Asumen Acumen

Monday, September 8, 2014

Assorted English Lyrics Original Redux by Stan, et al

Assorted English Lyrics Original Redux by Stan, et al

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bn4F_5jwSzM&list=PLjC-YRc2AjQCGxQ2L01kwG2HB17kRunpl

It has been a week since I first posted the Assorted English Lyrics. I since added one more, the Karinyosa. Ergo, I deem an update to the post is called for to incorporate this latest addition.

Affectionate*

[1]
My one ardent dream when I’m loving
Is to captivate to heaven’s gate
Someone who loves me without counting
The ways which I might reciprocate
If I can but quench all this yearning
I swear to brave whatever danger
Beyond control’s, my burning passion:
Love’s affection

[2]{Refrain}
Heart of mine, ever apprehensive
If you should soon forget
A verdict I’d believe, but not forgive
Love of mine, wherever hope may dwell
There seething with regret
Nursed, my love will prevail.

[3]
Pray thee, love of mine, hear my wishes
In forgetfulness don’t let me vanish
Your own way of loving me shall live
I’ll treasure it like gems to my grave
Should I show affection excessive
By your side it burns most explosive
Expect my love shall henceforth endure:
Forevermore.

[4]
If we are speaking of beauty
None beats the suave maid Pilipina
Be she somber or be she happy
She’s affectionate as she can be
She dismisses her worries aside
Tackles her troubles in gleeful stride
Affectionate spells Pilipina:
True love’s manna

[5]{Refrain}

Yes, sweetheart! You are my one true love
Your heart is all golden
You are the dream of all who falls in love
You’re the gem, of suitors beholden
Whose lives are all forlorn
If you treat them with scorn

[Repeat (4), (5)]**

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11646080-Affectionate--by-Ace-Lilacs#sthash.S8GO1kLK.dpuf

==|==

*”Affectionate” is the direct English translation of the Tagalog word “Karinyosa” the title of the original melody. It can arguably claim as the most popular melody to emerge out of the Filipino cultural landscape. The Tagalog lyrics record various versions I cannot be sure which one is the rightful original. It certainly has been the most parodied song in my native dialect, Boholano-Cebuano. The lyrics are sung to the melody in the attached YouTube playlist clip. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CRbBfqTGxlU&index=1&list=PLjC-YRc2AjQCNJIa2ZtXBd7S0wjz6JJNc

**Verses (4) and (5) are Pilita Corales Variations and materials were taken from the YouTube clip attached: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rc95NWtkK0w

Lighted Lamps Fandango*

At the village fiesta
Your dance was the vista
What a pleasant sight to behold
When such dainty steps you'd unfold

And the three small glasses
Lighted lamps’ bright flashes
Gently balanced on your head
And back of each hand, while you swayed

But what you did not know
Was that I was watching you
And you captivated me
With your dancing gait with charm and glee

Ever since that blest day
You enthralled my reverie
For my heart being in swoon
Can’t drown you in oblivion

You held all in awe
Of your dancing show

All three lighted lamps did you keep
While you pranced and swayed with your hip

This poor heart of mine
Is forever thine
Pray thee, handle it with care
For it is very fragile, dear!!!
==|==
*Translated from the Tagalog lyrics as audio-transcribed from the YouTube clip below, ergo, sung to the accompanying melody:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bn4F_5jwSzM

Rustic Rhapsody*

Dance away my darling, and sing along
With the spell of the tunes in the grove
Forget for one moment, your agonies
Fly in dreams with your passion of love

(2)
Hold my hands my darling, and tenderly
Feel my heart’s eager palpitation
Should you feel me squeeze, your palm with tenderness
My certain signal of, love's devotion

(3)
Take notice, my anguish, glint in these, enraptured eyes
It should translate with ease, what to you I confess
My true love shall endure, forevermore.

