Dear Marion,

Here's a text I put together two nights ago:

My dilemma is whether I should write now, before the details
of the past three days' journeys are lost in the dusk of
amnesia, or whether I should continue to pursue the mirage
of order and neatness before the dusk that is merging the
dark green leaves in front of my window into a curtain of
blackness, takes away also the mental energies that I need
for my task.

The trip back was straightforward, uncomplicated, dramatic
for its lack of drama.  The price of leaving on time was to
forget to unplug the microwave, to forget to turn off the
electric hot water heater, to forget to turn off the power
to the submersible pump, to forget to bring back enough
short-sleeved shirts, and to forget to make sure that the
telephone answering device with which I start the surveillance
program was not inadvertently disconnected when I draped
the computer with its plastic rain sheath. Fortunately there
is Jeane, whom I reward royally for her help, who will
drive up to the house today or tomorrow to correct my
deliquencies as best she can.

We stopped in Chilhowie, to - as they would say in Konnarock -
"gas up", then drove north on Interstate 81, hour upon hour
to the sound of CD player music, beginning with Schubert's
final song cycle "Schwanengesang" which comprises some of his
most inspired Lieder, to which I like to listen over and over
again. Then Beethoven's Emperor Concerto. I hadn't heard it
for years, and as I listened to it now, I felt as if my life
was making a feeble - and of course unsuccessful - effort to
recycle.

It was at the Rest Area on Interstate 81, just north of Staunton
that I slipped the CD with the Bach Cantatas into the player.
The disk begins with Cantata #52 whose music and meanings I
have cherished for decades. That cantata opens with a parody
of the first movement of the first Brandenburg Concerto. I'm
much appreciative of Bach's sense of humor and irony, invoking
his own brilliant (and presumably admired and successful)
composition as emblematic of the "Falsche Welt" (Deceitful
World) which the Cantata deplores and impugns. 

Here's the German text.  You can find various translations,
if you want them, at this URL:
http://www.bach-cantatas.com/BWV52.htm


Falsche Welt, dir trau' ich nicht (BWV 52)
1. SINFONIA

2. REZITATIV

Falsche Welt, dir trau' ich nicht!
Hier muß ich unter Skorpionen
Und unter falschen Schlangen wohnen.
Dein Angesicht,
Das noch so freundlich ist,
Sinnt auf ein heimliches Verderben:
Wenn Joab küßt,
So muß ein frommer Abner sterben.
Die Redlichkeit ist aus der Welt verbannt,
Die Falschheit hat sie fortgetrieben,
Nun ist die Heuchelei
An ihrer Stelle blieben.
Der beste Freund ist ungetreu,
O jämmerlicher Stand!

3. ARIE

Immerhin, immerhin,
Wenn ich gleich verstoßen bin!
Ist die falsche Welt mein Feind,
O so bleibt doch Gott mein Freund,
Der ist redlich mit mir meint.

4. REZITATIV

Gott ist getreu!
Er wird, er kann mich nicht verlassen;
Will mich die Welt und ihre Raserei
In ihre Schlingen fassen,
So steht mir seine Hülfe bei.
Auf seine Freundschaft will ich bauen
Und meine Seele, Geist und Sinn
Und alles, was ich bin,
Ihm anvertrauen.
Gott ist getreu!

5. ARIE

Ich halt es mit dem lieben Gott,
Die Welt mag nur alleine bleiben
Gott mit mir, und ich mit Gott,
Also kann ich selber Spott
Mit den falschen Zungen treiben.

6. CHORAL

In dich hab ich gehoffet, Herr,
Hilf, daß ich nicht zuschanden werd,
Noch ewiglich zu Spotte!
Das bitt ich dich,
Erhalte mich
In deiner Treu, Herr Gotte! 

=======================================

I'm persuaded by an existentialist interpretation.
If, as Kierkegaard (and other writers) claim,
God is inwardness or subjectivity, - then the author of
this text is dramatizing the dialectic of society and self,
of objectivity and subjectivity, - a contrast to which it
seems to me Bach as artist was extraordinarily sensitive.
The intimate identification: Gott mir mir und ich mit Gott.
is, of course only a seeming solution to the paradox.

While driving north on I-81, enmeshed in traffic, with
52 feet long trailer-trucks weaving around our modest minivan,
we listened to the subsequent cantatas, serially to the
brilliant Christmas cantata No. 63, Christen aetzet diesen Tag,
in Metall und Marmorsteine, a sentiment which reflects
the synthesis, albeit of questionable validity, of the
contradictions decribed in Cantata # 52. If I took the time
to write about all the intervening Cantatas, I would never
have a chance to describe how, last night at 2 a.m.,
I lost my way in downtown Boston.

Except for Cantata #57, which I find very remarkable. However,
today the computer server at the University of Calgary,
which functions as a repository for all the cantata texts
is balky. Since I can't retrieve the text of Cantata 57,
I'll put off writing to you about it to some other time.

