Went to the Fort Worth Symphony Orchestra presentation of Eastern European composers. Worthwhile and depressing. Worthwhile in the Dances of Galanta by Kodaly and the echo of the gypsy orchestra, the dance of the clarinet, which may have somewhat the same use and quality as in New Orleans jazz; also the transformation of the Dies Irae by Liszt into the Totentanz was moving. It would be interesting to hear the 'real' Dies Irae first and then Liszt's version. Miguel Harth-Bedoya, the conductor, turned around and said so nicely to the audience, "That's OK," when it had, in part, clapped for the Slavonic dances when he had finished the first of 4.
I wondered why the 2 pretty ladies an empty chair away from me left before the encore. Then on leaving the upper gallery, was waiting on people coming down from above, looking at some old ladies, pretty women, and fat men, thinking I would proceed onward when they let me, amused that for all the people, and I wouldn't have been 4 minutes for all of them, nobody took a break for me waiting to let me in, secretly proving a point I have. Then, a voice from behind, "Are you just going to wait for all these people to leave?" Me ironically, "Well they are falling down (at least potentially, and I didn't want that to happen)." No comment from the balding man, who pressed quickly on down the stairs as we got to them. People in Dallas and Fort Worth really are not friendly. Business and family (period). This was echoed, of course, in driving home as The Lexus vied with the Mercedes to see who could drive most daringly; it was actually the pickup truck and his follower weaving in an out of traffic, even on to the margin of the road as they scurried up North Loop 12. "Forgive us our trespasses as those who trespass against us" is a good prayer here.
The exception to this is Highland Park. I can picture, from maybe 15 years ago, walking near Armstrong street and, a somewhat older man, saying, "Hello." It would be an interesting history of culture to know how this came about. I remember an analyst talking about seeing the burden of social prominence in someone from Highland Park, about his age, that he was accompanying, as an aid at the local state hospital, to shock treatment. But whether it was Taylor Hunt's father talking about his ability to take flights with all the advantage miles he had accumulated going back and forth to Bunker's bankruptcy trial in New York; or Taylor being put down by a teacher in class and gallantly, verbally eviscerating him in riposte, it sure made it more fun to go outside there than anyplace else in DFW.
Bryan. Bryan Williams, MD, G-d spare me the verb, was Dean of Students at Southwestern Medical School. We had a graduation party at his house on Beverly in Highland Park in '73. With Picasso's covering the walls, the music, my dad's smile, a fruition, it was a moment to draw assurance from without thinking about it in thin times ahead. The last time I saw Bryan, he was walking on the piazza of the school in the summer. There were only a few people about. "How can anyone live here? It is so hot," he called out with some bonhommie. He came to our 25th reunion. I didn't. My anxious scheduling to make a living paved over my possibly scheduling to go before I could get to it. After the party, he went home and, according to the school paper, "died a natural death."