[Repeat (1),(2),(3),(3)]
==|==

Author Notes

*Metric-driven English rendition of “Tugtuging Bukid” with Tagalog lyrics gleaned from the YouTube clip below, ergo sung to the cadence of its melody: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g_40fjlp_YM&index=2&list=PLjC-YRc2AjQBBSUc_sTCtyxhINyCBpZcg

© Constancio S Asumen Jr. All RIGHTS reserved, 15 days ago

My Native Land (Bayan Ko)*

([Metric-driven English rendition of the Tagalog])

My cherished country, Philippines
Land endowed with bounteous opulence
In thy realm is cradled love sublime
Unblemished in the Tides of Time

Tempted by thy beauteous splendor
Foreign horde had plundered thy shore
Caused thee languid poverty
Robbed thee of liberty

Lo, the birds that freely fly with pride
Fiercely cry if in a cage were tried
How much more for people

who should strive
To live proudly and not just survive

Philippines, I ardently adore
Crucible where sweat and tears endure
It’s my lifelong quest
To see thee thrive, in freedom blessed!!!
==|==

Author Notes

*Tagalog lyrics were gleaned by audio from the melody in the YouTube Clip below.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P5HXqQR1LM4
My sourcing search in cyberspace found a couple of extant rendering of the song in English. I however contend that this, my rendition, pays even more fidelity to the substance of the original song than the extant English renditions before it.

reserved, a month ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11588545-My-Native-Land--Bayan-Ko----by-Ace-Lilacs#sthash.MG3wydle.dpuf

Songbird Serenade (Dalawidaw)*

Now, Dalawidaw, how you sing with enchantment
Your magnetic smile bodes poetic endearment
In my dreams you grace me with a double likeness
The mermaid at surf-side, and the fairy princess

Raised

in the mountain, but domiciled in the hut
Spring off the fountain your gorgeous portrait begot
The trickle of the brook, eulogize your beauty
Much like your mirror look, idolize you plenty

Jungle wild flowers like idolatry rituals
Precariously flirting with vagaries of chance
Rapacious butterfly’s most audacious askance
Feast siphons in the nectar off virgin petals

Tender once was such night, charged with glorious splendor
In that cozy hut, we vowed our love to treasure
Prize slice of paradise, sown with first love fervor
Pure living memento, we’ll store forevermore!!
==|==

Author Notes

*A Metric Driven English Rendition of the folksong “Dalawidaw” based on the vocalized lyrics in Hiligaynon from the YouTube playlist below:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4XpGEFY7b9I&list=PLjC-YRc2AjQA3_SYtrdsWEXsDYKY4EmEs Ergo, sung to the tune of this melody.
Hiligaynon is the native dialect of the Western-Central Visayas region in the Philippines, whence the folksong presumably originated. Dalawidaw is an oriole-like bird and does exist in mundane form. The bird however has attained mystical dimensions in Filipino folklore, akin to that attributed to the Nightingale in western cultures. Based on my Google-search on the folksong, it seems that this is one of the pioneering English lyrics to be retrofitted into the melody.

reserved, a month ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11592634-Songbird-Serenade--Dalawidaw---by-Ace-Lilacs#sthash.SrtZhFKU.dpuf

Rapture Measure*

(1)
I feel quite fortunate
To requite your courtship passionate
What would you have me do
With a wife who's doting on you
Should we deign reminisce
The memories we shared in our bygone days
I drown in apprehension
For my love claims me your own
[Repeat (1)]
(2)
Just let it be, there’s no use in trying to blame me
Since you’d forsaken me, I sought other company
It was not so long ago
That to our graves I vowed to love you
But not once a fleeting glance
Had you thrown me if by chance

[Instrumental (1)]
(2a)
Just let it be, there’s no use in trying to blame me
Since you’d forsaken me, I sought other company
It was not so long ago
To my last breath I vowed to love you
But not once a leering glance
Had you thrown me if by chance
(3)
Perchance if you’re chided
By your wife beloved
Don’t sulk in frustration

Enfold her in your arms
Enchant her with your charms
Till she melts in rapture

Nibble at her navel
Titillate her whimsies
Bathe her with caresses

Her angst will unravel
Her angst will unravel
Her laughter will endure

(3a)
Perchance if you’re chided
By your wife beloved
Don’t sulk in frustration

Enfold her in your arms
Enchant her with your charms
Prove your full devotion

Nibble at her navel
Frolic at her level
Kiss her with affection

Her angst will unravel
Her angst will unravel
In laughter she will swoon

(4)
Northward of her exposed navel,
Goad your hands to travel

Should you feel a warm thrill,
Do not fret, drink your fill
Sup on the sap dripping,
From love’s endearing ecstasies
Tease, lavish with a kiss,
The fountain of your bliss
Possess your happiness:

Taste, lavish with your kiss,
The fountain of her bliss
Relish her happiness!!!