As for getting lost in downtown Boston, that happened when
I drove to the airport to fetch Klemens, whose plane from
Chicago had been delayed for 3 hours by thunderstorms.
It would finally arrive at 2:30 a.m. In the middle of the
night, the drive from Belmont to the airport shouldn't
take more than half an hour. As usual, I entered the
Turnpike at the Cambridge Exit, but no sooner had I paid
my $1.25 toll, than signs informed me that the Turnpike
was closed for repairs at Copley Square. I thought then
I would drive across the Back Bay on Berkeley Street and
take Storrow Drive past the Infirmary and Mass. General
to Leverett Circle and there enter the highway tunnel from
the other end. But the Interstate entrance at Leverett Circle
was also closed by a different construction project.
Barricades diverted me onto a street I had never driven.
I cruised through the North End, past uncounted gentrification
projects at the waterfront, down Atlantic Avenue, looking
everywhere for the entrance to the Sumner Tunnel which I
knew must be somewhere, to take me under the harbor to the
airport. In vain. My contact lens became foggy; I could
barely discern the edge of the road, and slowed to a crawl.
It didn't matter. There were no cars behind me. Directional
signs were either poorly illuminated or non-existent.
I knew where I was, but I couldn't identify the proper turns. 
Finally when I did find a ramp to I-90, the signs confused me.
Instead of east to the airport, I found myself driving in the
wrong direction, west, toward Worcester.  The first exit,
many miles down the highway, was at Cambridge-Allston, where
I had previously entered.  I paid another $1.25 toll, left the
Turnpike and drove into town on Storrow Drive, then alongside
the Public Garden, down Arlington Street, turned left on Stuart
Street and finally found the Turnpike entrance at South Station, 
but no signs to I-90 East, where I needed to go. Instead,
I found myself on I-93 South, as if on my way to Hyannis.
But I knew now what to do.  At the Morrissey Blvd, JFK
Library exit, I left I-93 South, crossed the Interstate
on a bridge,  navigated a traffic circle and found the ramp
to I-93 North, finally confident that coming from this
direction, I could identify I-90 East to the airport.
Klemens to whom I had explained my predicament by cell phone,
had waited for me about 20 minutes. He was very tired,
but in good humor.  We drove back to Belmont without incident,
and arrived home at 3:30 a.m. At 9 o'clock I drove Klemens
to his office in downtown Boston, then I went to the post
office to certify Form 5500EZ for the IRS.  It is due
sometime in July, but the forms hadn't been available until
after we had left for Virginia. Next, to Cambridge Savings
Bank to have my signature guaranteed in an effort to persuade
TIAA-CREF to disgorge the $2010.00 which is all that remains
in Margrit's retirement account. The assistant manager was
very friendly, but No, he said he couldn't guarantee my
signature without proof of my appointment as administrator
for Margrit's estate. I drove home, fetched the letter of
qualification, but this time I drove to Cambridge Trust Co.
on Trapelo Road. Their parking lot is more convenient, and
the sun was getting hotter by the minute.  Finally I obtained
my signature guarantee, and went grocery shopping.  Having
unloaded the car of groceries, I limped upstairs to lie down
on the bed, and slept solidly for three hours.

Nothing yet from the Appeals Court. Before leaving Konnarock,
I reviewed some of their cases on the Internet. I found that
they do have a 130 day limit for deliberation, but they don't
feel constrained by any rule. Not even their own. They
reserve the right to suspend the limit when it suits them;
and often they don't even bother with the formal suspension.
They have all the power, and wasn't it Edmund Burke who
pointed out that power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts
absolutely. At this juncture, my father would have commented:
"Froehliche Weihnachten" even though it's the middle of summer.
But it may indeed be Christmas - or later, before I hear from
them.

Your advice about settling Margrit's estate with detachment
and humor seems to me appropriate. I had myself reached the
same conclusion. Procedurally I'm quite satisfied with my present
position. I expect to recover modest sums from Margrit's accounts,
$3962.51 from Scotiabank, $8892.71 from Concentra Financial,
and 2010.00 from TIAA, a total of $14865.22, a sum offset by
$18594.31 debts and expenses which I paid, exclusive of my
hypothetical charges for an administrator's fee or compensation
for the 340 hours of work on the three trips to Detroit, clearing
Margrit's apartment.  You've just done that sort of work and know
what it's like. Without having Aaron Atkinson's permission, Ute has
refused to mail me the original will and codicil, relieving me of any
hypothetical obligation to offer it for probate. Aaron's permission
has not been forthcoming. I, in turn, have rescinded my request for
the will and the codicil, and have asked Ute to continue to keep
custody of the documents, with the consequence that Aaron can't
proceed without my consent.  I haven't heard from Aaron, and
I don't expect to hear from him.  What he might propose to do,
is a mystery to me, since the estate is more than $3729.09 in
debt (to me) and has in fact been settled.  Furthermore, from
my inspection of the Codicil, I conclude that this very formal
legal document is both a false writing and a forgery, an insight
which I propose to keep to myself since I will never consent to
its being offered for probate. - The only consequence of probate
would be that since administrative charges take precedence over
other debts, I would be required to shell out to Aaron, a usual
and customary executor's fee, - perhaps $3500, a payment which
would increase the estate's debt to me to $7229.09. I don't
think that will happen. 

I just spoke on the 'phone with Jeane Walls in Konnarock. She
went up the the house, where a tree had blown onto the power
line and the ice cream had melted. She telephoned Appalachian
Power Co. The electricity has been restored. Jeane also told me
that she very much wants Margrit's little car. I will give it
to her, and she has arranged for Sandy Greene, the one time
Army mechanic who drove Margrit and her car to Detroit last
December 9, to pick up the Miata in Belmont, driving back with
Margaret and myself, leaving Konnarock early in the morning of
July 23. Since we will have two drivers we can make the 850 mile
trip in one day. Barring a serious problem, I should be back in
Belmont to answer the 'phone when you call on July 25, and to
pick you up at the airport on July 26.  In the late afternoon,
there won't be construction closings, only traffic jams, and I
won't get lost.

Jochen