Scottish writer James Matthew Barrie (1860-1937) was a great success during his lifetime, with 40 plays, six novels and numerous works of nonfiction to his name. But he is remembered today for one play only: Peter Pan, or the Boy Who Wouldn’t Grow Up, first performed 100 years ago this December.
While heavy on processed drums, the disc makes for compelling listening. The young women, products of China’s top orchestras, perform with ancient instruments such as the gu zheng (a zither with up to 25 strings), pipa (four-stringed lute) and dizi (bamboo flute).
“It did what I wanted it to do,” said my sister of the carefully composed little book of old family photographs she’d arranged with sheer vellum slips between the pages, “so they could see through to the old faces, maybe circle them, write things, mostly gather round close and remember because the book is small.” Their knees would almost have to touch.
Going down the list: after against among around, I think how trivial they are, how low their self-esteem, how like safety pins they merely connect. Prepositions are the paid help we’re not allowed to talk to, the maids in black uniforms who pass hors d’oeuvres at parties. Or rather, if we could laugh together, they would be the forbidden joy leaping like sparks between us. Who can survive without connection? All winter, green waits for the sun to wake it from its nap and so we say sunlight lies on the grass. Even the simplest jar connects—jar under moonlight, on counter, jar in water. Imagine prepositions in the Valley of Dry Bones stitching the femur to the heel, the heel to the foot bone. And afterwards, they got up to dance. Between, beside, within may yet keep the chins and breasts from tumbling off Picasso’s women. If I could, I would make prepositions the stars of a book, like the luminary traveling the navy sky the night sweet Jesus lay in his cradle, pulling the nameless, devious kings toward Bethlehem, and us behind them,
This soot-dark smear across the brow, between the eyes, will lead you, if the way be clear, through all the endless winter of our year, toward an elemental table, the tears and savage hubbub of that agonizing garden, the treacherous courtyard, hilltop, nails and spear, the cry, the dark descending fear, and then another garden with a cave and such an austere emptiness will fill the rest of history with clear resounding alleluias.
At least half of churchgoers in the United Kingdom claim they’ve heard their church organist occasionally slip in unexpected tunes, from popular songs to advertising jingles and theme songs from TV programs or movies. Sometimes organists are motivated by playfulness, other times revenge. One organist played “Money, Money, Money” by Abba while the offering was taken. Another played “Roll Out the Barrel” at a funeral for a man known for his drinking. (The organist got sacked for this transgression.) An organist in Scotland at odds with the elders played a thinly disguised version of “Send in the Clowns” during the procession in a worship service (Telegraph, May 3, 2013).