[End]

Author Notes

*(A Metric Driven English Rendition of Dangaw Dangaw) based on the vocalized lyrics of the YouTube clip below: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FnZHWlXM64M Ergo, sung to the tune of this melody.

Since this venue does not support collaborative joint authorship for copyright reserves disclaimers, it behooves to emphasize that the copyright notation for this piece would have more appropriately read: [© Ria Yap Campomanes & Constancio S. Asumen, Jr.], this being a total collaboration between the two of us and I gratefully thank Ria for consenting to the conspiracy, attained thanks to my exceptional persuasive powers, I'd like to think.

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11583046-Rapture-Measure--by-Ace-Lilacs#sthash.vvkLGL53.dpuf

Monday, September 1, 2014

Assorted English Lyrics Original by Stan, et al

Assorted English Lyrics Original by Stan, et al

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bn4F_5jwSzM&list=PLjC-YRc2AjQCGxQ2L01kwG2HB17kRunpl

Lighted Lamps Fandango*

Rustic Rhapsody*

Author Notes

© Constancio S Asumen Jr. All Rights reserved, 15 days ago

My Native Land (Bayan Ko)*

who should strive
To live proudly and not just survive

Philippines, I ardently adore
Crucible where sweat and tears endure
It’s my lifelong quest
To see thee thrive, in freedom blessed!!!
==|==

Author Notes

reserved, a month ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11588545-My-Native-Land--Bayan-Ko----by-Ace-Lilacs#sthash.MG3wydle.dpuf

Songbird Serenade (Dalawidaw)*

Now, Dalawidaw, how you sing with enchantment
Your magnetic smile bodes poetic endearment
In my dreams you grace me with a double likeness
The mermaid at surf-side, and the fairy princess

Raised

Author Notes

reserved, a month ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11592634-Songbird-Serenade--Dalawidaw---by-Ace-Lilacs#sthash.SrtZhFKU.dpuf

Rapture Measure*

Author Notes

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11583046-Rapture-Measure--by-Ace-Lilacs#sthash.vvkLGL53.dpuf

Sunday, July 6, 2014

The Muses behind the Verses

The Muses behind the Verses

Ruminations on Poetic Inspiration*

It is safe to say without indulging in exhaustive documentation, which could prove to be a mere exercise in erudite futility, that like the Siesta and the Harana, the art of the Zarzuela, as used to be practiced in the Philippines, was something that the Filipinos unwittingly inherited from Spanish cultural traditions. “Used to be” is the operative phrase. In the age of Youtube and the MP3 as standard currencies for the consumption of entertainment, the up close and personal components in the practice of these art forms have, to our collective impoverishment, been lost to posterity forever.

My earliest exposure to poetry, as practiced by people and enjoyed in a social setting, in contradistinction to as manifested in the infinite beauty of nature and natural phenomena as obtains in the blending of the sunset with the landscape and the rainbow ever so ubiquitous in a typical tropical day, was in listening to the Sarsuela** which was a regular feature of the weekend community dances that I was luckily exposed to during my preschool days. Those weekly nocturnal escapades were sustained through the wee morning hours by the sheer unfettered and inexhaustible enthusiasm of a one-man band, whose performance was unpaid for but largely expected by the community for the simple reason that his talent was the hallmark of his citizenship. The Sarsuela was an intermission feature introduced to give the musician the most required and a well-deserved rest.

