Landscaping for Privacy was written in August-September 1995 for twisted tutu (Kathleen Supové, keyboards and Eve Beglarian, vocals) while we were in residence at the Bellagio Center in Italy under the auspices of the Rockefeller Foundation. The poem is by Linda Norton. The keyboard part was written to be played using the arpeggiator function of a synth keyboard, sort of like a new convertible with an automatic transmission. I tried to capture the fragile elation urban types feel at driving out of the city on a beautiful Saturday morning in spring.
Landscaping for Privacy
Make a pagoda of thyself!
--inscription on a medieval sundial
The hedges along the parkway, the trees, the trees--
They sashay, they nearly genuflect, they breathe.
Its good to breathe; its good to get away in summer,
It makes you feel clean. The city, the squalor, the mess,
Thats whats killing us. Did I tell you about the rat
I saw in the subway last night? It had a swollen belly
And no fear, it went right for a transvestite in heels!
Enough; I know; not here, not now; I should relax,
Shut up, let go. Oh, yes, Long Islands very fresh and nice;
Do they have rats out here, or just field mice? And I forget,
What do people do with themselves in the suburbs?
The streets are empty, the lawns unused. If I lived here,
Id spread out, Id hang a hammock, Id keep sheep,
Id dig a well. Id build hummocks to my own
Specs, Id be positively pastoral.
But youre right, of course. Of course, youre right.
I couldnt keep sheep, theres probably an ordinance,
Theyd shoot me for ruining property values.
But whats property, anyway? Years ago
I read about a pillar of roses in an English garden
And so I own it, I have the deed by heart.
Speaking of which, pull over, look,
Heres a surprise for you. Check out my bicep.
Do you like my new tattoo?
What do you mean, "What is it, did it hurt?"
Its a miniature gazebo! Of course it hurt!
Note the incredible detail, the wicked craftsmanship.
See--its a garden pagoda for me and you,
With ivy, and grass, and a snake in the grass.
Hey, what are you doing? Oh yes, thats good,
Yes, kiss it and make it better. Because
It did hurt a bit. In fact, it hurt like hell
(Remember that night when you touched me
And I yelled?)
OK, lets drive, lets tour the hydrangeas
And the lawns. What could be more suggestive
Than a grassy mattress? Maybe that TV glowing
In a darkened den, shades nearly drawn.
Slow down, slow down--thats strange: a sick room,
A suburban tomb, on a day like this,
With the clouds all starched and bustling
In a Disney sky. Look, they have a gazebo, too,
Jam-packed with rusted rakes and trash.
If I had their lawn Id soak it and sun bathe on it,
Id sleep out under the stars, Id walk to the mall
And strap a sack of fertilizer to my back and hike
All the way home. Weve lived in the city far too long,
Yes, thats whats killing us. That, and this monument
To love we lug, this brick inscribed FOREVER.
Lets let it sink. Lets kiss. Give me the wheel,
Ill drive so you can look at clouds.
"All clouds are clocks," bulldozing time.
Do you remember who said that?
A pauper? A philosopher?
Well, he was right,
Those pretty clouds are bullies--
Fluffy but cruel,
Ushering last days for many.
There are three versions of the piece: the original version for narrator plus the PC88 keyboard's arpeggiator; a version for narrator with acoustic piano and playback; and an ensemble version (voice, alto flute, bass clarinet, vibes, marimba, and piano.)
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