I was listening to Ella Fitzgerald today. I love Ella Fitzgerald. That seems a pretty straightforward statement, does it not? But when I start thinking about the reasons why I love her, the emotional imprint I have that I call "Ella Fitzgerald" turns out to be much more complex than "simply" a reaction to musical genius.
I love, of course, all of the things that are there for anyone to love about Ella; the things that are found in the objective experience of her music. I love the richness of her tone. I love her sureness with her vocal "instrument" that allows her to leave the structure of language behind and move into the more freeform vocal impressionism of "scatting" while still maintaining a firm musical footing. I love the intelligence of her phrasing. I love that she can smile with her voice.
Then there is everything that was going on in my life when I first met Ella. I was 21, newly married to Judy, and working part time in a predominantly gay coffee shop, where I was challenged over and over again to defend my sexuality. "You are so totally gay," Damien said to me one day. "My wife would beg to differ," I retorted. "Oh yeah?" he challenged, a gleam in his eye. "What would you do if I took you into the back room and started to..." He whispered in my ear. I swallowed, trying hard to keep the image out of my mind. "Well, I'd probably stop you, of course!" I responded heatedly. "Probably?" he asked with a raised eyebrow and a grin. I sputtered and kept on mopping the floor, chagrined.
It was Paul, though, who I wanted desperately to work shifts with. Paul with the easy smile, beautiful skin, and a taste for music well beyond his years. Working with Paul was sonic heaven. Paul knew all the ladies, and I grew to know them too. Billie Holiday, Marlene Dietrich, Maria Callas; all were from a foreign land for a boy from the suburbs raised on easy listening and then moving on to rock, punk, and alternative. It was Ella I loved best though, and even today my feelings for her are tied inextricably and inexplicably and oh-so-sweetly to unfulfilled yearnings for a young man named Paul who had a taste for older men when I was not one, a young man who I wanted when I could not want young men, who wanted me not at all and who was therefore safe to want, who maintains a perfect smile and complexion forever in my mind.
Ah Ella!
Oh, this is very bad. This is what the back of the camera looks like. Well, okay [sob], this is what the back of the camera looked like.
Note the large, gorgeous LCD screen. Note the gorgeous knitting. Note the lack of any viewfinder whatsoever.
Now imagine that it looks something like this:
Eye yam sofa king we tarred it (say it aloud, very slowly... if it still doesn't make sense say it aloud, very slowly, to someone else (probably best not your mother)). I got all cocky because I don't fall down when snowboarding anymore. Not unless conditions are insanely icy, that is. Not unless my ridiculously expensive camera is is my pocket.
Sigh.
At least I left the iPod in the car...
In more positive news, I cast on the first sleeve of Irish Moss tonight! Sorry, no, there aren't any pictures...
Rachel asked about Durrow, so an update of sorts. Durrow is still not very big, rather boring to look at, and a very unusual colour in this pic:
The fun doesn't really start until the sleeves, and I've committed to finishing one of the boring bits before doing a sleeve. That, or maybe I'll give up and just make arm warmers.
Much more interesting to look at is the Irish Moss for JP:
Just a few rows from having front and back done. Sleeves are fast, right?
Stephanie found a great place to mount the Solio Solar iPod Charger she got me for Christmas...
The ultimate in propellor-head chic, dontcha think?