On hindsight, this unmistakable bucolic setting as described earlier in Chapter 5 had all the trappings of a fairy tale. The dances were sometimes held as a means of raising funds for some noble cause or tangible project or another. But oftentimes, they were held as the community’s attempt to celebrate life, to create a festive mood as a well-needed and most-deserved break from the humdrum which characterized farming life. As a preschooler, I was not yet aware of political history, nor of the existence of Spain, for that matter. The beauty of the poetry emanating from the musical drama of the Sarsuela touched my consciousness unadulterated by cultural bias or preconceived notions of what art was supposed to contain, look, or sound like.

The format was that of a dialogue between a man and a woman, verbally indulged in the ritual of courtship. The verses were extemporaneously minted on the fly by the protagonists sung to the monotonic melody of a ballad, unaccompanied by any musical instruments. That the event regularly called upon my father as the male protagonist, did not hurt to keep my attention riveted through the proceedings. Most of the words they used were too profound for my uninitiated mind to comprehend, but that early exposure to the wealth of metaphors and similes in the language, far from weighing me down with frustration, made me dream that when I grew up I should be able to attain mastery of the language and at least equal if not surpass my father’s brilliant performances of the art form.

Unfortunately, for me, I was constantly told at an early age that I could not carry a tune, a verdict which was mainly derived from my perceived inability to sing in harmony with the group during the ritual of the novena. As much as this did not prevent me from occasionally belting out a tune while gallivanting in the woods, when I was relatively certain that there was nobody within reasonable hearing distance, it did definitely put a dumper on my musical aspirations. It had to take the irrepressible hormones of adolescence to kick in and the fertile venue of the art of Harana, now irretrievably buried in the bowels of oblivion in obsolescence, for the sparks of inspiration to ignite the smoldering embers into a glowing flame of expressive resonance, unfettered and unafraid.***

Shelley famously observed, as alluded to in Chapter 11 below that “poetry is the language of the imagination.” My experience with it has been that it is more the expression of the spontaneous celebration of being alive, far beyond just the joys of living. Over and above what is conceivable, the delicious agony and poignant ecstasy of the tangible here and now constitute a compelling elan for poetical indulgent escapades. The turmoil of the soul itself, in the entirety of its manifold dimensions and levels of complexity, is the proper province of poetry.

Exhibited in the few following pages are the crude relics of the struggle of my soul to stay whole, afloat and above the corrosive vortex of the ruins of time. Bereft of elegance the verses may be, they are nonetheless the embodiment of the struggle of a soul in search of a justifiable and sustainable meaning for being.

==|==

Chapter End Notes: The notes are itemized below in the order that they were referred to in the preceding text. They have been included herein to facilitate the curious readers’ penchant to verify any and all information that has been only tangentially mentioned in the text.

*This is a reprint of the Introduction (pp.123~125) to the Poetry Section (pp.123 ~ 128) of my last book, “Flirting with Misadventures: Escapades of an Exotic Life.” {http://www.friesenpress.com/bookstore/title/119734000001612306/Constancio-Sulapas-Asumen-Flirting-with-Misadventures }

**This spelling transformation as we transition from Spanish to Pilipino has been rendered inevitable by the absence of the letter “z” in the Pilipino alphabet.

***Thus, in my sophomore year in Kyoto University when the Chancellor summoned me impromptu to sing on stage of the makeshift amphitheater fronting the athletic quadrangle where a good portion of the 35,000 student populace congregated to witness the Foundation Day festivities, I obliged with my version of Cole Porter’s Begin the Beguine without breaking a sweat, to a respectable resounding ovation from the crowd.

Friday, June 27, 2014

Abortive Saga of the Yamaha

Abortive Saga of the Yamaha

(How Civilization Got Deprived of A Piano Virtuoso)

The man that hath no music in himself,
Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils;
The motions of his spirit are dull as night
And his affections dark as Erebus:
Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music.

--Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

Admittedly, I was not thinking of this passage, or of the bard himself, when one Sunday morning in early Spring 1989 I was convinced that the need to embark on a new project was too compelling to even bother to think twice about, let alone dismiss it out of hand. I had been in the grip of an “irresistible impulse” to learn how to play the piano.

