My Testimony…as a Believer*

I was born into a family of very nominal Christians, known as Methodists. The Bible sat on the bookshelf. My Father only prayed before dinner at Christmas and Easter.

I was quite talented, performing in singing, dancing and playing the piano from the time I was three. At the end of a recital performance when I was four, I saw a dark angel, an extraordinary being, which appeared to be standing behind my Mother. My first thought was that it must be my Father, but then I saw that my father was kneeling in the aisle of the auditorium, taking a photo. The air around the figure was an intense combination of white and black, vibrating. It was quite handsome; it’s eyes, however, were sullen red coals. I was shocked, and frightened at this vision. Then I noticed that the same glints of red also came through my Mother’s eyes. Later, I named the apparition “Lermontov” after Anton Wallbrook, who played the role of the dictatorial ballet manager in a movie called The Red Shoes. He had a resemblance to this entity. (Much later, in 2011, I went back to the Klein Auditorium in Bridgeport, CT. I laid hands on its doors and rebuked the enemy I had seen there.)

As a result of my encounter, I felt I had no choice but to hide the fulness of the gifts given to me until I was old enough to take responsibility for them. Unfortunately, that was not a good choice. However, as a result, I had what I thought of as a ‘typical’ childhood, though in a dysfunctional family. Nothing could have been further from the truth. There was more going on. My Mother was causing me bodily harm and my Father was protecting her. My sister, four years younger was no help, and, in fact, seemed to hide in the shadows and gloat when I was being persecuted. When family came to visit, there seemed to be a lot of whispering and conspiring of some sort. In utter hypocrisy, my family did attend church regularly and the church was a significant part of our lives. It was, as could be expected, a superficial environment. Ironically, the church was stunningly beautiful and had a full pipe organ, so every Sunday I was treated to Bach’s Toccata and Fugues. They also had paid soloists in the choir, so the lovely hymns were exquisitely-sung. At Christmastime they performed the Messiah. My love and reverence for the music of Bach and Handel started there…

At seven, after performing the Waltz of the Flowers on toe…the youngest one in the class, my Mother abruptly pulled me out of ballet, claiming now it was my sister’s tun. She also refused the horse riding lessons I had begged for, and instead insisted that I study art. I was, however, allowed to learn the instrument of my choice…the flute. That puzzled me at the time. Though it seemed I could hear the dark angel at night above our house, I was surprised that the energy of the flute was calming and seemed to be protecting me. How could this be possible, I wondered?

Then, a series of events turned things upside down. My Father almost died by suicide during my freshman year in college. I was horrified, and came to believe that the church had failed him, and God had failed him. I decided I could have no longer have faith in that God. At that time I had no understanding that Yeshua was taking the family apart because of what was happening to me behind the scenes. I unfortunately and foolishly stopped playing the flute. That summer, after my Mother returned from visiting my Father in the hospital, it felt like she tried to put a curse on me. The air around her turned white and black, and as she spoke, three black frogs came out of her mouth. It was quite terrifying to see.

After I graduated with honors from college, my Mother kicked me out of her house because I had found a job in New York City rather than in Fairfield. It dawned on me that the reason for sending me to college was not to gain an education, but to find a rich man to marry. That agenda had failed miserably. Again, this was God rescuing me from further abuse in that house. At the time I had no idea of this. The experience was quite traumatic.

I then met a man at the place where I worked whom I considered a knight in shining armor, as he took care of me. We married and moved to San Francisco. I looked at different kinds of religions, read new age books, briefly became a Rosicrucian, and came to think that Yeshua was one of the great prophets, but not the Messiah. But when I became pregnant with our first child, I had a terrible sense of unworthiness that I did not deserve to be a mother because I was not saved. But this was 1969, and I did not know how to be saved. So I read the Bible every night. I went to a Catholic church. I prayed the rosary.

When our first child was six weeks old, we moved to Boston, still gravely convicted that I did not deserve to be a mother. I then found out that I was expecting again. How could God be so good to me? I asked in astonishment. I was rebellious and unworthy. I could not believe this miracle, that God would bless me with not just one child, but two!

As I sat in the sunlight, the Bible in my hands, I heard a voice in my head, repeating the scripture, “And who do you say that I am?” “You are the Christ, the Son of the Living God,” said Peter. I knew that God was speaking to me. I knew I was saved. I was giddy with rejoicing.

