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…

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The Bob Dylan connection…looks like it’s all about the stones…

How strange it seems to be bringing it all back home to the first time I heard Bob Dylan’s song Like a Rolling Stone. I had been kicked out of my family’s home in Fairfield Connecticut right after graduating from Bucknell University, Phi Beta Kappa and University Honors (one of two and the only woman to do that) because I had taken a job in New York City. I found myself on a lazy Saturday afternoon walking down 57th street with thirty dollars to my name and a month’s railroad pass. My first month’s salary was going to pay the employment agency that found the job for me — at MONY, on 1740 Broadway. I found a place to stay and it all worked out ok, but when I first heard that song the following year, I thought it had been written about me. All I could hear was the screeching, mocking voice of Dylan. I tuned him out after that. For a very long time.

But now it is all coming together, and the connection makes sense, as it looks like Bob Dylan and his people had been receiving information about me from my birth family, without my knowledge and consent. And some of it seems to have ended up in some of his songs. The intent appears to be to create a false reality that would cause me to lose hope…

I discuss this at my blog, Dylagence…https://dylagence.wordpress.com/

Here is an example…

And at the center of the vortex…

It looks like Bob Dylan has been stoning me, to try to cause me to feel slandered and humiliated…and encouraging his insider fans to do the same with the oblique references in some songs coming from ‘inside’ information from my birth family…

The Dylan connection seems to be in the vortex.

I can’t change that, even if I wanted to.

The battle seems to be in the vortex.

The battle is already won…

Isis

It was the first of February

A cold winter day

with brilliant sunlight chasing away

the gray doubts and questions

Could this really work?

Could we make a life together

in the bitter frigid North?

He cut his hair off the next day

I asked him why

He mumbled, ‘I can’t say’

and we went on

with a mystery that grew

like an octopus between us

things that came apart

we mended and repaired

But something underneath

was stalking our success

our home became divided

an invisible mess

We whirled around in the darkness

searching for our stability

we’d try to catch it

but then it would somehow slip

We bravely fought together

united we were so strong

though somehow the ground was shifting

and it wasn’t long

before we sensed a frantic helplessness

try to grab our dream and choke it

like rose petals

it scattered in th wind

I could not hold onto him for very long

it seemed no more than a day

He died in my arms in brilliant sun

and heat

surrounded us in mockery

there was so much left to say

He was like a moonbeam

fragile and yet bright

he slipped away into

the fog and night

Mr. Schrickel and Mozart’s Zauberflote…

During the approximately 666 days that my children and I were pretty much held hostage by this man there were a number of experiences that, at that time, did not make much sense. Hindsight being what it is, however, I now feel I have some sense of perspective.

At the same time Mr. Schrickel was enticing me to practice on the stage at Orchestra Hall with the Zauberflote (who could resist) there were also odd things going on behind the scenes. For one, it seemed we usually ended up in some sort of heated dispute over something or other after the practice sessions. This was all supposed to be my fault. This happened so frequently I began to wonder if there was some sort of agenda. Now that has become obvious. Creating trauma is how the Zauberflote was thought to be vampirized, to create, in effect, blood money for the attacker. (I think Wolf was treated this way too, and for just this reason…)

But another strange theme began to surface. I was being blamed for not making money. Rather than helping to establish my credentials on the world stage, he was making demands that I earn money from sources outside the world of music. Frantically, I began to look for temporary work. I did not understand what was happening. One of my first jobs was scrubbing floors at Abbot-Northwestern Hospital. He seemed pleased by that, and one morning held my hands, looking at them as though they were prized possessions. When I was offered a permanent job, I felt validated to know I had done my best. He seemed puzzled by that. Uncomfortable somehow. I graciously declined, and went on to other opportunities…

Is this possible Bob Dylan connection taking us to Warp Speed?

