Every January I hibernate; go into a deep funk, lose my faith in humanity, pray for the angel of death to deliver me. I become extremely touchy. Glib statements which don't even register as speed bumps in July now become one more exhibit in my interior trial of whether or not humanity is anything more than a worthless superficial proletariat.

And every January, books save me. Tolstoy came to my rescue first (after I capitulated to an acquaintance's needling that I read "Girl with the Dragon Tattoo" - Nabokov did it MUCH better with "Lolita" - waaayyyyyyyyy more creepy; one of my saviors in January 2011). "Anna Karenina" was my island of gentle-male illumination of real humans. No Hollywood good guys or bad guys. Just beautifully drawn, flawed 3-dimensional characters. My book club's discussion on this book sent me spiraling back into my funk. How can enlightened people so miss the mark? I heard "I thought Tolstoy needed a good editor", "I identified with Anna's passionate romantic soul", "None of the characters were likable", "Why put in a character and scene we see only once?", "Why all the discussions about farming or party politics NOT pertinent to the story line?" (because you never read Moby Dick?????). . . . . I was so flustered I hit the wine not caring about the migraine that would certainly follow. Thank God I had a redeeming phone conversation with a friend who read "Anna" in high school. Humanity was holding on by his thread.

One of the reasons I loved "Anna" was because I could identify with characteristics, both good and bad, in every character. (There are about a trillion reasons why I love this book).

The next book I picked up and am now reading is Richard Taruskin's "Music in the Late 20th Century". Again, he's my island of calm. I love writers who are not afraid to take sides emotionally. Taruskin is brave enough to implicate himself. I RESPECT THIS!!!!! Beyond his writing which knocks my socks off (says a lot given that he's a musicologist and I get an itchy trigger finger whenever I think of those beasts) I find in his pages the ability to put form and words to feelings I've not been able to coalesce before. For example, Taruskin paints Ligeti as a shrewd marketer; he's a poser, a well crafted poser - but a poser. I've never been drawn to Ligeti but I couldn't offer a cogent argument. Truly, I smell posers and am not drawn to that ilk. (Yes, I know that Stravinsky was also a poser, but he also had the "IT" factor - something I cannot sense in Ligeti). Speaking of the "IT" factor. I've been emailing with a friend who's writing I adore, trying always to get him to go public with his music reviews of concerts he attends; he sends them to a few select friends. We were bandying about the "IT" factor and he came up with a succinct definition I fell in love with:

"I know "it" isn't style. I think a lot of it is, mean what you say, say EXACTLY what you mean. That is harder and less objective than it sounds. It doesn't take more words or less words, just the words that work best. Just. :-) "

It's January 26th. Five more days of this bleak month. Today we have sun and blue sky. I have 450 more pages of Taruskin as salve. I think I'll safely get through another winter.

They say "Never Share The Stage With Kids Or Animals". Last Friday night I threw caution to the wind and invited ALL the kids in a standing room only, Family Night Concert, up to the stage. Classical Revolution PDX was producing this event and Mattie Kaiser, the evil genius behind CRPDX and Friday night, thought that she'd entrust a portion of the concert to me, though I tried telling her I've never done anything like this before and I'm not much more than a kid myself and all hell could break loose and and and. . . . .

Mattie wasn't buying. She asked me to email her my program and detailed schtick. I did. I would play Linus and Lucy. I would have an orchestra of kids bang out a 4-beat accompaniment on the low end and high end of the piano while a choir of kids leaned and spilled over into the piano (we had removed the lid) and yelled "BIG BIG LITTLE LITTLE" depending on whether the hammers struck the long big strings or the short little strings. The evening's lesson was on pitch and how it related to size. Hyperactivity never entered my mind. Cycling a bunch of buzzing electrons through the accompaniment such that everyone got a shot at playing while I banged out the melody in the middle went much smoother in my head as I ran interior rehearsals. Thank God I had lots of experienced adult help onstage. Truthfully, I think I had the most fun and yelled the loudest judging by how sore my throat was the next day.

Mattie requested that I play Linus and Lucy as a solo while the stage was arranged for the following final act. I encouraged the kids to stay but most of them were ushered back to their seats. I launched into Linus and Lucy while one lone cowboy stayed around to hold down the fort on the treble accompaniment. His daddy was at the front of the stage beckoning him but no way was he leaving his post. He was about 3, extremely serious and understated and perfectly on key and in rhythm. When I finished, he continued for 8 beats more, stopped and looked up at me for confirmation. "Dude" said I, "You carried the show!"

