Laurel Massé

The cat and the Fiddle and Dance

Hot, sultry breezes ruffling the leaves, neighbors out walking, kids getting ready for the fireworks - it's Independence Day. Mrs. Peel and I have been celebrating our freedoms all day here - freedom to have breakfast, freedom to play with the feather-on-a-string-thing, freedom to take naps. What a country!

I am still savoring the sweetness of Western and Swing Week at  Ashokan Fiddle and Dance Camp, and am a little between worlds, as I always am when I first return home. That this holiday is falling right after camp is a blessing; it gives me one more day before I have to make sentences for humans.

You may remember that I had, at the last minute, lost my cat care person due to a scheduling conflict. I was a little frantic until I thought to ask friends who go to camp every year and live in the area if we could stay at their house. They generously agreed, and so Mrs. Peel had her first long road trip. It's one thing to be in her little crate in the car for as long as it takes me to move it for alternate side parking. She had done well with that. A two and a half hour car ride is another thing entirely, and she made quite a few objections, in the raspy baby voice she usually only uses for yelling about dinner. Imagine Tina Turner complaining in the passenger seat. She was obviously not happy.

When we arrived at the M's house, they were loading their car with camping gear, and getting their dog settled, so there was a fair hullabaloo going on. I took Mrs. Peel up to the guest room and let her out of her crate. She fled under the bed, and stayed there most of the next two days, until she felt safe. Then she started zipping and zooming around the room, exploring at high speed.

I traveled back and forth several times a day, to feed her and play with her, and I slept there at night, and it all worked out. We were both given little revelations. The sunny spot on the floor was a new experience for her, as our city windows don't get any direct light. She liked the warmth, and was entranced by the dust motes that dance in sunbeams. Watching her, I could see for the first time the faint tabby striping in what usually looks like a night-black pelt. There was a dressing table in the room, with three mirrors, each reflecting a cat who looked just like her. How alarming! Much posturing and puffing up and skittering ensued. But when the mirror cats proved incapable of coming up with any new ideas, Mrs. Peel lost interest. She then invented a new game to play: bat the ball hard. She's ready to join a soccer team as goalkeeper. Or, since balancing on a broomstick is as easy as lapping up cream, to be Keeper on a Quidditch team.

She ate well, she behaved beautifully, all this I expected. What I had not entirely anticipated was the effect of being able to bring her, how merry it would make me, even though it prevented me from staying at the camp itself.

On the way home, she voiced her complaints again, all the way to my sister's house, where I stopped in for a glass of cool water and a hug. Babette suggested Mrs. Peel might like Mozart. Once back in the car for the last leg of the trip, I turned on the radio, and found no Mozart, but - to my delight! - a station playing Louis Armstrong records from the 1930s. Perfect music to listen to after such a joyous week, at least for me. At the first sound of that golden horn, she stopped talking. Her ears flicked forward in interest. A minute or so later, she stretched, and yawned, listened a litle longer, and then fell asleep.

I should not have been surprised. Mrs. Peel is one hep kitty. And Pops? Well, he really was the cat's pajamas.

 

 

 

 

Ashes, ashes, we all fall down

You know those weeks when everything falls apart? When you seem to be in a cosmic gravity vortex, and one thing after another slips from your fingers, eludes your grasp, and crashes to the floor?

I am having one of those weeks.

Within the past seven days, I had to cancel a concert, I lost my live-in cat care for next week while I'm at Ashokan, and I turned down a future engagement because I was already committed on the date, only to find that the gig I agreed to was moved to a date I can't do, and the one I turned down has already gone to another artist. What else? Let's see. The bluetooth headset for my phone has learned how to shut itself off, and does so blithely, but only on the business calls (and don't tell me it's an inanimate object, because I have news for you: there's no such thing!). A dear friend I'd hoped to see when he came over from England is not coming after all. A play in which I was cast has been postponed. People I urgently need answers from are not responding to my calls, while my mom is annoyed because I don't call her often enough. Little lightnings everywhere.

And tumblings down. None of these things are big. but they are all coming at once. Ouch! It makes me think of the tarot Tower card.

For me, tarot cards are wonderful tools for focused meditation. The cards are works of art that I can lay out on my kitchen table now and then (unlike La Grande Jatte or Michelangelo's Moses), and the archetypal images speak to my dreaming mind.

The card above shows all the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, and they are hammering on the tower. Blam! Crack! Blow, winds, blow! Kapow! The squiggly symbol on the left side of the tower, just above the falling guy, is my birthsign, Capricorn.

