Hiatus, writ with water & still loving you

If you are tired of hearing me rave about the love of my life, Frances Anne Hopkins, then stay cool, calm and collected. This is the last time you will see her on my page -- at least, for now. I am sort of (as I sort of just about everything) going to go absent without leave for a while. First, Frances: This painting is entitled "At Marquette, Michigan 1864." Marquette is on Lake Superior, the south shore, and writing as someone who has canoed past it a few times, I will guarantee you that Marquette has changed just a little bit since Frances made her visit. Seriously, I actually do recognize the point of rocks. Frances does have a way with colors and details, does she not? In case you think the "spots" in the sky are photographic problems with the painting, I will say this: It is the first time I have seen photographic problems, e.g., spots, fly in a "V" formation. Finally, I am winding down (or, maybe, winding up) for a time, beginning with this post. This post itself will be unusual for me in the sense that it is going to appear in two or three segments; not separate entries, but pieces added on, maybe all them today, maybe some after today. (So, I am busy for a change, and need some sleep, do not give me any grief.) Please, reserve your comment for after June ends or, if the mood strikes you, come back and check upon me again during the next day or two and leave a second comment. When the entry closes with music, you will know it is complete.

Hiatus is an idiotic word

As the length of daylight hours in the northlands begin to shorten (yeh, really), so does my time writing here. My thought is to leave "Sort of San Fran" alone for the most part for -- a sort of a hiatus. When the opportunity or a reason arises, I might not be able to resist temptation and produce a post. But, I am not going to worry about it or to think about it for the most part. I hope I will continue to make comments on the pages of others, but no promises to do it with every post you write.

This might be a stranger phenomenon for me than for most bloggers in that I have utilized writing in many of my work experiences. Other than letters or emails, this is one of the few times I recall not being paid to write. So much for newspapers and paid subscribers. Any and all of us can produce a "news screen" of our own and do everything from preach, to lie (possibly I repeat myself), to beg, to promote, to sell, to report, to editorialize, to show photos or to offer videos, to .... to .... to .... endless possibilities.

One last time before I retreat: My beliefs are that the world is becoming more dangerous, not less so; that while people in some nations, such as Iran, are demonstrating for freedom, people in other nations, such as America, are allowing their freedoms to slip away by blindly accepting promises from false prophets and power mongers; that music is deteriorating (just had to toss that one in); that population control is a significant problem which is being ignored while get-rich-schemers are selling the concept of man-made global warming to wannabe do-gooders; that there probably will be violence in the streets of the U.S. if maleficent government officials and corporate bandits are not all brought before the criminal justice system and .... and .... and .... that is enough.

Just remember, I do love you even if you are a liberal .... in some ways, I am, too, but that might only be a conceptual distinction, and you might actually be a conservative ....

A name writ with water ....

Katy Jackson, who calls her page "Moving Back, Moving On," once wrote a post about her final day in the office at a former job. More specifically, she and a colleague were collecting their own items, boxing up materials to be sent elsewhere, designating redundant paperwork for recycling and performing a general clean up / clear out operation. The last lines of her post were these:

We took one last look around the room and departed from 'our office' for the very last time. You'd never know by looking that we'd ever been there.

And, here is the comment I left for that post:

It is interesting, isn't it, how the history of so many people is written in the absolute trash they leave behind at a work place?

When I leave a job, I have been known to shred 99 percent of the material and take the remaining one percent with me. Then I replace my material with the material that had been left behind by my predecessor and which I had stored away in boxes for just this moment. Within a matter of a few years, no one would ever know I had been there. Similar to you, I guess.

And, this was Katy's remark to my comment:

Maybe it's a desire for workplace invisibility. Not necessarily during the actual occupation of the job, but afterwards - the desire to leave no trace behind like a particularly neat burglar perhaps?

Here worked one whose name was writ with water...

I loved that line, as well as the concept it vividly and brilliantly explained. That had been my intent when I departed this place. Some of you have heard before, perhaps too many times, that I am very guarded about my privacy. Before this page, no photograph of me ever had entered cyberspace, although I have been transmitting via personal computer since 1985. There were many ways and reasons to do it even before the Internet or Windows or browsers came into existence, some of you might be surprised to know. Similar to photographs, my name, rank and serial number were kept under lock and key.