And I began once again to play the flute. I promised God that, no matter what, I would play it every day… The only saved person I knew of was Saul/Paul, and I took his example to heart. I decided I did not just want to be a Christian, I wanted to be a disciple — to give back what had been given to me. But I returned to a Methodist Church, but because its teachings were so shallow, I learned nothing about the Word.

We moved to Minnesota and joined the Good Samaritan Methodist Church. My husband had a serious drinking problem and could become violent. When he assaulted me after our daughter was born I vowed that she would never have to live as I had, and left him. We divorced shortly after that.

I then began to study the flute seriously, with Sid Zeitlin at the Minnesota Orchestra, and later as a flute performance major at the UofM. But some strange things happened there that didn’t make sense and were quite overwhelming. I did not ask Yeshua if I should back away from the Minnesota Orchestra. In hindsight, I wish I had. I then met an orchestra bass player, who seemed like another prince charming. He pressured me to marry him, but I said I could only marry someone who was saved. Then he said he had watched Billy Graham and had become saved. He declared that he loved my three children. We did marry, and he later adopted my children, as my first husband had refused to pay for their care.

However, as we were packing up to move from our two apartments into a townhouse right after our wedding, I noticed his appearance suddenly change, his face and eyes glowed a sullen golden and there seemed to be something rippling under his skin. Later I came to think he might have shape-shifted before my eyes. I had never seen anything like it. I became frightened and devastated, realizing with a shock of despair that I did not really know the person I had married. I quickly came to see that just about all he had said was a lie. But why? I had no answer.

For about 666 days this man controlled every aspect of our lives. I could not afford to leave as he controlled all the money. He ridiculed me as a person and as a musician and also caused me bodily harm. But I did have the heady experience of practicing on the darkened stage at Orchestra Hall. I was also recorded there. It was a dream of mine come true, but it had come at a terrible price. It dawned on me that he was more interested in my children than in me, and so I began to fear and grieve for them, for what might be happening to them.

My children and I were going to the Jesus People Church, and I pleaded with them for their help and prayer. They pointed me to the scripture about the saved not being bound if the unsaved person leaves. They also told me to submit to him. I did so, and I prayed day and night. Lo and behold, when I started asking him serious questions about our relationship, he packed up in one half-hour and went to stay with a colleague from the Minnesota Orchestra.

By this time, I realized that this was the Zauberflote, and that it was a gift of the Holy Spirit. Evangelist Brian Ruud declared this when I played a movement from a Bach sonata at his revival meeting in St. Paul. Though I did not have much understanding of how the Holy Spirit works, I did realize that this could account for why there was so much havoc with the orchestra members and at the UofM. I found myself, essentially, locked out of the Minnesota Orchestra. When the players were themselves locked out in 2012, I realized that this could be in response to their treatment of the Zauberflote and myself.

I stayed single, and supported myself outside of music after that. It was a difficult and tumultuous experience. I was heartbroken and disappointed for the hopes which I had had for my children. My children were in the midst of a spiritual maelstrom. There were many issues in our lives and challenges that, at the time didn’t seem to make any sense. But I can see now that the enemy, this dark angel I had seen long ago, and still hear, at times, was trying to turn our lives upside down and turn us against each other. I had met a good Christian friend by this time who taught me about spiritual warfare, so I began to do battle in situations, using it, that appeared hopeless in the natural realm. Gradually, I would see the negative situations give way to stability and shalom. How could this be? I wondered. It was the grace of God, using the Zauberflote…

And, of course, I played the flute every day and did some performing. Somehow, things always managed to work for good, even though there were terrifying circumstances. I began more and more to see that the energy of the flute was helping to get the truth out of whatever challenging situation we might be facing, and then put everyone in a safe place. It was truly astounding. I could not thank the Lord enough. And, though I was not consciously aware of it, I sensed at that time, I sensed that the persecution I was experiencing was also a part of this great gift. In fact, I bear the stripes of Yeshua…these are they are but mild and temporal afflictions.

The Zauberflote was blessing us…prying us out of the jaws of the dark angel…

Then I met the love of my life ten years later, and he was a great blessing to us all, until he unexpectedly died in my arms in 2016.

