The other day, in the wake of Inez’s passing, we heard several takes on this. How about another?
Aretha Franklin (with James Cleveland & The Southern California Community Choir), “Mary, Don’t You Weep,” live, Los Angeles, 1972
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lagniappe
reading table
The recent death of a friend of my younger brother’s, whose sole housemate was his beloved cat, brought this to mind.
“Cat in an Empty Apartment”
by Wislawa Szymborska (MCOTD Hall of Famer; trans. from Polish by Clare Cavanagh & Stanislaw Baranczak)
Die—you can’t do that to a cat.
Since what can a cat do
in an empty apartment?
Climb the walls?
Rub up against the furniture?
Nothing seems different here
but nothing is the same.
Nothing’s been moved
but there’s more space.
And at nighttime no lamps are lit.
Footsteps on the staircase,
but they’re new ones.
The hand that puts fish on the saucer
has changed, too.
Something doesn’t start
at its usual time.
Something doesn’t happen
as it should.
Someone was always, always here,
then suddenly disappeared
and stubbornly stays disappeared.
Every closet’s been examined.
Every shelf has been explored.
Excavations under the carpet turned up nothing.
A commandment was even broken:
papers scattered everywhere.
What remains to be done.
Just sleep and wait.
Just wait till he turns up,
just let him show his face.
Will he ever get a lesson
on what not to do to a cat.
Sidle toward him
as if unwilling
and ever so slow
on visibly offended paws,
and no leaps or squeals at least to start.
random thoughts: Marcel Proust (or is it Samuel Beckett?) on Opening Day
You look forward to it like a birthday party when you’re a kid. You think something wonderful is going to happen.
Actually, it’s Joe DiMaggio. But for Joltin’ Joe, like Marvelous Marcel and Slammin’ Sammy, life consists largely of “look[ing] forward” to things, “wonderful” things—things that seldom, if ever, actually “happen.” Just ask the Cubs: going into the eighth inning of Thursday’s opener, they were winning 1-0; they lost 2-1.
Friends and fans of Aretha Franklin offered prayers and good wishes after learning that the Queen of Soul, one of Detroit’s beloved musical artists, is suffering from pancreatic cancer.
Aretha didn’t have to wait until she was grown to be great. She was great when she was 14.
Aretha Franklin (at 14, vocal and piano), “Precious Lord,” live, Detroit (New Bethel Baptist Church, where her father, Rev. C. L. Franklin, was pastor), 1956
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lagniappe
reading table
The film rights to Zeitoun, mentioned a while back, have been acquired by Jonathan Demme, who’s going to make an animated movie of it.
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I’m nearing the end of Billy Sothern’s Down in New Orleans: Reflections from a Drowned City. It’s a mixed bag. Some sections are weighed down by political observations that quickly become predictable. But others are alive with the sights and sounds and smells of the streets.
When someone sounds as good as Aretha did last Sunday, only one word seems to fit: more.
Aretha Franklin (joined on the second number by Billy Preston and Little Richard), “Surely God Is Able,” “Packin’ Up,” live (Tribute to Marion Williams), Washington, D.C., 1993
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lagniappe
My heart is still there in gospel music. It never left.—Aretha Franklin
[A] lengthy service was perceived to be an honor to the deceased—a testimony to the great impact of his or her life. Consider the 1996 funeral of Bishop David Ellis Sr., pastor of Detroit’s Greater Grace Temple of the Apostolic Faith, whose services stretched over three days. His body was laid to rest in a $30,000 gold-plated casket that was ‘propped at an angle in the church aisle so mourners could see his body resting on red velvet cushions.’—Karla FC Holloway (in Passed On: African American Mourning Stories [2002])