Returning to the point at hand, I had thought to vanish when I decided the "Sort of San Francisco Fan Club" had run its course. Maybe that still will happen a bit further down the road, but not yet, and when it finally does happen, it will fade away with a notice of intent, rather than simply disappear.

There are too many nice people who stop by here on occasion, that the last thing I want do is to be rude and inconsiderate of them on my last day in this office.

Achtung! Achtung! Still missing you, baby!

One more band is being featured right now because I consider the singer, Klaus Meine, to be No. 3 on my list of the absolute best male singers in the era of rock music. While the German band, Scorpions, is among the most significant in heavy rock, as a unit it does not approach the talent level of either Boston or Dokken. Song writing ability, much of it by the band's founder, Rudolf Schenker, and Meine's voice, are the strengths in this outfit.

Included here are two renditions of the same song, my personal favorite by the Scorpions, "Still Loving You." This song generally is considered the Scorpions' trademark piece, and was written by Schenker and Meine.

The first video shows the band performing with the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra in 2000. The audio is sort of out of control, but what a fantastic performance it would have been to attend. I would have stood in line to be present at this one. Meine's pronunciation of Americanized English is near perfect, but that his native language is German is impossible to miss. The tone, the mere natural guttural sound of his voice, is Germanic. A performance is more enjoyable to watch, I think, when it is obvious the singer is loving the moment. Meine clearly is happy with where he is and with what he is doing during these moments.

The second piece, once again, is present to be able to hear the strength and range of Meine's voice without concert hall racket. It is a studio recording, with more-or-less "romantic" slides replacing a video of the band actually performing.

The song is powerful, and I do not think I could understand how anyone would not like it, both for the impact of the message and the strength of the sound. Maybe the fact that in ancestral mathematics I am about 18 percent German shades my view a bit. But, maybe not.

Art, arrogance & a whiter shade of pale

Today, art lovers and those who simply love paintings created by beautiful young ladies, is another from Frances Anne Hopkins. I think I should like to name a daughter Frances Anne, but that occurrence is very doubtful. Oh, well. This one is titled, "Rue St. Dominique Montreal." The date looks to be July 4 (or July 9), 1866. It appears to be a watercolor, with soothing shades of pastel to send the viewer drifting away into the sky. (Sound like a wannabe art critic, do I not? Worse things could happen. Done books, movies and music professionally, why not art?) Note the tracks in the mud on the street. Note the pedestrians and, in the distance, a pair of buggies, and in the far distance, the church spires reaching for the sky. Frances knew what she was doing. Like another of her watercolor paintings, "Ile Dorval," also done in 1866, this is one where I want to close my eyes, to step into and to forever become part of the painting and of Montreal in 1866. Dream on, Fram ....

Sometimes the arrogant thrive ....

A few days ago, I entered into a difference of opinion discussion with an individual regarding what I consider good manners and consideration for other people.

While not directly related to that, one of my "personal rules" is that I will not stand in lines. This began after my departure from the Marine Corps. The "hurry up and wait" doctrine approaches near-religious dogma in the military, and I was done with it forever after, I vowed. I absolutely refuse to stand in a line for more than a few minutes, which, translated, means probably five or, maybe, even ten. When preciseness cannot be a consideration, for instance, such as waiting to be seated in a restaurant, I generally will grant two or three couples ahead of me as worth standing around and waiting to be seated before me. More than that? Adios.

My second rule, which was the topic of the conversation, centered on my devout habit of not being willing to wait for people who are late. Would I be chauvinistic to say that is a difficult rule to apply to a young lady?

When I first was starting out in the world of adult work, I made it a habit to arrive five to ten minutes early for an appointment. Almost invariably, I had to wait those minutes, plus another five or ten, for my appointment to arrive. Frustrating, to me, at the very least. Somewhere along the line, I changed by habit and began arriving five to ten minutes late, ostentatiously to ensure that I would not be kept waiting for anyone.