After this, my first husband’s son died by suicide in 2018, and abject grief became my companion once again. There were days when I could hardly open my mouth to speak. I began to wear sunglasses, so that people could not see my tears. Still, I continue to make a sacrifice of praise, knowing that God has a wonderful plan…

I had been a part of a Messianic congregation off-and-on, since 2010. I had always felt this gift of the flute was a gift for the Jewish people, and most specifically the Jews who had survived the Holocaust. But I was not able to effectively communicate with the leadership about the Zauberflote. They ended up getting bits and pieces of my testimony, and it wouldn’t have made much sense. And then, some negative things were happening to them, which I reluctantly realized could be connected to the convicting power of the Zauberflote.

So, with sadness I stepped back, to wait for direction from Yeshua…

Just last week there was a surprise encounter which I can see was a blessing..

And so I am stepping out in faith and moving forward, not knowing whither…with my testimony and the Zauberflote. I invite you to help me in this historic endeavor if you feel led to do so. I ask that you not believe what I say, but test what I say and pray about it….

And if you would like me to play the Zauberflote for your needs, please let me know….I will be publishing the songs that come out of this weekly prayer time….

When you hear the Zauberflote you are blessed…

You can be richly blessed,

You can be blessed beyond all measure…

What are you able to receive?

Listen to the Zauberflote…and come into shalom…

https://open.spotify.com/search/shabbat%20shalom%20pamela%20brown

*Mozart 4 Believers…

Featured post

On the 230th anniversary of the death of Wolfgang Mozart…

He told us what was happening to him,

but we did not believe him.

He may even have asked for help,

but we will never know that…

Surrounded by adversaries pretending to be friends,

colleagues and kin,

he fought until the bitter end…

He never gave up…

Instead, Mozart gave us his last major opera,

The Magic Flute…

And he gave us the Requium…

supposed to have been written under another’s name…

A final disgrace…

An ultimate humiliation…

He thought he had to do this for money

for his family…

His body was tossed into an open grave…

No autopsy for him

While his adversaries breathed a sigh of relief

that the truth would never be known

That he was surrounded by a Vortex of the Evil Eye

that took him down

One tiny dose of poison after another

Cleverly spaced

Administered by different people

at various times

Just enough to keep him on edge

to turn the waves of shalom from his music

into money and favor for them

they all took a kind of mark

as a result

Salieri gave him the final dose

at dinner

Then Mozart took to his bed

never to rise again.

Make sure to tell the public he was bad with money

they whispered

That way, no one will ever guess that

what really happened

was a murder most foul…

Featured post

What do I mean by my being ‘locked out’ by the Minnesota Orchestra…

For the first time in almost 200 years the sound of new Mozart — his Zauberflote — was heard on the stage at Orchestra Hall. But it was not heard during a concert, nor was it given a proper introduction. Instead, the man I call “Monostatos” –a bass player –enticed me with the Zauberflote to ‘practice’ on the darkened stage. This priceless sound was heard throughout the building because the sound system was connected to the stage.

And yes, during this time Monostatos was even causing me bodily harm.

Week after week, during the 666 days of our captivity at the hands of Monostatos, I played from the flute and violin repertoire on that darkened stage. To what end? Colleagues of Monostatos literally crawled out of the woodwork, behaving very strangely, to say the least. Everyone in the orchestra knew what was happening. The concertmaster at the time called us “Beauty and the Beast.” But have you heard the slightest bit of excitement about these unusual circumstances? No. The tiniest shred of concern for the panic and trauma my children and I were subjected to? Nothing. Instead, Monostatos and his cadre have done everything in their power to keep all this secret while slandering my credibility.

During the 2012 lockout of the Minnesota Orchestra players, I began to wonder if their being locked out had any connection to their earlier ‘lockout’ of me and the Zauberflote. So I wrote to Mr. Vanska and explained my situation. I pleaded for the Zauberflote to be heard again on that same stage. I did everything I could think of to bring the Zauberflote to the attention of the Minnesota Orchestra Board as well. I felt that this would be an opportunity to resolve both their issues and mine.

