Denver

July 13, 2012

Sweet rain brought my hibiscuses to white and pink and scarlet flower. Kevin sings happily in the midst of his kingdom which now includes the world. Monteverdi on Spotify. Of all composers, Monteverdi is the most like rain.

Did not keep good record during the time in Denver, but will try to catch up. Getting there was none of the fun at all. Every single leg of the journey with United Airlines was plagued by some completely (or nearly so) avoidable disaster. They keep gobbling up other airlines while incapable of running the one they had to begin. Even arriving back, finally, at 11 last night was not the end of it. DJ and I are awaiting our “delayed” baggage, which one could hardly blame for not being able to follow the route of our changes and re-bookings. On the other side, they went out of their way to help DJ with difficulties in getting into and out of the plane. The airline people actually before us were sweet and helpful, shielding the money grubbers who run thing so stupidly and ruinously from behind closed doors. I heard myself grumbling as I walked through the empty corridor of the Asheville airport seven hours after we were due, “There is no reason for it to be so hard.”

Denver is a welcoming, friendly, high-hearted city, a truth I learned on my first visit, and which my second visit confirmed. There was a day of rain (quenching the fires that burned Colorado), but other than that the weather was blue, stainless, perfect. Our name tags singled us out, and the locals were happy to see us. I suppose we spent wildly. But also, I think they were just curious, in the sweetest of ways. The Curtis Hotel is playful, with each floor dedicated to a different genre of movie (we were Science Fiction). The hotel staff was friendly and, to use the word again-- because it was both surprising and delightful-- playful. I got into the practice of rising when I usually do (which is two hours earlier in Colorado) and having coffee at the Starbucks at 16th and Curtis. Out of that I got a one-act play (about having coffee at the corner of Curtis and 16th and watching the world go by) and a hundred observations to keep with me and mull over. The local homeless evidently start their day there too; I got to know at least three of them fairly intimately: the handsome, ruined loner with his wadded sleeping bag under his arm, the wild-man artsy type, the screaming insane lady who is either cajoling or lamenting, wrapped in a pale gray blanket. From there I moved to the Starbucks on Larimer, where I watched the artsy part of the city waking. Cocktails on Larimer, too, of a night. I had forgotten (since New York) the joy of being drunk in the afternoon. Denver gave that back to me. Of course I will be remembering random impressions from now on. Such as the horde of dragonflies outside our 8th floor window. Such as the half moon pale in the pale sky when I rose to go to Starbucks. Such as the rabbit grazing in peace under the feet of six thousand partygoers in the sculpture garden. Such as the Hispanic boy in the elevator who kissed my shoulder and said, “I can’t find my boyfriend, and I am so very horny,” and all I could think was, “You are so very young!”

GALA itself was excellently organized, flawlessly executed, and–contrary to my expectations–a mountaintop experience. Many of the choruses were good. Some of them passed good into categories of excellence all their own, including the choirs from Calgary, San Francisco, Seattle. Orange County, Portland. Such beauty is not satisfying; it is shocking, journey-provoking. I was moved to tears about half the time, a great and necessary cleansing. Some choruses were bad. No need to name them. After we had sung I thought I’d put us in the “quite good” category, but not in the same league with the big choruses whose oceanic tone cannot be rivaled by a group like ours. There’s no sensation like that of a mass of men singing together. Our last piece went awry, but exuberance guided us through, and that is a better pilot than caution We were not quite the smallest chorus, but we were from the smallest town represented. Sick with nerves, which is unlike me, but all was well when I stepped out in front of what I suppose to be my largest audience ever Once on stage I was so happy tears stood in my eyes. I personally had never sung those pieces better, and the thrill of a thousand people standing and cheering for you is epically inspiring. The audiences tended to be over-appreciative, but that was part of the tone of the whole event, supportive, brotherly, joyful, emotional, open-hearted. That it managed to be all those things while still being artistically credible– nay, artistically singular–is the biggest tribute I have to pay. I was sick of singing a month ago, Now I want to sing again as soon as I can.
 
The funny woman on the elevator, who remarked wryly about her duty to attend “the woman’s kumbaya concert. . . .”
The boys from Buffalo who adopted me in ten seconds, took my picture with themselves, and sent me home with one of their gold buffalo membership pins. . . .
The girl from Dublin who gave me a lollipop whenever she saw me, because I had complained I had not gotten one of the lollipops they were passing out. . .
The rickshaw boy who debated with me the relative merits of Tolstoy and Dostoevsky . . .

Returned to the art museum, a miscalculation, considering the state of exhaustion DJ and I were in.  Saw maybe half of it, though all was lovely. One of the memorable images is of the museum snack bar girl running across the pavement shouting my name, to tell me that the cab she had called for us was on its way.

On the homefront, Ben the Tree Guy had taken out one of the big yellow pines.