Labels are what you put on
packages, not people. To me people are "human
beings" with the same needs, but each with a
different degree of intensity. One of my best
friends calls me: "mashugana" - roughly
translated that means crazy. He should know as
he is one of the best psychiatrists in Florida.
My nickname in school in Buenos Aires was "Terremoto" (earthquake) and I have been known
by some attorneys as "slightly odd."
I see nothing peculiar about riding my
bicycle around Lighthouse Point with a headset
on mouthing words to a song I am trying to
memorize: "Es de klanke van de aovendklok...." a
simple, "hello, how are you today? Did you know
that the rain in Spain stays mainly in the
plain? And that if you climb every mountain, and
look for the silver lining, you will be
guaranteed a nice day?" That usually earns me a
big smile!
My neighbors are used to me by now. Not only
because they hear me singing, "Oh, What A
Beautiful Morning," from Oklahoma, in my
swimming pool during my daily work out, but they
know I skinny dip. Even the post lady smiled when
she saw me run to fetch my mail in my bare feet.
What she did not know is that the package
contained eight of Andre Rieu's cds, that I was
elated to finally receive. I thanked her for
bringing me "The Flying Dutchman." She looked
askance at my happiness and walked away fast.
I immediately opened them and put on my
headset and lay down on the tile floor in the
Florida room. I listened to two or three tracks
and decided it was time to scream. Then when a
fast polka was played, I jumped up and down to
get my heart rhythm going. With the melancholy
violins, I thought it best to cry, and when a
melody came on which was not my favorite, I
practiced deep breathing.
About one hour into my exercise routine, my
husband came home with a tennis racket in his
hand and some friends from the club in a bad
mood because they had lost the tennis match.
"What is going on here? Are you hurt? Why are
you screaming and crying and dancing and
panting, simultaneously? Do I need to call an
ambulance, or the paramedics to take you away in
a straightjacket?" How could I explain to a
person with an engineer's mentality that I
wanted to be left alone with Andre on the floor
because we were practicing Korean, Gestalt
Yoga!!
My husband studied engineering at the
university in California, and has a degree from
the University of Utah in Economics, and over
22,000 hours experience as a jet pilot, but when
it comes to art, he hasn't a clue of what I am
talking about. He shames me when he falls asleep
during a Wagnerian opera. I can't sing them, but
I do appreciate the effort and lung capacity of
the mezzo sopranos. It doesn't matter whether he
is looking at a Van Gogh painting, or listening
to "Wie Sjoen Os Limburg Is" by H. Bordon, or
tasting rare Limburger cheese, or contemplating
the tones of color in tulips; it is all Dutch to
him!
He further embarrasses me in front of my gay
artistic friends by walking out of the room when
they arrive; but he can tell you every baseball,
football, and tennis score for the past ten
years. You can't beat him at Trivial Pursuit
because he has a memory like a sponge, and I
could care less "who's on first." Let him try
singing, "Art Is Calling For Me" by Victor
Herbert, or "Just You Wait 'Enry 'Iggins, Just
you Wait" from My Fair Lady, without cue cards
in front of an audience of 2000.
We artists have earned the right to be
"different." Normalcy - is what I expect from my
accountants.
Keep a song in your heart, and the Limburger
cheese in the fridge.
Artistically
yours,
Alinka