Later, his daddy told me this was dude's first exposure to a concert. Another parent told me I was very brave. And truly, when you know you're going to be upstaged by a bunch of kids and you can't beat 'em, you might as well join 'em. . . . LOUD!

Why does Classical Music resort to empty superlative adjectives when describing pieces or performers? It comes across as silly and superficial: "You'll hear Beethoven's Op. 131 as a startlingly new sounding piece of music" describing Brooklyn Rider. But How? Will they play on kazoos instead of violins, viola and cello? Will they play it twice as fast? Over-the-top adjectives and adverbs never sell me. In fact, they make me wary and I'm more apt to stay away knowing I've probably been burned like this before in an advertising methodology that smells slightly of used car salesmanship.

I have a weird gift. Either I hear stuff, like a dog, way before humans hear it, OR I have the ear of The Universe. I fell in love with Argentine Tango WAYYYYYYYYY before Portland ever heard of it, or adopted it. And look at us now, the world's epicenter for the stuff. I fell in love with bicycling WAYYYYYYYYY before the Wedgies discovered the West Hills around my home. And look at it now. The things I love are created for me. Right here. Usually I don't have to wait long.

I fell in love with Classical Music. . . . .

I'm guessing that all of us with pure loves get them. I'm guessing we don't even have to ask.

Men are a funny thing. I think I'm going to be attracted to one, the Carter Cello Sonata, with his early gorgeous harmonic sweep, seconds before it has me puzzling all night over how to tackle an issue of timing - something very critical in relationships. 30 seconds or so after we've met I'm asked to squish 5 into what used to be 4 but with a continuing reference back to the old? I know, I know, we should probably seek counseling in cleaner communication skills.

And then an older flame walks in. Not unannounced, but certainly I thought I'd discovered everything outwardly erotic in his come-hither transliterated bouzouki cadenza greeting which sweeps me off my feet and melts my Anatolian heart every time I play it. May I introduce you to Alan Hovhaness' "Lake of Van" Sonata for piano. I'd add opus 175, but Hovhaness hides his age well and anyway, it's not polite to discuss ages.

Yesterday, while we were becoming reacquainted because we will be working together on March 24th, he shared with me his love of dance. Until now he rested only on the laurels of his stunning first impression, that damn sexy intro cadenza built entirely on undulating phrases, who's rhythm is fluidly based on my quickening heart beat or places where his eye catches mine and my breath stops.

The opening cadenza introduces the first dance. Very quick, jack-rabbit changes of direction requiring my frame to be sports car tight. He's given me very few visual clues on the page. He knows I'm a dancer. And he's a natural lead. I step into his embrace and we're immediately negotiating meters. Yes, his Byzantine sense of play grounds me in the stability of a 3/8 meter - a quick waltz - before eliding into 2/8 five measures later. Back to the waltz after five measures and I'm reasonably relaxing. He's spinning me effortlessly around the room. Two measures of waltz and he reverts to his Oriental roots. Now we are in 5/8. Never mind, I grew up on this stuff. I smile a little crooked smile, raise my right eyebrow ever so slightly and refuse to look him in the eye.

He gets the message. He settles into the 5/8. I've won.

NEVER UNDERESTIMATE THE BYZANTINE. He will always out-maneuver me. And he did.

Now all hell breaks loose. From 2/8 to 7/16 back and forth - I cannot maintain a sense of control or balance. From 5/16 to 3/16 - contracting, expanding. It feels entirely organic but without his strong masculine hand on my back, guiding me invisibly, I know I'm lost.

Here is that moment where my stubborn streak meets my acknowledged state: I cannot control this dance and he can. I can surrender or I can tussle for the sake of what? Pride? A useless concept with the Byzantine Orientals. I flash on Theodora (the first - wife of Justinian). I smile inwardly. In a game no Westerner can hope to understand, in a romantic liaison where my future with this piece rests on my acumen and my ability to make split second decisions, I surrender.

to be continued. . . .

"Would you like to dance this next set of Tangos with me?" I ask the gentleman who was, along with me, in the hour-long introductory lesson preceding today's Argentine Tango dance/practica. He answers yes, laughing nervously and explaining that this faster Tango style isn't his strong suit. I answer that I suck so we should be good to go.

We begin in open embrace. The first song in the set starts. Uh-oh. He's subtle. He's smooth. He's listening to the music. His stylings are as South American as his handsome looks and accent. I'm hosed. I wait for the corrections, for the macho patronizing attitude. Nothing. He apologizes for having lost the music and then we figure out the the CD playing actually has skips. He laughs nervously again and continues closing up the embrace. Still humble, still sheepish.