I had earlier confessed being awestruck by those rare privileged souls who are able to create a melody. It’s a testimony that bears repeating, if nothing else but for its unbridled sincerity:

In this ever more frequently occurring journey to what I tagged my inner universe, I wish I would discover within me the faculty to create or compose a melody, a musical tune out of whatever it is melodies emerge from, perhaps the nothingness of being. I know I appreciate the melody I like when I hear one. But to create one out of nowhere and out of nothing, I cannot help but wonder what the experience is like. And to be able to communicate it to another sentient being, must constitute the consummation of total nirvana.

If nothing else, this saga of the Yamaha illustrates once and for all that I was proactively task-oriented in dealing with the fire of anguish that was consuming my soul. For like any impulsive professional in the throes of his umpteenth midlife crisis, I fastidiously scoured the Sunday Times for piano tutors within a reasonable driving distance from my residence. One lady, claiming her bona fides from the famously prestigious Julliard School of Music, promised in a brief column ad that she employed “a revolutionary approach” to piano tutoring. I finagled a preliminary “screening” interview with her before the day was over.

In the 1956 Alfred Hitchcock movie “The Wrong Man,” there is a line by Henry Fonda who played the bass player Christopher Emmanuel Balestrero (Manny) to the effect that [paraphrasing] “professional musicians are always fascinated with mathematics but can never make a living out of it.” For me the delicious irony in this statement lurked in the reality that unlike Manny, I had managed to make a living neither with music nor with mathematics, yet I have been thoroughly fascinated with both.

My earliest exposure to music came in the form of the dulcet melodies that my mother used to hum or sing to lull me to sleep in a hammock when I was still the baby in the family, i.e., before my younger sister was born. This was soon to be followed by the ritual of the Novena when I was told in no uncertain terms that my singing along was out of tune. This was a verdict that stifled my inclination to sing throughout my boyhood days. To avoid making an embarrassing spectacle of myself, for the duration of grammar school, I refrained from participating in any activity that involved singing.

It was not until the hormonal awakenings of adolescence kicked in that I got emancipated from this inhibition. As soon as I started courting a girl of my own, I became an avid enthusiast of the serenading art of the Harana. At the beginning, I engaged in its practice because it was expected of me as a suitor. Shortly thereafter, however, I indulged in the practice because it afforded a venue for emotional expression and relief at the same time as I found it enjoyable and rewarding.

In a piece entitled “The Mathematics of Music,” Jack H. David, Jr. aptly pointed out, “. . . it could be argued that mathematics is involved in some way in everything that exists everywhere, or even everything that is imagined to exist in any conceivable reality.” While I find it difficult to argue with this assertion, I contend it a definite lapse into the hyperbolic.

When for instance I enjoy a snifter of brandy with a good cigar, I don’t delve into an harmonic convergence analysis between the bouquet of Napoleon brandy and the aroma of Manila coronas. Nevertheless, I concede that my fascination with music deepened several manifolds after I was exposed as an Electrical Engineering junior to Fourier Analysis of Harmonic Functions.

It was unfortunate that I did not see the Hitchcock-Fonda movie before the interview with the prospective piano tutor. It would have made me better able to handle the barrage of questions from her because it was the mathematical aspects of music which convinced me I had the potential to learn the necessary skills. To the best of my recollection, this was how the interview went in a nutshell:

Ø She: Why do you want to learn to play the piano?

Ø Me:   I want a rewarding viable emotional outlet at my disposal.

Ø She: Do you read musical notations?

Ø Me:   I am a complete ignoramus when it comes to music. But it is my understanding that music is susceptible to mathematical analysis and I consider myself proficiently schooled on the latter.

Ø She: To be effective, my method requires, on average, six hours of practice for each hour of instruction. I can only see you once a week. Do you have both the time and instrument to meet this need?

Ø Me:   Yes to the time. No to the instrument. I can arrange to get a piano at some point.

Ø She: That point needs to be before our first session. Here’s a business card of a reliable demonstration store. They’ll be delighted to help you pick a good piano. Get back to me when you are ready.