But, unfortunately, that did not happen. To this day, those letters have, in fact, gone unanswered…

Update 12.13.20

Well, here we have another lockout — Orchestra Hall is dark once again, and has been since March.  We are approaching the day — December 21 — when Monostatos legally became a part of my family.  It is also his birthday.  Has he, or anyone else, come forward to tell the citizens of this great state the truth of what has been going on? Monostatos and the Minnesota Orchestra have no problem taking funds from public coffers to support them and their projects, and yet they seem equally comfortable concealing the truth of this situation.

I can only hope that the uncommon ‘common people’ — the salt of the earth — will come forward to help this situation come to light.

With best wishes for the season…

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An as-yet undefined subplot in the opera Die Zauberflote as prophecy…

There are some straightforward characters in Mozart’s last major opera, The Magic Flute, that correspond to those in real life — my Mother,for example — the real-life Queen of the Night who managed to bewitch just about everyone (but me); my Father, who gave me my first flute; Monostatos, who is a player with the Minnesota Orchestra, and of course, my three children, who are represented as such. The reality, however, may be even more profound than the opera (granted, Wolf didn’t have all the time in the world either) in that the children who save Pamina from despair when Tamino is silent are actually her own children. Filled with fury, the Queen of the Night comes after the children and tries to use them in her machinations, attempting to leave Pamina bereft, and thereby contributing greatly to Pamina’s despair. Monostatos also goes after the children and attempts to enlist them to the Queen’s agenda…

…and so, all that is left for Pamina is the wondrous sound and assurance of die zauberflote…

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On the possibility of my having been poisoned as a child…

When I was four I had a vision, of sorts, that probably helped to keep me alive.  The significance of it to me at that time was that I became convinced I had to protect a Gift I had been given from my mother whom, it seemed, had made some sort of a pact with a dark angel I came to call “Lermontov”,  as it resembled a movie character by that name. I had no doubt my mother was my adversary, but I did not at the time comprehend the extent of her antagonism.

Although a robustly healthy child, I regularly found myself becoming violently sick to my stomach and throwing up.  Ironically, at those time, my mother was conciliatory and sympathetic, bringing me ginger ale with shaved ice and saltines to calm my stomach.  This continued until shortly before I left home for college.  Once I had settled into dorm life, my first thought was how nice it was to be somewhat on my own. My second thought was relief that I was no longer throwing up.  It immediately occurred to me that my mother had probably been behind this, but my relief at having survived was my primary emotion.

Within a few months of this realization my father nearly died by his own hand.  All my attention switched to him.  I did not make the connection until recently, as, subsequent to that event, the rest of my birth family seemed to circle the wagons and lock me out, so to speak, that there could have been a connection. Other questions that I had about my birth family also began to fall into place when I looked at them from the perspective of my birth family trying to shield themselves from the consequences (not of their own actions, mind you) of my having survived this ordeal.  :-0

Update 4.17.21

Since this post was written a lot has taken place.  I spoke to my dear husband about this possibility and his response was, “You remember that?” Of course, I was puzzled, to say the least.  I then told my two younger children of this possibility. I received blank looks.  There were no questions.  There was no concern. Just a chill emptiness.  I did not know what to think. 

It became evident that for whatever reason, protecting my one living birth family member from being held accountable for their part in this terrible situation was more important than showing any concern for me. 

At that point I began to step back.  The Corona pandemic provided an extension of what I had already decided to do.  

Now I see the situation from a different perspective.  I have had the courage to ask, “What if it didn’t stop?” I don’t like the answers that come to me, but accepting the truth is always better in the end.  

Update June 9, 2021

There has been a veritable flood of information coming at me for the last few weeks. Most stunning is the realization that these odd coincidences possibly connecting Bob Dylan’s family and mine are not that at all.  Instead, this may consist of ‘inside information’ from a member of my family that made its way to Dylan’s people.  Even more astonishing is the possibility that this may have been going on for a long time…perhaps even back to when Dylan appeared on the scene in New York.  What could possibly be the reason for this, I wondered?  It has been, at the very least, a betrayal, but to what end?  I puzzled over this until the lyrics of one of Dylan’s songs came to mind…Jokerman…whose features could have been carved out by Michaelangelo…dancing to the nightingale tune…

Jokerman

Whoa Nelly, I said to myself…could Dylan be hinting at my father’s ignoring my mother’s terrible behavior toward me?  Is he giving his insiders information about what happened in that house? Where would that possibly come from?  My family members have all been in lockstep to shut me down whenever I mention what happened in that house, and here is a complete stranger telling the world — or at least his ‘insiders’ — about this?  