In this simpler card below, the Tower is called La Maison Dieu, the House of God. When things are flowing very smoothly, I feel God's presence, and all places are God's house. Then I stub my toe, sometimes literally, sometimes figuratively, and I am kicked to the curb. I feel as if I am pelted so hard, with so many little (and round!) problems, that they've knocked me right out of the tower. Clunk! and... well, there I was, and here I am.

One other thing I noticed in this particular card: the tower has three windows. Third century martyr, St. Barbara, was told by her father to watch over the building of a bath house as he was traveling. In his plan, there were two windows; in her cosmology there had to be three, for the Holy Trinity. So, she altered the design, and added the third window. When her father returned, he was so outraged that he drew his sword and attempted to kill her on the spot. Last October, I was privileged to be involved in the world premiere of Holy Women, a cantata by composer Robert Sirota and librettist Rev. Victoria Sirota Robert. St. Barbara's aria, gloriously and madly sung by Abby Fischer, still rings in my mind's ear. Rumor has it that there is to be another performance, this time in New York City. I will post the date as soon as I know more.

And in the meantime, mind the gap.

 

Turn the radio on

I had a lovely time this afternoon being interviewed by Sandra Lee Schubert of Wild Woman Network. You can listen here.

 

Slow hot wind

I am spending my morning in the Bronx, surrounded by a few of my fans - a Vornado, an SMC, and a Holmes - and am ensorcelled by heat and the magic of moving air. The Vornado is a terrific fan that keeps the air swirling throughout the whole room without blasting straight at you. This makes it easier to reread Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, because the pages aren't turning themselves in a gale. The Holmes window fan is doing a remarkable job of pulling cooler air in from outside even when there isn't actually any cooler air out there. The SMC is not in the same league as the other two, which I knew last year when I left it up at Ashokan "by mistake", but had forgotten when I found it still there and brought it back home. It makes all the same noises as the other two, but it's an ill wind and doesn't blow too good (sorry, Will).

That's the only let-down from camp, though. Everything else I brought home - memories, new songs, new ideas, and the sense of being part of a community - is rich and rewarding and works really well.

Acting as if

I don't remember why, in high school, I lost the part I'd auditioned for and gotten in the school play. Attitude, perhaps? or some difficulty with walking and talking at the same time? Who knows? I do know that my only other foray into drama (official on-the-stage drama, as opposed to teenage angst drama) back then was when I was cast in Our Town as The Choir, and sang several verses of Blessed be the tie that binds. Somewhere in there I got the message that I could sing, but not act. And there I stayed for decades, even when people said, "But you act in the songs you sing!"

But that's not the same thing, I'd think. I can't act, I'd think. Or in wildly optimistic moments, I'd think, I don't know if I can act.

A theater director and dear friend dodged all that thinking, and cast me in a reading of The Madwoman of Chaillot. As the Street Singer. OK, said I, because I trust my friend, and, of course, there was singing involved. And a line or two. This was my introduction to Project Rushmore, a nascent theater company that is starting out by doing monthly "paired readings" - two plays that address the same issue. Then I was cast as the older Kitty in a lightly-staged reading of A.R. Gurney's The Snow Ball. A little dancing was involved. just a step or two, or not even really dancing, but knowing that you can (thank you Ashokan family, for every time one of you has asked me to dance in the Pavilion!). Most recently, this past Monday night I was Lenny in Beth Henley's Crimes of the Heart. Oh my, it's a wonderful play. The words feel true in your mouth, just like great lyrics do, and so maybe it's not so different from singing. That's part of the magic for me.

The other part is the being-with. I live alone, I sing alone most of the time. When I am going to gigs, I usually am driving alone; in fact, for several years I sang without accompaniment which is really alone. But I love group endeavors. Manhattan Transfer, Moxie, and now JaLaLa all witness to that. As did being part of Team Training Dog Obedience at Mahogany Ridge in Saratoga and the Volhard camps. And teaching with fellow artists at The Cabaret Conference at Yale, and most of all, being part of the community that is Ashokan. I love the shared passion. I love harmony in every sense of the word. And I really really love being part of something good. The excellence and the generosity of the other actors in Rushmore is extraordinary, and it's just like jazz. Yes. It's just like the Basie Band. Group sections. Solo riffs supported by the whole. Intensity and dynamics. And always, always swingin' for the fence. The stakes are high, and the groove is irresistible, and the whole band is with you.

I feel blessed beyond measure.

My "Blue Skies" and Killian's CD on NPR

I have just heard learned that the version of Irving Berlin's Blue Skies that I sang for Killian Mansfield's CD, Somewhere Else, is today's Song of the Day on NPR. You can go to NPR   to hear the song, and to share comments. Please take a moment to do so - the more activity the piece gets, the longer it stays on the front page, with Killian's picture!