In the early years when I had moved to Minnesota from Boston — via San Francisco and New York City — I had never heard of Gustav Mahler. His music had been the rave of New York for some time — Leonard Bernstein being one of Mahler’s greatest champions. But I attended a luncheon concert of the Minnesota Orchestra quite by chance, and my life changed forever…

This was back in the days when the Minnesota Orchestra was not great. The players were bored. They were more interested in their poker games in the downstairs lounge at Orchestra Hall than they were in the music they were performing. They knew all the old war horses by heart. They did not even need a conductor. Even worse, the one they had most of the time was reportedly becoming senile. He had had to stop mid-stream in a performance of the Stravinsky Sacre du Printemps because he had become hopelessly confused.

–I should say that I was studying flute with Sid Zeitlin, the Principal Flute, at that time, sometimes at Orchestra Hall, so my recollections are either from things I saw first-hand or heard via him–

So there I was, sitting calmly in my seat on the isle, mid-section of the main floor, that morning, expecting to fall asleep as during a bad sermon, but still mildly hopeful of hearing something truly musical. I don’t recall the rest of the program. Whatever it was had completely lulled me into complacency.

The guest conductor that day was Klaus Tennstedt. I had not heard of him either, and was not terribly impressed with his first half of the concert. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Klaus_Tennstedt

I was prepared to accept yet another grim reminder of how not to perform orchestral music.

But then, the Mahler First Symphony began.

The ‘Titan’, it was called.

My ears perked up. Before long I was listening with my entire being. His world came alive to me. I was no longer just sitting in a cushioned seat — I was transported to another time and place.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Symphony_No.1(Mahler)#Second_movement

The Third Movement, with its mocking motif of “Frere Jacques” caused me to sit up in shock. It was as though Mahler was describing the fallen angel in the Mozart vortex who attacks my family and me. Who had caused my Father to nearly succeed in ending his own life. How could he possibly know this? I wondered. Nobody else had ever done this.

The opening passage of the last movement shrieked inside my head. Mahler was speaking to me from the vortex. I shook my head in disbelief. I thought I was going to faint.

How did Mahler get inside my head? I asked myself…

And so he had…

And my quest began in earnest…

I became a frantic and fanatic Mahlerian. I have been so ever since.

And, according to his wife, Alma, Mahler’s final words were “Mozart! Mozart! Mozart!’

Mahler was the first inter-continental conductor, transiting by ship from Europe to New York. He was one of the first conductors of the orchestra that became the New York Phil. Carnegie Hall was his venue.

I realized that it was Mahler who had brought the Mozart vortex from Vienna to New York.

At a great price — he died at an early date and in a tragic way…

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gustav_Mahler

His widow, Alma, remarried and lived a long life. She maintained a home in NYC until her death in 1964.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alma_Mahler

But what happened after that? The fallen angel kept trying to attack and entrap my children and me in Minnesota. We seemed to be free-falling into the vortex ourselves, with no direction known.

That is, until this unique and completely unexpected possible connection to Minnesota-born Bob Dylan surfaced.

And now, it just may be that this is what is catapulting us into our destiny after all…

Delta Flight

I had my feet up on a couch at JFK, looking at the toes of my Airs

While we waited to see which plane

would take us far away

The hump-backed 747’s were lined up outside

one smaller jet in the middle

We were to fly all night across the sea

to a country that was new to me,

a place I had avoided until now.

Vienna calling, Falco said.

And how.

The UMD singers, my daughter in their midst

my future son-in-law

my younger son came with

as a chaperone, no less

He could out-party all the rest

And so the time dragged by

I squeezed a world-design stress ball

and watched the sky

At last we boarded, and you should see

the face I must have made as we passed by

the giant planes and ended up in a

two-engine miniature

Austrian Airlines, you see,

is run by Delta too…

I settled into a window seat over the wing,

heavy with foreboding

we need at least three engines for the

November turbulence over the

North-Atlantic

Just then the cabin was filled with

another company of youngsters,

A band of cheerleaders from various schools

in uniform

pom-poms slammed into overheads

squealing and yelling far above

the more measured choir tones.