And then, another possibility occurred to me — that Dylan’s people had somehow obtained a pilfered copy of my manuscript Titan, from Piper to the Alternative.  The heroine’s middle name is Philomela — which means nightingale.  Her father, Dorian, is as handsome as Dorian Gray, and as ignorant and selfish…

This opened up an entirely new kettle of fish, so to speak…

Jokerman appeared on the scene in 1983. The only adversary I am aware of who had access to my early drafts of Titan in the late 70’s, was my ex-husband, a bass player in the Minnesota Orchestra, whom I call “Monostatos”…

Was that what had happened, if that is the case? 

Stay tuned, as this is becoming curiouser and curiouser…

Featured post

Nearly 2800 Days…

Update September 10, 2022

I tend to consider these people as part of a “No Crowned Heads” group, as they have continually and assiduously pushed the agendas of my birth family, which appear to be to treat me as though I am already dead, pilfer my work, slander me behind my back and try to obtain possessions that are rightfully mine. It is hard to imagine what more they can do to try to silence me…

Update August 25, 2022

I had a kind of vision today that was quite distressing. It was of these people, who, rather than have any empathy for what happened to me in my birth family were comfortable supporting them and actually feuding over the blood money extracted from me by my birth family through the persecution…At least one of them has also acquired items that are rightfully mine (and I should have the sole right to distribute) behind my back, from my sister, “Starla”…

Original post:

That’s how long it’s been since I told two of my closest family members that I always figured I had been given poison of some sort by my Mother when I was a child. I don’t know what kind of reaction I expected. I did think there would be a reaction of some sort or other.

Was I in for a surprise.

There was no visible reaction from either of them. In fact, they just sat in stony silence.

I don’t consider myself an expert in human behavior. A lot of times I miss the full impact of what someone is trying to convey. But this time, I had enough common sense to say…well…this doesn’t make sense at all…

I had told them of my abusive childhood, long ago. I should have grabbed a hint back then, when my comments were dismissed. At the time, of course, that was puzzling, but anything connected to an extreme testimony, such as mine, is going to be a shock, and some people do not want to hear about it, so I never made any demands of them…

However, I have become somewhat wiser through the years. I decided to simply monitor their behavior from this point on and see what transpired…

My dear husband, Donner, was present that day. He cried. He asked me why I had to tell them. That made no sense to me.

Before long, my dear husband had died in my arms, unexpectedly. I cannot even now fully cope with the trauma of losing him on that dark day.

Not long after that, one of these family members tried to pressure me to put my dear stepson, Kevin, under my roof. He had severe mental illness issues and at that time lived in LA. After talking with him and researching alternatives available, it appeared that he would prefer to return to his mother’s home in Florida. Tragically, that did not happen. He died by suicide, walking in front of a train.

That second tragedy lead me to a bizarre connection to Bob Dylan. At that time, everything seemed to explode. You can read about all this at my blog, Dylagence…https://dylagence.wordpress.com/

Through all of this, these two have maintained a stony silence. I can only ask at this point what it is that they want to conceal. Ironically, the stonewalling may not make much difference, as it looks like Bob has told everyone the truth of what happened to me in a few of his songs…the ones containing a reference to the nightingale.

I think that’s me…

So from now on, it looks like it’s a whole new ballgame…

Who knows where all this will lead?

Catalan Miles…a new release…

I can’t tell you when I first heard of Miles Davis. Or his music. I think I heard his music first, and then said, “Where did that come from!” I had never heard such elegant jazz, with such apparent simplicity and clarity of melodic lines… I had no idea until fairly recently that he had gone to Juilliard and then dropped out because it was boring…that he was a target for the police wherever he drove his gorgeous sports cars, or that he had a terrible time with drugs. I just knew I wanted to capture his sound and hold it somewhere, so I could reach in and hear it again in new ways.