At some point, I decided that was not appropriate, and began to arrive a minute or two before a given appointment, but to wait no longer than five or ten minutes before I left, had my appointment failed to arrive. As a reporter, this tact worked well. The majority of people being interviewed wish to be interviewed, and do not want to get on the "bad side" of a reporter.

And now, once again, loom machismo and arrogance, in perhaps the strangest event from practicing this "rule." On one occasion, I was to be interviewed for a job as a reporter at a newspaper. When the person who was to interview me failed to appear in ten minutes, I began to depart the building. On the way out, I met a man who assumed I was the job applicant. He introduced himself as the newspaper owner. He said he was surprised the interview was finished so quickly. I told him there had been no interview, and explained by point of view on the matter. After turning several shades of red, the gentleman said he would conduct the interview personally. He told a receptionist to track down "Mr. Make Up A Name," and to tell him to come to his office immediately.

Without going into further needless detail, I will note that I did receive a job offer, that I did accept it and, approximately six months later, that "Mr. Make Up" A Name was demoted to a reporter and I was promoted to his position. Sometimes, displaying a machismo and an arrogant attitude pays off.

Another anthem from long, long ago ....

Without wasting my own time and words (= money), I shall again literally steal words from those brave souls who operate Wikipedia, this time to introduce an anthem that was born in the 1960s and persists to this day. It is, for sure, one of the most beautiful and haunting melodies ever produced, some of the most discussed and mysterious lyrics ever written and, quite simply, a really neat song. This version of "A Whiter Shade of Pale," by the one and only Procol Harum, was recorded two or three years ago in Union Chapel in London.

Whenever I hear this song, I want to pick up my drink, light a cigarette and drift onto the dance floor with the prettiest girl in sight. Oh, baby. Just listen to it, close your eyes for a moment and dance to it in your mind ....

From Wikipedia:

In April 1967, Gary Brooker began working as a singer/songwriter and formed Procol Harum with Keith Reid (poet), Hammond organist Matthew Fisher, guitarist Ray Royer and bassist David Knights. The band name was chosen by its original manager Guy Stevens after a friend's Burmese cat, and has been alleged to be Latin for "beyond these things," however the correct Latin translation of "beyond these things" is Procul His. The band's name actually means, in Latin, "of these far off things" (harum is in the feminine, genitive, plural). However, procul would not be followed by a genitive in Latin. The name of the band is frequently misspelled; often with Procul, Harem, both, or other variations.

At Olympic Studios, with session drummer Bill Eyden, producer Denny Cordell, and sound engineer Keith Grant, the group recorded "A Whiter Shade of Pale." The song was officially released on May 12, 1967. With the sudden success of this single and The Moody Blues' "Nights in White Satin," their label, Deram Records, became known as a premier progressive rock label.

With a structure reminiscent of Baroque music, a countermelody based on J.S. Bach's cantata no.140 assigned to Fisher's Hammond organ, Brooker's soulful vocals and Reid's mysterious lyrics, "A Whiter Shade of Pale" reached #1 on the British charts and did almost as well in the United States, reaching #5. In the years since, it has become an enduring classic, placing on several polls of the best songs ever.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p8jJ1ORIOes

If I leave here tomorrow ....

Red River Expedition at Kakabeka Falls 1877
Another painting by Frances Anne Hopkins

Where hurry up and wait originated

Traffic jams might generally be viewed as a problem originating in the 20th Century with the advent of automobiles. Not so, as is illustrated in this painting by Frances Anne Hopkins, our painter of forever and always and even beyond.

Boat after boat after canoe awaits its turn at landing to begin the portage of Kakabeka Falls. The painting is teaming with life and action. There appear to be men fishing. Others are gathered round fires, almost certainly preparing food and eating. Many are moving up and down the "stairway," hauling goods, provisions and watercraft along the trail.

Note the "steps" going up the portage incline. Steps have been gouged into the earth with entire trees cut and laid in place to create a stairway traversing the steep slope. This was a common technique employed by French voyageurs and, very possibly, by the Native Americans who taught them the trails and the streams to follow while journeying in primeval America.

