My interest in television and film is declining; somewhat rapidly. Or, perhaps, it’s just the period of “chemo-fog” that surrounds me these days. I hope I start enjoying them more, because I miss that enjoyment. But I have legitimate complaints, too, even of the shows that do a better job than others at holding my interest. Formulaic mysteries, even (and maybe) especially) tend to make the action and mystery sequences indistinguishable from one another. Who am I, though, to torment someone for figuring out a way to make money from his or her craft. In the case of the books upon which the Versa series is based, she’s a woman: Ann Cleeves. Dim memories of watching the show’s credits role leads me to think the producers and directors are a reasonably close approximation of 50-50. It’s not just Vera, either. It’s a dozen or more shows from Acorn or BritBox or whatever. Perhaps I am simply hungry for variety. Dark foreign-language (or British-English) expressions of the fundamental bleakness of human existence can be exciting, but enough is enough.
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A rudimentary naming convention is used to establish names for named wildfires in the US. Generally, they a geographic location in nature (e.g., Park fire). According to an article in the New York Times
“…That is, fire names are typically a literal and boring reference to a geographic location.
“The names come from whatever the first fire official on the scene sees nearby, whether a street, mountain or body of water. These decisions are made rapidly, in the rush of an emergency.”
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Yesterday’s visit to the oncology center yielded a MRI brain-scan scheduled for this morning and a return visit to the oncology center—for hydration—this afternoon. These empty weeks have a way of filling up the oncology center’s time. The oncology nurse ordered it because “it’s about time for another one” and she wants to look at an MRI of my brain to determine whether any cancer cells have metastasized to the brain. I’m counting on that as quite unlikely.
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I’ve had excellent chicken–tortilla soup three meals in succession: yesterday’s lunch and this morning’s breakfast, plus the afternoon break the day before. It was a delightful delivery made by a delightful friend.
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My decision is final. I will not acquiesce to fits of incoherent babbling. While chemo drugs are ripping at my body, they also are making me a bit goofy—as if only every nth signal to verbalize is making the trip to the end of the appropriate synapses. But other drugs can minimize the goofiness and limit evidence of off-the-tracks mental stability. Those drugs, whatever they are, will make me slightly more docile and considerably less disturbingly ridiculous.
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Mi novia introduced me to some R&B musicians I have begun to like quite a lot: Ruthie Foster, Rhiannon Giddens, Jesse Cook, Christone “Kingfish” Ingram. I already knew and listened to Keb’ Mo’, Marcia Ball, and a bunch of others. The more I listen to them, though, the more I can hear the blues in both the lyrics and the tunes. I still love much of the music of my foundation musicians: Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan, The Foo Fighters, The Killers, Joan Baez, any orchestra playing Rachmaninoff Rhapsody on a Theme by Paganin, Op. Many other musicians provide the kind of mood setting I require at any given time, from cheerful to serious to morose to deliriously happy. Though country is not my favorite genre, I have grown increasingly fond of it over the years. Hoyt Axton (Boney Fingers, Della and the Dealer, Evangelina) are among my favorites, but there are others.
In conversation with a friend, I learned that we both enjoy banjo music; I am stunned by the proficiency and speed of some fiddlers. I discovered we both like the music of marching bands. When I was a kid, my oldest sister (I think) has a John Philip Sousa album; I loved listening to all those pieces of patriotic music. I believe all music has a place for all ears. Indigenous African tunes, whether original or “Americanized,” please my ears. Lyrics in languages I do not speak no understand are treats to hears. I always assume I can tell the mood of the piece by the band, alone; I’m not impressively right about that. Jazz, Reggae, Appalachian fiddle, accordion music, Mexican rancho and corrido and banda and mariachi…all of them include good music. All, I suspect. contain bad, as well. They’re all worth listening to; and should NEVER be condemned as part of an entire genre of music.
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I regularly skim quite a few Facebook pages, in a futile effort to keep up with the owners’ achievements, excitements, traumas, and tragedies. I rarely comment any more, as a “like” or “love” or “care” button is more concise than a treatise I might write in comments. I prefer comments made directly to me, but I appreciate any comments at all. And I am genuinely delighted to receive comments that might lead to an extended conversation. There’s a “like” button of this page, as well, but it is fitful in its performance. I like receiving email or texts, in which communications are between only two people. Of course, I have many other, sometimes conflicting, preferences. I conflict with my own opinions with some frequency.
