Despite Gloria Petrovich being off in New York, she and her dad remain in close communication. They don’t rely solely on the technologies of email, text, and telephone. More so, their relationship is deepened by the old tradition of letter writing. It is in these written testaments of challenges and endurances in which Gloria shares the many facets in the diamond that is her life. She has proven herself an exceptional songwriter; she is as able with the epistle, as the following demonstrates:
Dear Dad and Sheila,
I am homesick for a simpler way of life, the life I knew as a child in Warhaven, before the glorious firestorm of fame and success in music, and, in fact, marketing, which is much of art. The business of music I suppose is what gnaws at me here in the city. In Warhaven there are the rivers and the neighbors to keep me fresh; here a grittiness that pains me is ever present. The more people, the greater chances I have of facing economic and emotional sleight of hand and of being victimized by smoke and mirrors boogeymen. All such trials rub my spirit the wrong way!
If a man sells me a can of beans and I open the can to nourish myself and its pea gravel, I am indignant and hungry. Do I go to the man again for more food, or do I realize he cares nothing for me, for my health, my well-being? Of course not! There are too many persons out there selling fake beans. Too many industries have lost sight of their humanity. Sure, interviews with Rolling Stone and the New York Times Magazine are gratifying, but I feel a hollowness that publicity and self-promotion can never fill. There is little fellowship in marketing! Yet that appearance on SNL jamming with Keith Richards and Dave Grohl was both heady and spiritually joyous! I guess I am sitting on the fulcrum of the teeter totter, yin to the left of me, yang to the right.
There are times when I think I should enter politics, but a city alderman friend of mine said of public affairs, “If you win, you lose,” because your life becomes full of meetings run by morons and scoundrels and self-serving vipers. I don’t know; where is good service and where is good living in my future? You two both served on the city council and both were gratified and maybe the key to change is to think globally but act locally. In truth Warhaven pulls me very strongly as the place to reside full time.
A refrain:
Monsters are hungry beasts; corporate gluttony.
Our souls are their feasts; capital infamy.
Maven and the Night Ravens was a blast! Katy, Tara, Shirlee, Heather and Patty remain my muses! We had so much fun, and you two made that possible scrutinizing our management. There is nothing like belting it out on the bandstand!
Performance is both risk and reward, thrills that have made life beautiful for me. Maybe the girls and I will reunite. We’ll have to talk and agree on the scope of our futures. We’re all young professionals with divergent aspirations. Who knows? Maybe we’ll end up writing and performing symphonies and suites. Maybe we’ll head back to the garage and record on cassette four tracks. Regardless, Dad and Sheila, I’m at peace in Warhaven; I’m on edge in the East, along with everyone else here, it seems to me.
Last week I was exiting the 157th Street subway station on the way to a gig. A flock of pigeons hovered in the air, swirling. It was a beautiful sight of whites and grays in aerial dance. I remembered the Hitchcock film, The Birds, and it struck me, that such a vision could elicit fear, a premonition of dark things to come. I laughed out loud, knowing God does not make horror movies. And God is harder to experience when horns are honking and sirens are squawking and a voice sang to me, “Home is where the heart is!” I want to come home. The Big Apple is commercialism. Life is to make money, to get ahead, to climb to the top of the anthill and defend your position brutally. A little hollow for me. Here are other couplets:
Spiritual assembly line, mighty fine.
Orator robotic mime, so sublime.
What’s the sugar with our turpentine?
Where’s the penance for our crime?
I may be working myself up for some punk garage band! All girl, of course!
You two are in my prayers and I think of you both and your inspirational love often. Who could ask for a better dad? Who could ask for a better stepmom?
I look forward to seeing you soon. Love, Gloria.
•••
The City Council is a work of fiction, written by Jim Tindall, appearing every other week in Columbia Gorge News.
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