Anyone who reads travel tales written during the 18th and 19th centuries in the wilderness areas of America will discover that traffic jams were not at all unusual. There are accounts, not only of river and lake travelers spending a significant amount of time in line at portages, but also of wagon expeditions waiting, sometimes for days, in a line for ferry transportation across a river or, sometimes, even at a place that provided the only safe ford for miles across a waterway.

Artists such as Frances bring visual life to words in diaries and journals about those days when adventures were no less "hurry up and wait" than they are today.

Would you still remember me?

Someone recently asked me if my blog was becoming a music blog. No, I replied, but I shift gears frequently and wanted to try a few more demonstrative elements to illustrate some of the music I enjoy. Citing lyrics from songs I am listening to at the time of writing, or simply those I like, has been part of my blog almost since its beginning. In fact, not too long ago, one of my posts ended with the entire lyrics from today's song being printed.

This particular "musical magic" is an anthem of the 1970s and beyond: "Free Bird," by the band Lynyrd Skynyrd. This, some might deduce through personal knowledge and/or intuition, is my all-time favorite song. 'Tis the music of a true vagabond.

My introduction to this piece came in a small, all-night restaurant, after making the rounds of a few bars with a young lady of French-Canadian origins and whose name was Michelle. A juke box device was mounted on the wall in our booth. I flipped through the selections. I noticed a totally unfamiliar band.

"Lie-Nerd, Sky-Nerd, who are they?" I asked my companion.

She laughed at me, and explained the pronunciation and the origin of this southern rock band. Women always seem to know more than I do -- virtually about everything. The song on the juke box was "Free Bird." It immediately became my theme song. I suspect I was not the first, and I know I will not be the last, to adopt it ....

Both versions I have here are by the original band members, some of whom were killed in an airplane crash and others of whom have departed via a more natural route. For those who do not know, the singer here, Ronnie Van Zant, was among those killed in the crash, and his brother, Johnny Van Zant, now does the vocals for the band. Very similar voices, the two boys have (had?).

The lead version shows the band in action. The problem with it is that the guitar amplifiers are revved up (for the fellow who thinks he is Hawaiian, and is wearing the flowered shirt) to the point there actually is feedback, and the singer really cannot be clearly heard. Guitar guys, what can you say? Never loud enough for them. If you watch the singer, he does not hide his agitation about this problem, either. Contrarily, when the singing stops and the rocking starts, you can understand why the brightest girls cluster round the guys with the guitars.

The second version only offers slides of the band, but the music is a studio recording and words of the song can be distinctly heard.

The full song is approximately 15 minutes in length, however, apparently YouTube does not permit songs longer than approximately 10 minutes in length, so both versions are cut off rather abruptly.

Maybe I will post another song or two after this one, to include my selection for the third best (maybe tied for second best) under the category of absolute best singer in the era of rock music. Then, I will be "traveling on" to another idea .... or, maybe, to another place .... or even to another time ....

Actual band performance ....



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CkTQUtx818w

Slides and studio recording ....



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qD90Z912lLE

A raft is a raft is a raft -- or is it?

Lumber Raft 1868 -- another painting by Frances Anne Hopkins

A river runs through the farm

Do you ever wonder, sometimes, how people living under primitive conditions are able to accomplish what they accomplish? My painter and your very own Frances Anne Hopkins provided an illustration of ingenuity 19th Century style in her painting, "The Lumber Raft 1868."

This time, I am not certain of the exact location where this event took place, but I would not be afraid to put a few dollars on the table betting that it was on Lake Superior, and probably an enterprise associated with building projects in Fort William and Port Arthur in present day Ontario, Canada.

Look closely at the painting and at the scope of the activities. The raft in the foreground, one of two in the painting, has three large sails and a tent. What appears to be five large barrels or bales are on the deck, probably food supplies. A cooking fire burns. There are approximately 50 men scattered around the raft. No small enterprise, this. No better eye for detail than Frances.