We took off into the night sky

That looks like Long Island, I sigh

Just about over Center Moriches

the plane began to shudder and pitch

We’re in for quite a ride…

For four hours we lunged around the sky

Dames und Herren, you are about to die

I kept hearing in my head

The wings flapped like a bird

I didn’t know they could do that

And with every thunderous settling as we

staggered across the sky

the cheerleaders shrieked and yelled

with voices pitched so high

they could have strangled themselves…

But with each garbled announcement

we climbed a thousand feet

Not one of us stopped to wonder

when we would ever eat

But finally we rose above the fractured waves of air

and saw the lights of parallel flights

we might make it there

after all

The stewards brought mystery meat

which I could not digest the thought of

much less the actuality

I did not have the courage to get up and stretch

so sat numbly the rest of the nine hour ride

We gave a great cheer as we landed in a foggy soup

And as we waited to depart

a Mozart piece tugged at my heart

playing softly through the intercom

A Salzburg piece, a divertimento

pure and sweet

and all at once I knew

this just might be the start of our

historic dream come true.

If only I could find a place to pee!

My daughter guarded the men’s room for me,

We’d seen it first, I could not wait

such was our fate

I heard that piece in my head again today

And wept for all the heartache that has come our way

since then

and also wondered if anyone had really cried

for what happened to Wolfgang Mozart

when he died.

It may be that a Minnegeddon is here

and that we have by now all learned to fear

an unknown judgment from

the evil of those days

A nation he never knew must justify

the way it treated him

And only God can tell

if we are headed into Heaven or to Hell…

The enemy I see…

When we think of Wolfgang Mozart we see a sublime genius of such brilliance that he was hunted down wherever he went. We see a man surrounded by people who was, in fact, immensely alone. We see someone who succumbed to the excitement of the Enlightenment and occult by becoming a Mason, and a man who supposedly mismanaged his money and left a terrible mess for his family. But what we don’t see is that which we are not supposed to know.

Much about Mozart’s life has, in fact, been deliberately concealed. This was done for nefarious reasons — most importantly, money. If the world knew the truth about the gifts that Mozart brought with him into this world, the monetary system of this planet might be changed. Nations rising and falling might be different. War might even become a thing of the past.

But we, the common people — the salt of the earth — are to be kept in the dark by these elitists who hold the dark secret of what happened to Mozart close to their hearts — or what is left of them. They smile at us and then usher us into servitude, while they rule the world. They send out coded hints of disasters to come that throw us into a panic. They laugh at us, because they know and we don’t…

But this Corona pandemic is changing everything. That which was concealed is now being revealed. It is easy for us to accept the possibility that Mozart at some point realized he had to separate himself from those closest to him in order to stay alive as long as he did. He learned that there was danger at every turn, and that smiling faces could conceal an assassin’s vicious intent.

Mozart told us about these things, but nobody listened to him. He said that he felt he was being systematically poisoned by those who had timed the hour of his death. He even named the substance — aqua toffana.

Now, perhaps, everyone will take another look…

But there was a further evil attacking Mozart, more deadly than his closest family and friends. I believe it was a dark angel that guarded this extra gift Mozart had been given that was the reason for his untimely death. This dark angel attacked him and his family members, trying to turn them all into monsters — into assassins. All they had to do was administer one small dose of poison and then stick close to him. Then they could steal this precious gift and use it for themselves. And so, one by one, nearly everyone close to him was compromised.

Did Mozart ever actually see this dark angel? I do not know. But we do know something he did see, which may represent the dark angel in human form — the mysterious visitor who, at the end of his life, enticed him to write his own requium under someone else’s name because he was in such need of money.

This is the hidden theme of the movie Amadeus. The insiders are showing us while concealing the truth what actually happened.

We just need to know how to look…

As the poet and songwriter Bob Dylan said in Slow Train Coming…the enemy I see wears a cloak of decency…

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