Miles Davis turned the world of jazz on its ear with his album Kind of Blue. But then he turned everything upside down later on with his Sketches of Spain. It is this kind of loveliness that I want to capture…

and so, Catalan Miles…(now you know why my horse’s nickname is ‘Miles’…:-)

https://music.apple.com/us/album/1602375860

Imagined…un hommage to John Lennon

I can tell you just when I first heard of the Beatles — it was when I was in school in Edinburgh, Scotland. A buddy dragged me over to his flat at lunchtime, saying, “You’ve got to hear these guys!” I forfeited my usual Scotch egg, which at 1 shilling and 8 pence was just about all I could afford and traipsed over to his flat with a handful of other students.

It was February 4, 1963 — the last luncheon show at the Cavern Club in Liverpool. It was being televised. I think they played a couple of cover songs first, one of them being a blistering Twist and Shout. Other contenders are “My Bonnie,” “Money” and “And Then there was You.” Then they launched into a couple of newly released songs –Love Me Do and PS I Love You. When I heard their original music, I stood in complete shock for a few moments. I could hardly believe my ears. “Where did they get those chords?” I asked. Just about all rock and roll music at that time only used I, IV and V chords. These songs were more complex. “Nothing will ever be the same,” I muttered to myself.

And so it all began.

It wasn’t long before I was hearing their music everywhere I turned. At Charities Week, that April, where students go on ‘border raids’ during the day and party at night, just about the only songs played by the cover bands were theirs. I quickly learned their names — Paul, John, George and Ringo. It wasn’t long before I decided John was my favorite. Incredibly cute with a great voice. I began to see the others as wonderful backup for him.

And so, I let their music speak into my life. I watched them evolve and make some questionable choices and stepped back somewhat when there seemed to be focus on drugs, which I did not do. When John claimed the Beatles were ‘more popular than Jesus’ I cringed. You just don’t do that, I thought.

I happened to be back in Edinburgh, walking up the back of Arthur’s Seat with a buddy when I heard “Hey Jude” for the first time. I had a sinking feeling that their days as a group might be numbered. It felt like the bottom was falling out. And Yoko — who knew what to make of her? I did my best to be accommodating…

I was saddened to hear of John’s excessive drug use, and startled by the changes in his appearance. He seemed to be a walking dead person. When he and Yoko came to New York I kind of rolled my eyes. They seemed to think they were doing something of value, but I couldn’t tell if it was all just for publicity or not.

Then came the night when I heard he had been killed. A senseless act. By an unhinged disappointed fan. I found myself in a state of shock that lasted almost a week. I could not understand why. Gradually, I came to accept it. Then I made a trip to New York. I went to the Dakota. I talked with a garage attendant who had been there during the afternoon, when John signed a copy of Double Fantasy for Chapman, and in the evening, when John was shot. He pointed out the private Dakota courtyard pointed to Yoko’s boxy orangish car. “If the limo had pulled into the courtyard, John would have been safe that day,” he said. The words haunted me. Such a simple thing.

So I carried the sorrow with me. I found a ‘Complete Beatles’ piano songbook. Well, it was not complete. It left out Piggies. But that is not the point. I began playing their songs just about every day, on flute and keyboard, and that has helped a lot — to experience their chord progressions, and the simple yet elegant beauty of their melody lines. Paul and John, for the most part — the sweetness and the edginess made for amazing music.

And then there was Imagine. Simple yet breathtaking. Other performers may come and go, but New Years at Times Square in New York City belongs to John and Imagine. It was then I decided to do a reimagining of Imagine as un hommage to John. For his greatness, his flaws, his search for truth, his becoming a target both in the UK and the US.

This track was originally intended as a working track for a course I am taking in Music Production. But the minute I recorded it, it seemed the Mozart vortex went electric. Waves of energy flowed through, along with a lot of music — songs I had heard, music I had never heard before, rained down on me. If only I could capture it all, I thought…

So here it is, on this night when Imagine is played in his honor…

Imagined

https://music.apple.com/us/album/1602127134

https://promocards.byspotify.com/share/10761b0847faee46ac94848415e214b69836f493

My best friend is getting married today…

We have been friends for over 30 years. Brad has had my back through thick and thin. I am so excited for him, his lovely bride Missy and her two adorable boys. Brad also has two grown sons from his first marriage.