Ø Me:   Thank you for your time and advice. I’ll speak to you later.

The following day I made an appointment with the store and visited the premises mid to late afternoon. I was between contract engagements so I had all the time to burn. The only other project I had at hand was to play every course in Long Island which admitted non-member golfers.

I was treated to a very accommodating reception at the store, listening to every conceivable option for a piano purchase. I had to choose between two Mini Grands, a Kawai and a Yamaha. Ultimately the choice rested on a sophomore course in Mathematical Statistics I barely passed, taught by a most affable Prof. Kawai. I left the store after making a full payment on the Yamaha with scheduled delivery in five days, presumably enough time for my business check to clear.

It suffices to mention that, including even today, the Yamaha had been my most expensive property acquisition. I propose not to disclose the actual amount on the check for fear that my relations might subject me to the traditional condign wages for extravagance. It consists of hanging me by the toenails over a tub of freshly sliced Korean scallions, in a half tunnel ventilated with ever so slowly-burning file of wet coconut husks at the upwind tunnel entrance. The ritual would only be excruciatingly painful for me. It would however be decidedly most arduously toilsome for them.

I called the piano tutor to update her on my exploits being a proud owner of a Yamaha Mini Grand. I got an answering message to the effect that she was away for the rest of the week. The Monday after the Yamaha was delivered, I got a voice mail to the effect that the tutor had closed shop and moved to Florida to spend her retirement years.

I concluded much later that the Piano Tutoring ad which led me to the interview with the tutor was just a ploy to lure potential piano buying customers. Over a decade earlier, I had a similar experience with an outcall house cleaner who turned out to be the mother of a vacuum cleaner sales man. She quit the job before her third visit, promptly after I bought a top-of-the-line Electrolux machine from her son.

Fast forward several months into mid/late-summer 1990. With a sparkling Yamaha Mini Grand sitting pretty in my study, I did not want it to be collecting dust, forever unmolested. I shortly embarked on a search for a tutor who was willing to give the lessons in my study, with two additional caveats: The tutor must be a she. She must be as far away from retirement age as I can get. The second caveat followed from lessons taught by most recent experience with would-be piano tutors.

The first of these qualifiers stemmed from the personal verity that I find it more pleasant and preferable to spend any hour of any day with a female member of the species, especially if I’m paying for that hour. You may label me as the pioneering quintessential philogynist, i.e., the exact opposite of a misogynist, or a “woman hater,” in common parlance.

You may call it a definitely strong proclivity. While I don’t flaunt it, I never disguise my preference for feminine humanity, given any choice, whenever and wherever the prospect of a one-on-one interfacing is involved. I am biased towards a female doctor, a female dentist, a lady barber, masseuse over masseur, nurses, female company, etc. I assure you, I don’t have anything against masculine humanity. Let the reader impute whatever. Beyond owning up to possible unsavory epithets, I deny absolutely nothing prejudicial that may incriminate my character in the slightest.

After two weeks or so of scouring though the ads in both the Yankee Traders and Penny Savers, I finally encountered one which seemed to meet my stipulations for the job. Her bill of particulars were: a single female less than fifteen years younger than me with more than seven years track record tutoring beginners; had the wheels to drive to my place and adaptive to schedule flexibility with a two-week advanced scheduling lead time. She needed three weeks to start with me. Hereafter I call her “Gladys” for convenience since I honestly cannot remember her name.

Eager to show off my brand new Yamaha, I invited her over for a first-hand look at both pupil and instrument. I explained my goals for the project, namely, to be able to play, among others, the “Tristesse” Etude of Chopin (op 10, no.3), the “Moonlight” and “Appassionata” sonatas of Beethoven, and learn enough chords to accompany myself on the piano when I want to belt out a tune outside of the shower.

Gladys opined that if I were willing to invest the time and energy, she did not see any reason for my goals to be deemed on the “overkill” side of ambitious. We fixed the schedule for the first five weeks. We exchanged the usual contact coordinates. She promised to scour through her collection of beginners’ materials and touch base with me long before the first lesson.