Although mine was not a task comparable to the one captured on canvas by Frances, when I was a boy, about 11, I built a raft by creating a double layer deck from old, dried fence posts. For a few weeks that summer, I was a Minnesota version of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, exploring a river that ran through my grandmother's farm. The raft met an untimely end when it was consumed in a grass fire the next spring. It was timeless and ageless fun while it lasted.

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks;
The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends.
'T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,--
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

The concluding lines from
"Ulysses"
By Alfred, Lord Tennyson

I have nothing to say

Ile Dorval 1866 -- another painting by Frances Anne Hopkins

Fram Actual & Fram the First meet Frances

I have nothing to say. My mind is filled with thoughts, but nothing wishes to emerge. In which case, I will take the opportunity to post another painting by Frances Anne Hopkins. This one is titled, Ile Dorval 1866.

Dorval is a small community located on the southwest portion of the Island of Montreal, along the shores of Lake St. Louis. Many wealthier families from in and around Montreal, mostly English-speaking, went there in search of a summer refuge during the latter half of the 19th Century.

The history of Dorval dates back more than 300 years to 1667, when Sulpician priests established a mission on the outskirts of what was then called Ville-Marie. The mission, originally named "Gentilly," was later renamed "La Présentation de la Vierge Marie" and finally, "Dorval," after the nickname of a French landowner.

Offshore is Ile Dorval. Such was the view when Frances painted it in 1866. This piece demonstrates her skill and her versatility, as well as her knowledge of the fashionable art of her day.

And, if the gentleman reclining in the foreground looks at all familiar, I will admit to being present that day, and was captured while admiring the antics of the three young ladies in the rowboat offshore. For those with keener eyes, they might also notice the head of Fram the First in view just in front of me. He chose to appear in Wolfen form and fashion that day. He is a funny joker, and rarely bites.

Music Note: Listening to Iron Maiden
Specifically, "Brave New World"
Some lines from "Dream of Mirrors"

Have you ever felt the future is the past,
but you don't know how?
A reflected dream of a captured time,
is it really now, is it really happening?

Don't know why I feel this way,
have I dreamt this time, this place?
Something vivid comes again into my mind
And I think I've seen your face,
seen this room, been in this place
Something vivid comes again into my mind

All my hopes and expectations,
looking for an explanation
Have I found my destination?

The dream is true, the dream is true

The dream is true, the dream is true

Frances & Sarah fill in for Fram

I have not posted since Sunday, and actually feel a bit guilty about it. What can I say? Since I have not been in the mood to write anything the past few days, I have decided to post another painting by Frances Anne Hopkins. "Shooting the Rapids –1879" is the title. If you look closely, you will be able to see Frances in her usual location, seated next to her husband at approximately the middle of the voyageur canoe. "That be me," incidentally, standing in the rear of the canoe -- the steersman who guides the craft. Between looking at the canoe paintings of Frances and mentioning the canoe novel "Deliverance" in a comment I made the other day, my mouth is beginning to water and my eyes are commencing to glaze over and my body is starting to twitch.

Paddle Your Own Canoe
By Sarah Bolton, 1851

Voyager upon life's sea,
To yourself be true,
And whatever your lot may be,
Paddle your own canoe.
Never, though the winds may rave,
Falter or look back;
But upon the darkest wave
Leave a shining track.
Paddle your own canoe.

Nobly dare the wildest storm,
Stem the hardest gale,
Brave of heart and strong of arm
You will never fail.
When the world is cold and dark,
Keep your aim in view;
And toward the beacon work,
Paddle your own canoe....

....Would you crush the giant wrong,
In the world's free fight?
With a spirit brave and strong,
Battle for the right.
And to break the chains that bind
The many to the few
To enfranchise slavish mind,
Paddle your own canoe.

Nothing great is lightly won,
Nothing won is lost,
Every good deed, nobly done,
Will repay the cost.
Leave to Heaven, in humble trust,
All you will to do:
But if succeed, you must
Paddle your own canoe.

