Monthly Archives: June 2003

Reviewing The Past

More articles have been posted and linked over at Owldaughter’s Read section, including the first chapter from Reconstructing the Past in the Academic Novel: The Concept of Nostalgia in Thatcher Britain. Yes, I know there are hordes of you out there who have been simply dying with impatience to read this magnum opus, and you’ve just been too shy to ask. Here’s your chance for a taste.

It’s hard to believe that I finished this just over three years ago. It’s even harder to believe that I defended it successfully and it was accepted with only three minor changes. t! and I were chatting earlier about successes and accomplishments in our lives, and I continually forget about my thesis, or value it at much less that I ought to. Damn it, I have a bound hardcover book on my shelf with publication data in it, and the title on the cover in gold. I had to sign a release form for Her Majesty the Queen (that’s Elizabeth, not my mother) granting her permission to store a copy in the National Library files. This is huge.

Plus I’ve written two novels, and have two more on the go. My writing accomplishments alone ought to reassure me that I’ve done some pretty impressive stuff in my first thirty-odd years.

Everyone has similar accomplishments under their belts – not necessarily theses or novels, but projects of significance that we would admire in anyone else except ourselves. So why don’t we feel fulfilled?

On Birthdays

When I was a child, I was thankful to have a summer birthday. I was shy, and didn’t have very many friends; the thought of being chased and given birthday bumps, or having a parent come in with cake and juice, the way others did, terrified me.

Now that I’m an adult (and I think I can safely use that word, since I’m past thirty), I have about a dozen close friends, and having a summer birthday is a pain. Why? Because my friends, being adults with jobs and families, now go on vacation on and around my birthday. My big thirtieth birthday picnic was cancelled because of this; last year fell apart and ended up being a smattering of people at the pub; and now, this year, the same problem is cropping up. Even though I deliberately decided to plan for an earlier date to avoid the problem, it doesn’t matter; over half the people I wanted to ask will be unavailable or elsewhere.

I give up.

We made Skippy choose another birthday, because his fell too close to a major holiday and was inevitably swallowed up or forgotten. I’m beginning to think I ought to do the same thing.

Bitter? No. I’m honestly pleased that I have so many close friends who mean this much to me. Frustrated? You’re damned right. I finally get to the point where I want to host a party for myself, and I’m thwarted.

I give up.

Warm Inside

While I work at the desktop computer, my reduced-mobility husband is in a chair by the window reading the last two chapters of my Great Canadian Novel. Every once in a while, he laughs out loud. Just now, he giggled for a couple of minutes straight.

He may be biased, but it still makes me feel really good.

Today

My husband wrenched his back somehow, so his plans for the day fell apart. To cheer him up, I told him he could take me out to the West Island to dig through second-hand bookstores. He countered with getting home-made ice cream. It was a deal.

I didn’t find any of the out-of-print books that I’m looking for – I’d rather find them around here than buy them second-hand over the Internet – but I did find three mysteries I’ve been reluctant to buy new that are on my to-read list. That plus the peanut butter-chocolate ice cream made it all worthwhile.

Hello And Goodbye

My migraine is back.

Such a dubious honour to see you again. Now leave.

Why is it that when I have a headache I crave chocolate and soda? I know it’s just going to make it worse.

I’ll be in a dark room waiting for story ideas. Bye.

Orchestra Musings

Last night’s rehearsal couldn’t have been more different from last week’s train wreck. We were relaxed, precise, and we sounded like we knew what we were doing. I was particularly impressed with our rendition of Overture for an Unwritten Comedy; for a piece that’s remarkably obscure, we sounded as if we’d heard it all our lives.

Last night I was in the cello zone – you know, that state of mind/body where the hands instinctively go where the correct sound will be produced without any conscious thought or deliberate movement. It’s where most musicians want to be when they perform. That little corner of my mind which observes what I’m doing and provides a running commentary was stunned by my hands flying over the fingerboard, playing notes in places which if I’d stopped to think about I’d guess entirely wrong.

We also played the Carmen suite. I’ve seen Carmen and was thoroughly unimpressed; I cannot understand its popularity. I keep forgetting, though, how much I like the suite’s music. Each time I think, “Oh, we’re playing the Bizet,” I experience a negative response… until we actually begin playing. I think I’ve been conditioned by last year’s dreadful struggle with Bizet’s L’Arlesienne suite. Bizet = oh no. I’m trying to break that.

For some reason, the piece I’m having the most trouble preparing for the July concert is Haydn’s Military symphony. I adore Haydn; I always have. I’ve played a couple of his symphonies now, and I’ve enjoyed every one. This one, however, is nicknamed “Military” for a reason: it’s written (and hence ought to be played) in very strict time. The rhythms are very staccatto. I have discovered that I prefer playing expressivo singing lines. Subdivision in strict time is my arch-nemesis. (That and tenor clef, but we won’t go there.)

All in all, it was a wonderful night, and even though there was a graduation ceremony going on at the high school which meant I had to park six blocks away, it was a beautiful evening to walk in the dark with my cello on my back, gazing at the sliver of the crescent moon riding low in the western sky on a faint veil of cloud.

Life’s pretty good.