Tuesday, September 04, 2007

Later that same day

Even though I had two excuses, some Ives scores came in the mail and it
was wet out, I rode anyway. Stats follow (they're measures of time,
speed, and distance, shouldn't they be called dyns?)
The odometer is nailed, maybe not precisely, some ducct dape may be involved, but where the Volvo said 8.75, Fidelio claimed 8.8. So that't near as we can get, I suppose.
They do take slightly different routes traffic being what it is.

Dangerous is what it is.

40:18 min, 13.1 avg, 24.4 max spd.

I'm going to study my Ives scores now.

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8 Comments:

Blogger butch said...

As I plink away on my 8 or 9 year old Dell, which is our third computer over the years, I wonder what it would be like to upgrade a bit too. And yet without a "Keth" around to assist, it gets crazy. My youngest daughter helped set up the Dell when it came in its many boxes. Then a guy from work revamped it for us when various viruses ate it up a couple of years ago. We are hooked up to Comcast cable, but lightening speed it never achieves. Maybe because it is old, mayble because there are a zillion people also on it at the same time. Who the hell knows?

Where did you take this 8.8 mile ride? I think that was left out of your posting. 13mph is pedaling like crazy. Was it all flat surface, no hills? Yes, traffic is a killer, literally. Like I said, I know a fellow who was hit by car while biking, and he was just left by the side of the road. A passing motorist stopped and assisted him, and called 911. But you always were such a thrill seeker, right?

I love the Anonmann analogy that puts your scores into the realm of jazz. He may be onto something with his 3rd streamn of consciousness stuff. Perhaps you could carve a fresh niche for yourself after all, and quit banging your old head on that old classical door.

Glenn

6:07 AM  
Blogger Lane Savant said...

8.8 miles to the Renton Fred Meyers and back. Basically flat except for the Dead Horse Canyon bit back up to the level I started from.
"Third Stream" music is music that bridges or combines both classical and jazz.
I don't try to write any particular kind of music.
My school is the "Kitchen sink" school, as in everything including.

10:39 AM  
Blogger Lane Savant said...

Also, read Soho's blog for today.
I am dilletante and amateur in both commonly used senses of those words

10:50 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Thrill seeker, come see me soon.
................Emily

10:53 AM  
Blogger butch said...

Matthew Guerrieri aka Soho wrote;
Etymology-as-argument has its pitfalls, but in the case of dilettante, it makes an interesting point. The word entered the language from Italian ("delighting in") in the early 18th century, largely as a compliment (much like the original use of the word amateur). The negative use doesn't come about until the 19th century—in other words, on the heels of Romanticism. The Romantic idea that artistic expression that broke with established traditions or models was still valid if it was an honest reflection of the creator's soul was, perhaps inevitably, flipped around—art that played around with traditions or imitative models was perceived as somehow less honest and valid

Hey the guy writes pretty good. As to your musical style, I hear the jazz, with riffs of blues, some classical moments, rock and roll, and hell even roller disco. So you are a lazy genius or you are so powerfully talented that no one form of music, no one field, can claim your name. Like a man, in terms of religion, who kind of believes in the big bang, and gathers pieces of the 10,000 religions on this planet, but subscribes to none of it, belongs to no one club, and beats the hell out of his own drum. So as Oprah says a lot, "You go girl!", or was it "Tom Cruise is just so cute!", or was that Rosie O'Donnell?

Glenn

12:34 PM  
Blogger butch said...

A traveling man you are, and your travels are the stuff of legend and this blog. My sweet Melva loves to travel as much as she loves to breathe. We met in 1992 and married in 1993, and there I was a new stepfather for three little stepdaughters in what felt like a no win situation for many years. But somehow times passes, and the girls were raised up, and left home, abandoned the nest, and now all is good. They visit us and we are happy to see them, and we are a loving family. Ain't life grand? So now Melva and I travel alone together, sans rug rats. Of course often Melva travels alone to conferences, or out to Baltimore to visit our oldest daughter, Chrystal, and our 1.6 grandchildren. Lane's wanderlust and need to pedal, his driving passion to bike around the Northwest, his cruise through my memories of Black Diamond and Maple Valley, letting the 50's, 60's, and 70's swirl up inside me, with only the brightest of colors and warmest of memories rising to the surface, sunny and blue-skied, with no room for the leaden eyed or gray overcast, or sheets of rain soaking the ferns to a fusilade of wetness as one brushes past them; wetness of leaves and concrete and creosote, lying heavy on train yards and coal bins and back yards, dampness in sheds, barns, and basements, all there, all strong in my olfactory recall, in my memory of my 63 years on this plane of existance, of how much I missed the Northwest when I spent a decade in California, as Doug did before, and over a shorter period, pulled back to the Sound and the Cascades and the Ring of Fire (that a student of mine from Alaska tells me extends clear to AK, volcanos and all), and somehow it reminds me of some old songs and some old poetry:

G A T E S T O T H E S K Y

Mother Texas on wheels,
with three daughters
and a hobbler,
climbing
through vast towers
of sweet pine, fir, cedar
and thick stands of cottonwood,
their leaves already brushed with gold;
peering over road's edge,
thousands of feet deep
into dark as dusk shadows;
hopping over washboard ruts
and racing over railroad ties
like tireless children;
swinging tightly around serpentine curves
and spiraling down
mountain sides,
much like the eagles gliding
hot and high above us;
pausing only
to pee and play
and stand near a waterfall,
rushing ice
and magnificent mist
crashing like surf
into the storm drain
under the road.

Mountain passes blurring
each into the other,
high jagged
against the sky;
knifed through solid rock,
by churning streams,
rushing creeks,
and frantic flowing rivers.

Water playing a percussionist's
symphony,
pounding, polishing
and serenading.
Juxtaposed
to countless canyons
of granite and lava,
blasted out by man
to allow his vehicles to traverse
those sentinels of several valleys,
spread between the foothills,
wide and vedure;
dotted with Indian missions,
log houses,
palominos,
and Victorian mansions;
whispering,
investigate me...,
as we traveled
through the kaleidoscope
of a Montana early fall.

Glenn Buttkus 1993

All this brought on by Lane Savant and his bike and Summer's end, and Fall's stirrings, and the darkness creeping later in the mornings and earlier in the evenings, remembering a farm my family rented in Covington, when it was way rural, when there were no strip malls, and I had to go for a few months to Kent Meredian High and go away from my friends from Sealth High, all except one, Doug Palmer, who was older, and already driving, because I wasn't yet, just dorking around on those country lanes in Art's 49 Plymouth, working the hell out of my learner's permit. So one fine Friday, Doug pulled up in his 49 Oldsmobile, with the 53 engine in it, old Lucille, and he stayed the night, slept there on the floor next to my bed, complaining in the morning that I moaned and scratched too much, and then he and I went out before breakfast to the barn and played handball, and I think I kicked his ass because I had been practicing, and it was my barn, and I knew where to hit it low and hard, and my mother was still alive so she whipped up some Saturday pancakes and eggs and cold milk, and Doug and I drove around some on those winding roads, and he let me drive Lucille a bit, and I scared him with my fierce rush at corners, and I remember that oil smell there always was in the car, as the engine spurted and roared and churned strong under the long hood. It was a fastback, a real beauty, giving me a taste for fastbacks that has lasted my lifetime. We stood in the yard next to the old farmhouse, and Doug talked about going into the Army then in 1960, that he had dropped out of college, or flunked out, and he was off to serve his Uncle, to be put into the motor pool, and begin his life's work twisting those greasy wrenches. Yes, Sir Savant, I remember it all, even those few letters you sent from Ft. Wainwright up there in Fairbanks. You were in Alaska and California before me, but still I made it to both places before settling into the South Sound, cloistered midst all the movies in the world in my dark basement, lit by naked bulbs and the light from within.

Glenn

7:13 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Butch/Glenn:-
1) Maybe your problem is the same the "Lovely Librarian" (="LL") and I face here; we can never get through to the US when "a zillion people are also on it at the same time"; for me it is 5-7 p.m. in the State Library here in Schwerin (8-10 a.m. PDT; 11-13 hours EDT). 1a) For her it is:
9 p.m. Schwerin time noon PDT; 3 p.m. EDT.
2) "13 mph is pedaling like crazy": I agree!! Lane, don't you ever bike for fun; is it always to beat Lance Armstrong (who was on drugs to achieve that speed)?? "LL" and I are both anti-drugs (see a rpevious comment).
3) "3rd stream" is NOT "stream of consciousness", but "jazzed-up classical".
4) Lance: Great composers ARE "kitchen sink" with recognizably-OWN styles!! Like you!!!!!
-- Anonomann (with regards from LL and me to your and yours).

9:33 AM  
Blogger Lane Savant said...

Yeah, but "third stream of consciousness" is a very provocative concept.
Try to imagine it.
Thinking like this is good for you.

1:17 PM  

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