“We are friends. I like saying that. No one ever said this to me. I like it. We are friends. It’s good!”

Also sprach Friederich Nietzche to Joseph Breuer in the film “When Nietzche Wept” written, directed and produced by Pinchas Perry based on the best-selling novel by the same name by Irvin Yalom. The story imagines a relationship between Nietzche and Dr Breur where the two men make a deal. Dr Breur promises to heal Nietzche “physically” and Nietzche agrees to cure Mr Breuer mentally.

What is so fascinating to follow in the alternate doctor-patient, dominant-passive dance between the two characters. This experience is cathartic to both parties and psychoanalysis is born. In the film (I’m unclear what is fiction and what is true here), Dr Breuer is a mentor to young Sigmund Freud, and everything that the two go through in their ur-co-therapy ultimately shows up in Freud’s philosophy. By the end of their therapy, the two decided they are friends. And Nietzche finally articulates “We are friends. I like saying that. No one ever said this to me. I like it. We are friends. It’s good!” at which points he bursts into tears.

Doesn’t it seem that you never start to really be friends with someone until you’ve had your first fight. To have a friend who is a sounding board, who is honest with you and not afraid to disagree, someone to whom you can be vulnerable to and they to you, is a great gift. I take friendships for granted and I am foolish to do so. Take time to be a friend Roger, it’s worth it.

Ben Cross plays Breur and the amazingly brilliant Arnaud Assante plays Nietzche. The story is inspired by Freud’s “Studies on Hysteria,” the book that launched the Psychoanalytic Revolution.

As I mentioned the other day, I’ve decided to reread some Hermann Hesse books lately: would they be as stimulating as they were in high school or college?

I started with his first novel, Peter Camenzind. In it, I see how nascent artistic youths (esp. young men) might be truly inspired by this book. There are themes of leaving home, going for long walks, discovering wine, discovering women, discovering art, debating religion, debating suicide, being arrogant and discovering who YOU are — all testosterone driven impulses of a young man.

One part of the book has stuck with me: the act of finding a friend. Peter came from a small town where everyone dead and alive was a Camenzind. So, he evidently decided that a friend who is related is a different kind of friend from one who is not. His passion for finding a friend was touching. And this was not a homosexual desire, rather a homosocial one. He wanted a male best friend.

The most haunting part of the book was the part where he implies that he has no friends. This state seemed bewildering to me. The state of having NO friends. Trying to imagine this has made me realize and appreciate my thousands of friends. With each one of my friends, I, at some point, decided that I wanted them to be my friend, and they me. Having that articulated felt good.

Looking at Peter Camenzind at age 55 feels differently than it did when I first read it at age 19 –– been there, done that, but it still resonates with me.

—

It occurs to me that the decision to be someone’s friend is an integral part of MySpace and Facebook.

This is the opening number. The curtain opens and Penelope is sitting at her piano trying to compose “the perfect song.” She pines for long gone husband, O [Odysseus, aka "O-man"]. Her suitors encourage her to finish the song and to remarry. Grace Wall is Penelope.
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MP3: Play audio file (penelopes_story.mp3)

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“Penelope’s Story” from HOMER IN CYBERSPACE
Music: Roger Bourland
Lyrics: Mel Shapiro
Soprano: Grace Wall
June 7, 2008

As my summer is beginning, I stepped over to my bookcase and thought it a good idea to pick out something I already had. I drifted over to the Hermann Hesse section. There was Rosshalde, Steppenwolf, Glass Bead Game, Demian, and I chose Peter Camenzind, his first novel.

I loved Hesse in high-school: would I like it now? Hmm, I read Siddartha 2 years back and loved it. Let’s try again.

I started reading the book, er, the paperback book. Hmmm, let’s see, it says I bought it in March 1971, and it was printed in 1969. So this book, er paperback book, is almost 40 years old.

You may have heard that our libraries are burning. No, not in flames. The books that have a high acid (or any) content are slowly burning, or drying severely and will eventually crumble into dust. The pages of my Hesse book are turning yellow and becoming brittle. I looked at the cover: $1.95. I’ve read a quarter of the book. I am not liking the smell; I am feeling guilty about considering throwing the book away and buying a new copy (and translation).

We hold onto our books as little trophies: I READ THIS it says to the person who skims the bookshelf. THIS IS WHO I AM it implies.

This book, Peter Camenzind, has served its purpose. Throw it away Roger. Buy a new one. Stimulate the economy, even if it’s only 8.95 plus tax. Life is too short to spend long hours with stinky books.

Long live acid free books, and the E-books of the future.

My father had an LP of David Rose and his orchestra during my childhood. Every once in a while, he’d put on “The Stripper” and crank it up. No, my mother didn’t come dashing through a door with a rose in her teeth, ripping off pieces of clothing. It just made us want to dance. Do big body gestures. I quoted this in HOMER IN CYBERSPACE, and when I mentioned it to some, few knew the music. So I put it here to fill our your knowledge of musical repertoire.

One of the great songs by the late Philip Koutev, a brilliant composer and choral arranger, is called “Polegnala e Toudora.” David Crosby turned me on to this amazing song in the early 80s. This appears to be a later performance of the song.

MP3: Play audio file (toudora.mp3)

“Polegala e Toudora” by Filip Koutev, sung by the Bulgarian Women’s Chorus

I’ll never forget the last time I heard this group. It was at the Wiltern Theatre in Los Angeles in the mid-1980s. We were up in the nose-bleed seats, row XXX. It was half way through the second half. An small ensemble of eight women came out and sang a long plaintive an highly ornate folk arrangement. Suddenly, there was an earthquake. I swear to you, being at the top, I saw a sine wave slowly move across the balcony. People, especially in the balcony, were terrified and got up and ran. The poor octet on ground level seemed oblivious to the quake but looked but later baffled as to why there were so many people in the balcony were suddenly leaving. They looked at each other: “are we singing flat?” “is the microphone off?” They finished the number. We stayed and moved forward into better seats and came home satisfied with a great concert and an amusing LA story.

