August 26, 2011

Dear Cyndy,

From my perspective, the CD I mailed you has several defects, the most obvious being Dvorak. Conceivably the CD was so damaged by the slovenly style of my mailing, that it produced no sound at all. At the time of my recording I had the unsolicited assistance of a "high level audio engineer" who had offered to audio- and video-record the performance for the Belmont Media Center whatever that might be. This gentleman whom I know only as "Ted" had the bizarre notion that the stereo microphones should be separated only as far as my two ears, - whereas logically the microphone separation should be as great as the separation of the speakers with which the sound is reproduced. Since Ted's project is to promote Nathaniel for his, - Ted's - own purposes I considered it important for me to respect Ted's expertise and follow his advice. That's why there's not much stereophony to any sound which your CD player might be able to elicit from the Cello Concerto recording.

The one day roundtrip to Nantucket was as satisfactory and successful as I had hoped. Tony, - that's what I needed to call Mr. Esposito - Tony showed up at the dock on time. I purchased the fast ferry tickets for him. We would depart at 11 a.m. He selected to return on the 3:15 boat, leaving one and three quarter hours for the inspection. On the ferry, we sat across from each other in a drugstore type cubicle adjacent to the window. While the catamaran was whizzing across Nantucket Sound at 30 m.p.h. I handed Tony a copy of the Inspector's Report and Condemnation Order as well as a copy of my rebuttal.  I opened my laptop computer and displayed the photos of my plumbing which are now accessible on the Internet to selected persons, such as yourself. The URL is: https://picasaweb.google.com/ernstjmeyer?authkey=Gv1sRgCLyi6u3szp_aWQ if you care to look. From the Nantucket wharf, we took a taxi to the house, and as soon as we arrived, Tony started conscientiously and methodically to inspect the plumbing. As he proceeded he became more and more vocal about the illogic and unfairness of the Inspector's condemnation order. With Mr. Gordon's, "my" plumber's arrival, an hour late, Tony's inspection came to an end as he listened to Mike's (Mr. Gordon's) exposition about the ills of the world in general and the unreasonableness of the Inspector determinations in particular. I think Tony welcomed Mike's corroboration of my account. At 2:15 p.m. I drove Tony to the wharf. Back at the house there remained only 30 minutes before beginning my own half mile treck to the bus stop on Makaket Road. I would take the 4 p.m.  bus so as to get to the wharf in plenty of time for the regular ferry which arrives at 5 p.m. and departs 30 minutes later.  The little time remaining to me, I spent adjusting the surveillance cameras. I lightened my pack by leaving behind the electrical code and the plumbing code. The summer sun was bright and high in the sky. I searched in vain for a sun hat, couldn't even find a kerchief to cover my baldness. Then reasoning that no one would observe my trudging up the lonely dirt road to the highway, I tried on a pair of underpants, - freshly washed of course - to see whether it would fit. It did, and it would protect me from the sun. Then wearing my new underwear turban, with the packframe on my back, I locked the front door behind me and was on my way. About not being observed by anyone, I was mistaken.  No sooner had I turned left on Red Barn Road, when a car stopped and a sympathetic voice asked, - presumably concerned about what might be transpiring under the unusual headgear, - could she be of any help. At what point I removed the covering from my head, I'm not sure, but I replied with utter candor. "Give me a ride to the bus stop." My wish was granted. I was invited into the front seat, next to the driver, a youngish, pleasant middle aged woman, to whom I explained that the only thing wrong with me was my stingy unwillingness to call a taxicab.  The half mile to the bus stop was long enough for her to tell me that the approaching hurricane made her very anxious, her waterfront home being unprotected against the anticipated blasts from the ocean. As I extricated myself and my pack from her car, she said, disarmingly, my name is Jane.  I said I hoped we would meet again. "And oh," she added, "Don't forget your underwear."- which was lying in the seat that I had just vacated. After Jane had driven off, I sat down on the bus stop bench by the side of the bicycle path, entertaining myself by observing the cyclists' expressions when they came into view, careful however to remove my turban as soon as I sighted the bus, lest the driver decide to leave me behind. Reflecting now on the past, it seems not out of character for me to walk half a mile to save $24, who 72 years ago walked 5 1/2 miles (from Battery Park to Columbus Circle) to save the five cents' subway fare. I find life very strange, mysterious. Perhaps I'm out of order, to describe where I have been. But is there anything else worthwhile to write about?

Jochen

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