The first song is over. I look at him askance and say honestly that he dances this faster style of Tango (called Milonga) better than anyone with whom I've danced so far. He laughs and says "oh noooooooo" - again, with great humility and obvious nervousness.

The second song starts. The pauses, the marionette moves sideways, the crab step - all led so easily that I forget how much I suck. I'm actually looking like something out there.

His attitude never wavers, never changes. I ask how long he's been dancing tango. He answers, after frowning and thinking hard, "5 years, but I only feel like I'm really catching on just recently".

The third song in the set (called Tanda) begins. He pulls me all the way into the close embrace. He continues choreographing cute folk stylings, totally befitting to the music.

There is a 4th song in this tanda. Still nothing but humility, immediate complimentary responses to my effusive compliments about his dancing. The 4th song finishes, completing the tanda and our dance partnering. I gushingly thank him, get his name and make him belly laugh when I say "Remind me to NEVER play poker with you!"

I am struck by my own gullibility, particularly when listening to my friends and how they process their disappointments.

Last night I enjoyed a spirited conversation over a languid Italian meal with 4 other friends. One of us is much more boisterous than the rest, and it isn't me. At the end of the evening he noted that the classical music station in town was ticking off the top 100 for the New Year. He was thrilled and I was bored. This man has a rich history in Classical Music, including a stint as a dancer in the ballet. Afterward I traced a line to another friend who's knowledge of Classical Music is broader and more analytical with commensurate broader tastes. This friend is a composer. He bemoaned the loneliness of not finding souls who could share his particular music loves or the way he wanted to talk about music. And then I stretched still further to another friend who's style of talking about music is opposite - succinct, dogmatic but not descriptive; who's tastes are a bit more fringe and narrower, though deeply mined within that gossamer field. This other friend also expressed the sadness of feeling alone, of no one really understanding his loves.

Earlier in the day I was doing a work-out on my treadmill youtubing through Queen Adreena vids. I had just discovered her the previous day doing "In Red". Oddly, I KNEW that no one in my circle of friends would tolerate much less love this cut and yet, it didn't make a difference to me. It was just a fact. I am SOOOOOOO turned on whenever I find anything or anyone that moves me - a true addict personality. I need the high. I could care less whether or not you love her. Ditto Tolstoy. I'm reading "Anna Karenina". For the second time, I might add. The first time I gutted through the book just to get to the punch line. I hated it. This time I'm addicted. Cannot put it down. Lovingly read over and over sentences that with a minimal number of words capture subtle emotional facets of characters that would take a hack like me several chapters to outline. (My God the Russians blush a lot).

I remember a relationship I was in where I was properly impressed with the number of CDs this guy owned. I was also impressed with his knowledge of the music and fun facts about the musicians he imparted. It took me several years to realize that I made a ton of assumptions that were wrong. I assumed breadth and depth in areas I was interested. I assumed a definition of "Love of Music" which mirrored mine. And I was sorely disappointed when I finally woke up and realized that the person lying next to me in bed was as far away from me and loving music as my soulmate who perhaps loved music in the same way as me, but lived in China.

In that moment of anguish, Leonard Cohen captured it best:

"I've heard there was a secret chord,
That David played, and it pleased The Lord,
But you don't really care for Music, do ya?"

For lunch today, I met a student at 5 Guys Burgers and Fries (how drunk do you have to be to think this is a clever name for a restaurant?). Student is now a junior at Duke U. I think he was 8 years old when we began working together. Our conversations now cover the usual college student gamut in addition to the really cool classes he's taking, which means I'm hip enough for him to feel at ease with sharing, and I'm honored.

My friend called up this afternoon asking to come over for tea. Her teenage daughter had tested her zen practiced patience to the max. She needed a reprieve.

Her visit lasted long enough for her to calm down, just in time for my next student to arrive. This student cracks me up with her wicked wit (just like her mother's). I was stunned at this high schooler's application and focus. We had spent months playing phrases perfectly in order to slow down her eyes and practice preparing before pressing down keys. Tonight she played an extremely difficult piece and caught all 5 mistakes on her own across the 5 pages of music.

My friendships are as much with the students or kids or young adults as they are with the parents. I remember fondly my Greek friend who brought her two sons to me for piano lessons several years ago. One son has since graduated from Sarah Lawrence and the other is a sophomore in same college. I am friends with the entire family, individually. This was a delicate feat given Greek mythology and how true we run to type. My Greek friend would go ballistic over her kids' behavior during those years they were taking piano lessons from me and I would smile serenely and answer "Stella, my job in your life during these years is to prevent you from killing your children and feeding them to your husband".