This weekend was devoted to relaxation. Lots of naps (6 each day), lots of movies (4 on Saturday and 5 on Sunday), cleaning the house a little, doing the dog’s nails, and constantly battling hysterical ants who are hellbound to find every little crumb I leave them. Friday night I photographed Corbin Smith’s fabulous opening of a new collection of photographs. I focused on people looking at his work, i.e., by favorite form of portraiture, “casual portraits.” I took about 300 shots, sent him around 200, and then culled them down to 30 and put them on my Flickr website.

No good deed goes unpunished. After a long day, week, year, I came home Friday night to begin my weekend of leisure, when all of a sudden: what is that smell? Hmm, smells like skunk? Are my dogs smoking weed? Hmm, no, this is definitely skunk. When all of a sudden, Cody comes bounding in with this look on his face — he had just been sprayed in the face by a skunk. Oy.

So at 11:30, thinking I was going to watch TV and fall asleep, I get into the car to buy tomato juice to bathe my stinky dog at midnight. I got most of the smell out. Yuk.

Of all the movies I watched this weekend, one scene stuck out to this sentimental composer. Clint Eastwood’s sensitive 1988 portrayal of Charlie Parker (”BIRD”) has a scene where Bird (Forest Whitaker) is listening to Stravinsky’s FIREBIRD with his wife. She points out to him that he lives nearby. They impulsively get in the car and drive to Wetherly Drive. Charlie goes up to the gate and rings the doorbell. Igor, then Vera, come to the door to see who is there. Charlie just looks at his god, and walks away. I burst into tears. He was my hero too. I would have done the same thing.

Done teaching for the year. Done with most of my major responsibilities. Done with my first year as Chair. Done with Homer in Cyberspace — I’m cutting the songs out of the last two performances putting together the Original Cast Recording. I hope to be posting music from the musical in installments on the blog: stay tuned.

I now get Saturday and Sunday off. Daniel is camping up north with friends from work. Just me, two dogs and two parrots. Ah, the peace and quiet of a hot, sleepy, summer day!

Big John
Big John
Every morning at the mine you could see him arrive
He stood six-foot-six and weighed two-forty-five
Kinda broad at the shoulder and narrow at the hip
Everybody knew you didn’t give no lip to Big John
Big John
Big John
Big Bad John
Big John
Nobody seemed to know where John called home
He just drifted into town and stayed all alone
He didn’t say much, kinda quiet and shy
If ya spoke at all, ya just said hi to Big John
Somebody said he came from New Orleans
Where he got in a fight o’er a cajun queen
And a crashin’ blow from a huge right hand
Sent a Lousianna fella to the promised land, Big John
Big John
Big John
Big Bad John
Big John
Then came the day at the bottom of the mine
When a timber cracked and men started cryin’
Miners were prayin’ and hearts beat fast
And everybody thought they’d breathed their last, ‘cept John
Through the dust and the smoke of this man-made hell
Walked a giant of a man that the miners knew well
Grabbed the saggin’ timber and gave out with a groan
And like a giant oak tree, just stood there alone, Big John
Big John
Big John
Big Bad John
Big John
And with all of his strength he gave a mighty shove
Then a miner yelled out, there’s a light up above
And twenty men scrambled from a would-be grave
now there’s only one left down there to save, Big John
With jacks and timbers they started back down
Then came that rumble way down in the ground
As smoke and gas belched outta the mine
Everybody knew it was the end of the line for Big John
Big John
Big John
Big Bad John
Big John
Now, they never re-opened that worthless pit
They just placed a marble stand in front of it
These few words are written on that stand,
At the bottom of this mine lies one Hell of a man, Big John
Big John
Big John
Big Bad John
Big John
Big John
Big Bad John
Big John

He lay face down in the desert sand
Clutching his six-gun in his hand
Shot from behind, I thought he was dead
But under his heart was an ounce of lead
But a spark still burned so I used my knife
And late that night I saved the life of Ringo

(Ringo… Ringo . . .)

I nursed him till the danger passed
The days went by, he mended fast
Then from dawn till setting sun
He practiced with that deadly gun
And hour on hour I watched in awe
No human being could match the draw of Ringo

(Ringo… Ringo… )

One day we rode the mountain crest
And I went east and he went west
I took to law and wore a star
While he spread terror near and far
With lead and blood he gained such fame
All throught the West they feared the name of Ringo

(Ringo… Ringo… )

I knew someday I’d face the test
Which one of us would be the best
And sure enough the word came down
That he was holed up in the town
I left the posse out in the street
And I went in alone to meet Ringo

(Ringo… Ringo… )

They said my speed was next to none
But my lightning draw had just begun
When I heard a blast that stung my wrist
The gun went flying from my fist
And I was looking down the bore
Of the deadly .44 of Ringo

(Ringo… Ringo… )

They say that was the only time
That anyone had seen him smile
He slowly lowered his gun and then
He said to me “We’re even, friend”
And so at last I understood
That there was still a spark of good in Ringo

(Ringo… Ringo… )

I blocked the path of his retreat
He turned and stepped into the street
A dozen guns spit fire and lead
A moment later, he lay dead
The town began to shout and cheer
Nowhere was there shed a tear for Ringo

(Ringo… Ringo… )

The story spread throughout the land
That I had beaten Ringo’s hand
And it was just the years, they say
That made me put my guns away
But on his grave they can’t explain
The tarnished star above the name of Ringo

(Ringo… Ringo… )
(Ringo… Ringo… )