True confession: I love these two girls

"Canoe Manned by Voyageurs Passing a Waterfall"

Frances went everywhere & painted what she saw

As is the case with favorite poets and favorite novelists, my favorite artist, Frances Anne Hopkins, is long dead. She was born in England, lived from 1838 until 1919, and spent 12 of her years in Canada. Her subject matter includes a series of "voyager paintings." This is one of them, above. There is no doubt this group of paintings strongly influences my designation of her as my favorite. Some of these paintings are huge as well as magnificent.

Frances was the granddaughter of a well-known British portrait painter, whose clients included the royal family. Her father was an admiral in the British navy, an explorer, author and artist of considerable talent. She married young, to Edward Hopkins, who was a chief factor in the Montreal office of the Hudson’s Bay Company.

Frances arrived in the vicinity of Montreal, Quebec, Canada, at age 20. She accompanied her husband when he went on an inspection tour of Fort William in 1864. Fort William began as a French fur trading outpost in the late 1600s. It is located on the banks of the Kaministiquia River in what today is Ontario, next to the northeastern tip of what today is Minnesota. Fort William and an adjacent city, Port Arthur, were merged in one and renamed Thunder Bay in 1970. The logical way to reach Fort William in 1864 was by water, by Lake Superior, by voyager canoe.

This was the first of at least three extensive canoe trips she made with her husband. Among the results of these trips were at least four "voyager paintings," as they came to be known. The most reproduced one, which was accepted for exhibition at the Royal Academy in London in 1869, is known as "Canoes in a Fog, Lake Superior." While I have never done any research on Frances, my impression is that she worked primarily in watercolors and oils. She was attracted to any number of settings and subjects to paint.

One of the signature characteristics in her paintings was including herself among the characters. In our painting today, "Canoe Manned by Voyageurs Passing a Waterfall," she is clearly shown seated next to her husband at approximately the mid-point of the canoe. Frances might be the only European woman to have seen and known first-hand the world of the fur trade and the life of the voyager.

Reflecting a moment, I think Frances not only is my favorite painter, but one of my half-dozen or so all-time favorite women.

Dorothy could write & and handle a six-shooter

While I am at it, I think I will toss out the name of another of my all-time favorite women: Dorothy Marie Johnson.

Between movies such as "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance," "A Man Called Horse" and "The Hanging Tree," I was not aware there was a common thread. It was not until I dove head first into studying the (once again) magical latter years of the 1860s and picked up a non-fiction book entitled, "The Bloody Bozeman," written by Dorothy, did I learn all those movies were based on stories written by her.

Dorothy’s life ranged from 1905 to 1984. She tried marriage, and gave it up after three years. She tried living in New York and working in advertising, and gave it up. She was editor of "The Woman" magazine, and gave it up.

Dorothy began and ended as a Montana newspaper woman, and also taught journalism at the University of Montana.

"She was kind of funny-looking. She was short and dumpy and had those Coke-bottle glasses," a colleague once described her. "Her speeches were always hilarious." A story about her relates how when a rattlesnake was found in a neighbor's house, she descended the cellar stairs clad only in a muumuu and "clutching a long-barreled six-shooter in her trembling hands .... fortunately, no shots were fired."

She was prolific, producing 17 books, 52 short stories and countless articles that spanned a 60-year career as writer and editor. In 1957, the Western Writers of America gave Dorothy the organization's highest award, the Spur award, for her short story "Lost Sister." Time magazine once compared Dorothy's stories to those of Bret Harte and Mark Twain.

And, believe it or not, Dorothy was a collector of handguns. See me smiling.

Music Note: Listening to Styx ....
Specifically, "Come Sail Away -- The Styx Anthology"
Some lines from "Come Sail Away:"

I'm sailing away
Set an open course for the virgin sea
For I've got to be free
Free to face the life that's ahead of me
On board I'm the captain
So climb aboard
We'll search for tomorrow
On every shore

A gathering of angels appeared above our heads
They sang to us this song of hope and this is what they said
Come sail away
Come sail away
Come sail away with me
I thought that they were angels
But to my surprise
We climbed aboard their starship
And headed for the skies