August 25: Some Music, Musical Family, New Cartoon

After tea, they had some music.  For they were a musical family, and knew what they were about, when they sang a Glee of Catch, I can assure you especially Topper, who could growl away in the bass like a good one, and never swell the large veins in his forehead, or get red in the face over it.  Scrooge's niece played well upon the harp; and played among other tunes a simple little air (a mere nothing; you might learn to whistle it in two minutes), which had been familiar to the child who fetched Scrooge from the boarding-school, as he had been reminded by the Ghost of Christmas Past.  When this strain of music sounded, all the things that Ghost had shown him, came upon his mind; he softened more and more; and thought that if he could have listened to it often, years ago, he might have cultivated the kindness of life for his own happiness with his own hands, without resorting to the sexton's spade that buried Jacob Marley.

By all accounts, Charles Dickens loved to party.  He loved entertaining friends for dinner.  He loved going out to dinner and the theater.  He was a good actor and singer, and a decent magician.  He did all that, and he was a prolific novelist, essayist, short story writer, and magazine editor.  Can you tell he suffered from bipolar?  Well, he probably did, from all the information I've read about him.

So, when Dickens writes about Scrooge's nephew Fred's Christmas party, he knows of what he writes.  And music was always a big part of the festivities.

This afternoon, my church is having its annual picnic.  The praise band I'm in is providing the musical entertainment.  What that means for me is a lot of hauling equipment, standing behind a keyboard for a couple of hours under the sun, and then hauling the equipment back to church.  I'm not really enthused about the Saturday ahead of me.  I'd much rather just go to the picnic, eat some bratwurst and chips, visit with a few friends, and then leave.  That ain't gonna happen.

I guess I have less Charles Dickens in me than I care to admit.  I love being around people and entertaining, but I don't enjoy the work involved.  I should have roadies to set up my keyboard, and then I'd show up and play.  There's a reason why rock bands have roadies.  It's so the musicians can sit in their dressing rooms, eating green M&Ms until the concert, and then go play.  Yes, my praise band needs roadies.

I'd bet Charles Dickens had roadies.  I can't see the Inimitable building stages and carrying around harpsichords.  He had his peeps to do that for him.  Chuck never did anything half-arse.  I, on the other hand, will be busting my butt today.

At least Saint Marty will get some free hot dogs and chips for his efforts.

Confessions of Saint Marty

August 16: Winter Day, Weather, Rain

As the words were spoken, they passed through the wall, and stood upon an open country road, with fields on either hand.  The city had entirely vanished.  Not a vestige of it was to be seen.  The darkness and mist had vanished with it, for it was a clear, cold, winter day, with snow upon the ground.

The above paragraph is Dickens' description of the beginning of Scrooge's wanderings with the Ghost of Christmas Past.  I think I mentioned before Dickens' use of setting and weather. The Inimitable, as Dickens liked to call himself, is single-handedly responsible for creating the stereotypical Christmas scene, with snow and cold and holly and ivy and so forth.  Even though snow was not a common occurrence in London, Dickens paints a picture that's all Currier & Ives.  Scrooge's memories of his childhood are all frost-tinged and icicle-laden.  Bing Crosby would have had no problem singing about Dickens' version of the holidays.

In other sections of A Christmas Carol, Dickens uses weather and setting to similar effect.  The Ghost of Christmas Present is surrounded by snow.  He and Scrooge plow through drifts as they navigate the streets of London.  The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come is shrouded in fog and darkness.  Weather is as much a character of the story as Jacob Marley or Bob Cratchit.

I love rain storms.  This morning, it was pouring when I was getting ready for work.  In fact, the sky was streaked with light and thunder.  I almost didn't take a shower, but decided that hygiene was more important than safety.  On my drive to the office, the rain sounded like an army battalion marching on the roof of my car.  I don't know what the rain and lightning represent for my day.  I'm not expecting any sort of conflict or upheaval.  I'm not expecting any sort of cleansing or threshing of the fields of my life.  I just like rain.

I'm not sure what Dickens would make of my storm this morning, either.  I'm sure I could turn it into an ominous portent for the future, mental illness or financial instability.  I could also turn it into an omen of good fortune, weight loss or the Nobel Prize in Literature.  However, sometimes rain is just rain.  Nothing more.  Nothing less.

Saint Marty's still holding out for the Nobel Prize.

This may mean a bad day

Dickens' Bicentenary, Happy Birthday, Chuckling

The chuckle with which he said this, and the chuckle with which he paid for the turkey, and the chuckle with which he paid for the cab, and the chuckle with which he recompensed the boy, were only to be exceeded by the chuckle with which he sat down breathless in his chair again, and chuckled till he cried.

This little scene, which takes place after Scrooge has been redeemed, is full of the kind of energy that would accompany a condemned man being pardoned from execution.  Scrooge has been given a second chance, and he's positively joyous about it.  It kicks off the last stave of the novel, and it's what the reader has been waiting to see:  Scrooge the Changed.

I chose this passage on this morning for multiple reasons.  First, because both of my posts yesterday were more than a little depressing.  Second, because I love the picture it paints of a man on the road to redemption.  Third, because I love seeing rich people being generous with their money.  Fourth, because I needed a chuckle myself.  Fifth, because I think the manic energy Scrooge displays pretty accurately reflects Dickens' own bipolar disposition.  And Sixth, today is the bicentenary of Dickens' birth (the Inimitable, as he liked to call himself, would have been 200 years old today).

As I would expect, this bicentenary is being/will be celebrated the world over for quite a few months, but especially in Dickens' beloved London.  I've always had a thing for Dickens.  I have a 1,200-page Dickens biography by Peter Ackroyd that I've read (I kid you not) four or five times.  I just really love the details of his life.  His dissolute father.  His obsession with his dead sister-in-law.  His social conscience.  His trips to the United States.  Everything.  However, the thing that really sells Charles Dickens to me is the fact that I'm convinced he suffered from bipolar disorder.

Dickens, mean and wild

The descriptions of his wild personality, coupled with his bouts of severe depression, seem to be pretty good indications that Chuck would have benefited from some lithium.  When he was in his creative/manic phases, he would write all day and then go for twenty-mile walks through London and the English countryside at night.  He used his manias to great effect, considering his creative output.  Novels.  Plays.  Essays.  He acted in the theater.  He gave hugely popular public readings near the end of his life and made tons of money.  He died of a stroke at the age of 58, having published 20 some novels, four short story volumes, tons of essays, and nine or so collections of plays/poetry/non-fiction.  Holy crap!

But Charles Dickens was not an easy man to live with.  As the spouse of a person with bipolar (and my wife takes medications), I can vouch for the fact that Mrs. Dickens did not have an easy life.  Mrs. Dickens, herself, suffered severe post-partum depressions (and she had a ton of kids), so life in the Dickens' household must have been quite the carnival.  In his latter years, Dickens abandoned his wife to take up with a much younger woman.  This fact just convinces me even more of Dickens' mental disease.  Considering how conscious he was of the public's perception of him, the impulsiveness of this sexual relationship fits right into the pattern of the illness.  Again, I speak from experience.

Creativity.  Impulsivity.  Proclivity to erratic moods.  That's the Charles Dickens not too many people are aware of.  However, on this day, the 200th anniversary of his birth, I will think of a different Dickens.  The one who crusaded for the rights of the poor and uneducated and incarcerated.  The one who redeemed Ebenezer Scrooge.  The one who probably chuckled till he cried on many occasions.

Saint Marty salutes the Inimitable.