One week later I got a call from her advising me she had some sheet music for beginners that might be useful for our project. I asked her to bring it over and I was not home just leave it by the mailbox since I had to be at the golf course clubhouse for a 12:30 hrs reserved tee-time.

She also asked if I could pay for three sessions in advance to bail her out of an emergency. Though somewhat irregular, I saw no problems to the proposition. I told her I would paste the envelope containing a signed check with her name on it on the door in case she did not get there before I needed to leave.

As it turned out, she came early enough for me to offer her a cup of coffee while we mutually exchanged the goods we had prepared for each other. I was really in a golfing frame of mind more than being attuned to piano playing. On the other hand, I did not want to be rude and crude to one I hardly knew who might have leverage on my future emotional make up.

It would have been uncharacteristically uncouth for me to make it obvious I would have preferred honing my skills in the driving range and the putting green to exchanging pleasantries with Gladys. While I was squirming in the tight confines of the dilemma imposed by the protocols of civility, serendipity came to the rescue. To my pleasant relief, Krystyna walked in unexpectedly.

Krystyna is my wife of almost twenty-four years and counting. At that juncture, I was just in the closing stages of convincing her to move in with me before we went through the logistics towards the formalities of marriage. She did not exactly dismiss the proposition. However, neither did she ask me when she could move in. We were suspended in a ticklish impasse of a precarious equilibrium.

So thanking my lucky stars for helping out, I decided to employ the classic squeeze play of baseball fame: I convinced her that since she was shortly going to be the Lady of the House, and considering that Gladys had just been commissioned for what I saw was a long-term regular weekly visits, I suggested it a capital idea for the two of them to get acquainted. After the usual pleasantries, I excused myself merrily off to the golf course leaving the two ladies to their own devices.

Two days later Krystyna moved in to share the residence with me. The exciting anticipation of tutoring sessions with Gladys got buried in the shuffle of transitioning from a bachelor residence to a couple’s abode. After the migration kerfuffle settled down some, I treated Krystyna to a sushi-sashimi dinner to bring closure to the occasion.

It was in this impending advent of a new normal in our lives that I remarked, in the manner of thinking out loud:

Me: “I’d be starting my piano lessons soon. I find it somewhat strange that I have not heard from Gladys all this while.”
Krystyna: “I doubt it very much that you will ever hear from her.”
Me: “That’s a weird thing to hear from you. Why would you say so?”
Krystyna: “Because I told her in no uncertain terms not to show her face in the house ever again.”
Me: “But I made an agreement with her.”
Krystyna: “That was part of the problem. If I have to be the ‘Lady of the House’ it’s part of my prerogative to have a say on who becomes a regular visitor to the House.”
Me: “Did you know that I paid her three weeks in advance?”
Krystyna: “No. You still have her number. You can call her to give back the money or just stop payment on the check.
Me: “How come you did not tell me about it before? It would have been common courtesy.”
Krystyna: “I just did not want to engage you in an argument you cannot possibly win. The less said about it, the happier everybody shall be.”

Thus, vanished my prospects for a promising career as a brilliant Concert Pianist. The dream was drowned in a bottle of hot sake over desert at a sushi-sashimi dinner. Civilization had been summarily deprived of a piano virtuoso. Along with it was gone the likelihood of winning any argument, whatsoever, with my wife.

Why have I wasted my breath harping upon the narrative of a Yamaha which is still dutifully collecting dust in Nikki’s living room? The simple answer lies in the mystical power of the proverbial curse of the chance that was wasted.

For readers who have, either by choice or by inadvertence, neglected to read my last book, Nikki is my fourteen-year-old granddaughter. The piano was handed over to her eleven summers ago. She showed some interest then which turned out to be short-lived. She proved not to have the patience or the disposition to go through the rigors of music lessons. She is starting high school this September. She is more obsessed with becoming the best lawyer in the sun, above all else.

