knees drawn into my chest, I was to give several negative statements (I can't..., I won't..., I'm not...). "I don't want to," ended up being the first. After four more which have appeared all over this journal in one way or another, I was to observe how I felt once again. Shitty. I could feel my whole body tingle, my eyelids quiver, and noncompliant tears tumble down my cheeks in a kamikaze dive of emotional release. I am not a crier, but suddenly I had no say. My Dad asked me to give five positive statements, then observe how I felt. I did, felt marginally better. The point of this was to realize the threat posed by the lies we tell ourselves. Attempts at mitigation cannot reverse the damage. My Mom came home, asked what was wrong. I told her I was upset, excused myself, jumped into bed, pull the covers over my head and a box of tissues and cried. He's experiencing physical pain I cannot even fathom, and I am tied up in my own petty nonissues, somehow having the nerve to complain about them. Opening up to my parents becomes complaints gleaned from my distorted perception. I felt wonderful at Bard, as if everything I have tried hard to control and maintain might land me there and prove its worth. I came home and pulled myself in all kinds of directions, further away from peace, encapsulated by anxiety, and crying because feeling pathetic was not enough. It was not all about me. There is something emotionally taxing about seeing life-taking masses bulge from your Dad's neck as he tries to calm your nerves. Sleeping helped, and I know the mood will pass before long.
The distress awaiting my return had no bearing on how incredibly fun, inspiring, acculturating, and enriching my weekend was!