For now, let me just add that this takes place 11 years to the day of the death of my mother, Katherine, whom I consider to be the real Queen of the Night. She bewitched us all with her charm and dark powers, but now, we are all coming into the light of day…

Here is her obit…

https://www.nj.com/hunterdon-county-democrat/2009/10/former_flemington_resident_kat.html

To make matters even more exciting — if that is possible — today is also the open house of the new owners of the barn where my horse is stabled. That will be, to say the least, Utter Dylerium. I was concerned I might have to pry Miles off the ceiling when I got there, as there were over 200 people, as well as hay rides (next to his pasture) and a band and who knows what else…<groan>…but he loved it all!

And yes, they were even playing Dylan…

So, if you follow along with the plot of Mozart’s last major opera, The Magic Flute, you will see that we have come to the end of it…with Papageno and Papagena living happily ever after…the Queen, the Kingdom of the Night and Monostatos’ power is destroyed forever…oh, and, if you look closely and see that the minister looks kind of like a Sarastro, well, don’t be surprised. After all, this is about The Magic Flute. And, in sweet irony, it was Pastor Jac who came to my house the day that my darling Donner died, amidst all the tumult, ambulance, and the trauma of that terrible afternoon, he was a calming and gentle influence for me and my two younger children who were trying to process it all…

Oh! You just might want to listen for the voice of Wolf in his Zauberflote as well…

Update on Mozart’s Die Zauberflote…230 years later…

Today we celebrate the 230th birthday of the debut of Wolfgang Mozart’s last major opera, The Magic Flute. Beloved through the years and around the world, few operas, if works of art as a whole, have been so wholeheartedly embraced by the public. But, of course, Mozart, being a genius of incomparable stature, has added a mystery into the opera. And God has granted him favor of an extraordinary kind — the opera has come alive, and is right in front of you…

What? you might ask…well, yes, the characters — bad and good — exist in real life. One or two of them you may already know…

Why have I not heard of this? You might ask…

Well, there has been a cover-up of staggering proportions…in fact, my family and I have been targeted and hunted down by those trying to cause us bodily harm as well as slander us…all of this done in the airwaves but below the level of the press…so that criminal activity can continue…

For one thing, it seems we are approaching the part where the Queen of the Night and Monostatos have joined forces to try to destroy Sarastro’s Temple.

I call this Minnegeddon…

However, the Queen of the Night — my mother, Katherine, has been replaced by the wanna-be — my sister, Angela. And, if that name rings a bell (Angel this and that, Angelina) you might be guessing that the likes of Bob Dylan (pursuit of the Nightingale in a number of his songs) has been a part of the cadre I call Monostatos — which also includes Dylan’s mini-me — ex-husband (who also adopted my children) Bill Scrickel of the Minnesota Orchestra…

We could, in fact, say that Bob and Bill are telling us just how Mozart is treated…(stay tuned for further discussion on this…)

Papageno — my best friend, Brad, has found his true love, Missy, with her two lovely children…

And my three fabulous children, the three K’s, as well as their families, are protected by the great Zauberflote…

Speaking of a real-life Sarastro, that is Wernher Von Braun, extraordinary genius who took us to the moon and beyond; with, however, a severely flawed background…beloved Papa…

We mourn those we have lost — my mother (Dylan’s Queen this and Queen that), and my father (Dylan’s Jokerman)…

and

We especially grieve those we have recently lost — my wonderful husband Donner Brown and dearly loved stepson, Kevin Dixon…

And as for Wolf…well, I think you’ll hear his voice in the sound of the Zauberflote..

This has been an arduous journey…our family was torn apart to get the lawlessness out…

You can read all about the Bob Dylan connection at my blog, Dylagence…

https://dylagence.wordpress.com/

Here’s my song Pamina’s grief…

Why I teach…

I can say in all honesty, looking back over my experiences, that without my teachers I would not be alive today. In fact, I probably would have died long ago. The persecution by my birth family was so severe I barely had the will or energy to keep on going at times.

Most of my teachers had no idea what was going on in my family’s house. How could they? A possibility of being caused bodily harm, verbal and emotional abuse were not subjects even discussed back then. And how would they have known? I did not have the words to tell them.