The mathematical series of harmonic functions governing rhythm, harmony, and melody still converge towards kindred singularities for solutions. Julliard still graduates competent piano teachers. The dulcet strains of a rhapsody or a lullaby still tickle the soul in a most bewitching way. Rather than search the far reaches of Creation to apportion blame on anyone, why not just pick the torch up from the wayside where it was inadvertently discarded?

The torch may still be there but the fire of aspiration has long since faded into the faintest flickering ember. Beyond the enchantment of a well-meaning muse, a major miracle of hyperbolic proportions is needed to set ablaze the flame anew. Even the threat of wrath brought on by the advent of the impending Eighth Caliphate wields no power sufficient to recapture the promised splendor of the chance that was abandoned.

Ergo, with presumptive dignity and condign humility we succumb to the sublime resignation canonized in a quatrain of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam which proclaims:

LXXI
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.

Cautionary Postscript: For any reader who fancies verifying the factual accuracy of the above narrative by independently fact-checking it with Krystyna, I enjoin you to drop the idea. Her version of the narrative on how she and I first met is the polar opposite to mine. Ergo, since I am doing the writing, my version is bound to prevail. That’s just how the cookie crumbles.

Sunday, May 25, 2014

Dicitencello vuje Playlists

For the flirtsome souls who like to sing along, this might help with the lyrics:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wWlqNkSbpG4&list=PLjC-YRc2AjQCZz5xQHIyhto2rHfqWji2f

Dicitencello vuje

Dicitencello a 'sta cumpagna vosta
ch'aggio perduto 'o suonno e 'a fantasia...
ch''a penzo sempe,
ch'è tutt''a vita mia...
I' nce 'o vvulesse dicere,
ma nun ce 'o ssaccio dí...

'A voglio bene...
'A voglio bene assaje!
Dicitencello vuje
ca nun mm''a scordo maje.
E' na passione,
cchiù forte 'e na catena,
ca mme turmenta ll'anema...
e nun mme fa campá!...

Na lácrema lucente v'è caduta...
dicíteme nu poco: a che penzate?!
Cu st'uocchie doce,
vuje sola mme guardate...
Levámmoce 'sta maschera,
dicimmo 'a veritá...

Suonno gentile,
suspiro mio carnale...
Te cerco comm'a ll'aria:
Te voglio pe' campá!...

Dicitencello a 'sta cumpagna vosta/ tell your friend
ch'aggio perduto 'o suonno e 'a fantasia.../ that i've lost sleep and fantasy too
ch''a penzo sempe,/ that i always think of her
ch'è tutt''a vita mia.../ that she's my life
I' nce 'o vvulesse dicere,/ i'd really like to tell her
ma nun ce 'o ssaccio dí.../ but i don't know how

'A voglio bene.../ i care for her
'A voglio bene assaje!/ i care for her so much
Dicitencello vuje/ you tell her
ca nun mm''a scordo maje./ that i cannot forget her
E' na passione,/ 'tis a passion
cchiù forte 'e na catena,/ stronger than a chain
ca mme turmenta ll'anema.../ that torments my soul
e nun mme fa campá!.../ and doesn't let me live

Na lácrema lucente v'è caduta.../ a shining tear trickled down (your face)
dicíteme nu poco: a che penzate?!/ tell me, what are you thinking?
Cu st'uocchie doce,/ with these sweet eyes
vuje sola mme guardate.../ you only are looking at me
Levámmoce 'sta maschera,/ let's take off our masks
dicimmo 'a veritá.../ let's tell the truth

Suonno gentile,/ gentle sleep
suspiro mio carnale.../ my carnal sigh
Te cerco comm'a ll'aria:/ i seek you like air
Te voglio pe' campá!... / i need you to live

Asumen Acumen

Monday, September 8, 2014

Assorted English Lyrics Original Redux by Stan, et al

Monday, September 1, 2014

Assorted English Lyrics Original by Stan, et al

Sunday, July 6, 2014

The Muses behind the Verses

Friday, June 27, 2014

Abortive Saga of the Yamaha

Sunday, May 25, 2014

Dicitencello vuje Playlists

Blinking at the Antics of Putin

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