Some of my teachers seemed to sense something. I love them, every single one of them. A few of them tried to help. The first was a piano teacher who insisted on teaching me chord structure and voicing at a very young age. I had started taking piano lessons by the time I was three years old. My Mother uncovered my composition book and promptly fired the teacher.

The band director at Andrew Warde High School went out of his way for me. He mentored me into a spot as the Principal Flute of the University of Bridgeport Orchestra when I was a sophomore, as Warde had only a band. He enlisted the help of a teacher there as well. The teacher my Mother selected had me practicing Kulau exercises to perfection. But with the university teacher, before I knew it, I had learned the Mozart D Major Flute Concerto. I used it for the Connecticut Allstate audition and won a spot as first flute in their Concert Band. Mr. German then insisted I perform the Concerto for the school, which I did, to an astonished and enthusiastic response. I then went into the Girl’s bathroom and broke down sobbing. No one from my birth family attended the performance.

It was the first performance of Mozart playing Mozart in about two hundred years. My best friend, Allison, attempted to console me, to no avail.

And so my school life became my real life, while my family life remained a quagmire. Each day I would deliberately close the door on the darkness of the Fairfield house and strive to do my best at school.

I can give you many other examples of teachers who went out of their way for me. They did not know me personally, nor were they likely doing anything different for me than they did for all the other students. But it was because of their mentoring that I kept on going.

And so, when I teach, I am shot out of a cannon every morning. I am a substitute in the public and charter schools of our area, so I usually have a different assignment every day. I don’t know who I will work with, or what will happen. To complicate things, the schools of today are a far cry from the ones I attended. I frequently feel like a sojourner in a foreign land.

But that’s another story.

I just hope that I am able to give back in some small measure what was given to me. I hope that I can provide a nurturing word or validating response that will be of value to the students. I want to make sure I don’t leave anyone out…just in case there is one dealing with what seems like an unfathomable darkness at home…

Desperately trying to turn a pig’s ear into a silk purse (vintage FB post from pre-lockout days….)

Originally published August 14, 2010…

Somebody (or bodies) has been throwing money at the Minnesota Orchestra. They have made repeated trips to Europe in the last ten years; each time, it is claimed the trip is paid for by an ‘anonymous donor’. Each trip costs at least a million dollars, so these donors must have much more than that available to them. This time it is the Proms in the UK; didn’t they do the same thing last year with the same caveat? How ironic.

Do they think that if the MO is thrown up against the wall of greatness enough times, some of it will stick? Whomever is coming up with all this money is wasting their time as well — they should have first paid the 50 dollars, or whatever it would take, to have their name changed. They used to be called the Minneapolis Symphony; but those glorious smalltown days are over. They insisted on having a wider scope, a greater message to deliver — so they are stuck with the inglorious tag of Minnesota — or Monostatos — One State. They are dragging themselves down with chains of their own making, oblivious to it all. Hilarious.

August 14, 2021

Hint: They’re still at it, only on a tad smaller scale. And, yes, when I was naively studying flute with Sid Zeitlin, the MO’s Principal Flute, he spent the better part of a lesson chastising me for over the MO’s name change. At the time, it made no sense whatsoever…

But now, I think this may be Minnegeddon, where the truth of what happened to Wolfgang Mozart is revealed…and the Minnesota Orchestra and their standing-bass player William Schrickel have a part in that…

They took food out of the mouths of my children…

Such was my life after being locked out by the Minnesota Orchestra bass player I call “Monostatos” and his cohorts. I performed concert after concert to showcase the lovely Zauberflote, but when I put up posters that included my phone number to request tickets, I received only hundreds of hang-up calls. This was incredibly distressing to us. I was especially concerned about the effect on my children.

None of them attended, of course. They could have lifted a finger to help, but did not…

Such was our life in those days. I remember feeling so jealous of our neighbors, who were lovely people who had escaped from Iran. The air around our townhomes was always full of rich perfumes and the smell of fresh fruit. They juiced melons and berries and their home overflowed with nurishment. I wished that I could have showered my lovely children with the same sort of excess.

But instead, after giving a series of concerts at the Art Room of the Hennepin Avenue Methodist Church, payments for those concerts forced me to by.a bag of potatoes, which at least I could afford. We ate potatoes in every form for a month. I called it “Potato January”. We still talk ruefully of those days…

<sigh>…

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