Hobbes sent me this photo of our demon kittens. I’d say they’re practicing for Hallowe’en, but every day is Hallowe’en at our house…

Hobbes sent me this photo of our demon kittens. I’d say they’re practicing for Hallowe’en, but every day is Hallowe’en at our house…

The first concert of the 2003-4 season has been scheduled, folks – take a look down the left sidebar for the programme and the pertinent info.
Actually, all four concerts of the season have been scheduled: November 9, 2003; February 8, 2004; April 18; and our (in)famous Canada Day concert in that glorious church down by the lakeside in Pointe-Claire village, July 1. Circle the dates on your calendars; info on where and time of day will be posted as I get the information.
The Congress of Autumn’s Hands will now come to order.
Left Hand: We have several grievances to bring against Autumn. The first is that in a two-month period where she was not required to attend rehearsals for chamber orchestra, being trusted instead to keep up her level of skill independently, she picked up her Violoncello (hereafter “cello”) only twice.
Right Hand: Honestly, is that kind of attitude towards your art going to get you anywhere? I ask you!
Left Hand: As a result of this shameful, neglectful act, the return to the regular orchestral season was fraught with unnecessary difficulty on the part of the hands.
[Exhibit A displayed: a close-up of Autumn’s left fingertips]
Left Hand: Here we see the lamentable state of the fingertip pads. The act of producing a variety of sound from the cello, as with any stringed instrument, naturally involves altering the string length, known as the “stopping” of the string. This “stopping” is achieved by pressing down the string with the fingertip. The deliberate choice to ignore her commitment to practice during the summer session has produced the gradual loss of callouses acquired over the regular season. A callous is formed by repetitive use of the fingertip, enabling the area of flesh to accomplish more without succumbing to pain and inflammation.
Right Hand: Unlike last night, you slacker.
Left Hand: Our second grievance involves the length of the fingernails on the left hand. By not trimming these, efficiency of fingertip use in the act of stopping the string has become severely compromised.
Right Hand: And just let me add that your shabby treatment of the bow hand extended to forgetting to stretch before playing, as well as not trimming the thumbnail so that you could actually grip the bow correctly? Your bowing during the Presto of the Schubert Second Symphony was crap.
Left Hand: Grudgingly, we must admit that your vibrato was pretty good, despite the aforementioned faults. And you were promoted to second chair, so you must be doing something right.
Right Hand: Legs? Lower back? Anything you want to add while we’re here?
Legs: No, we’re good, thanks.
Lower Back: The new chair she sat in really worked for me. Although they were temporarily relocated to another room, so I don’t imagine it will last.
Left Hand: This, then, concludes the Congress of Autumn’s Hands. Please take our grievances under advisement. If matters necessitate, we will be contacting you again later on in the season. By the way, nice sight reading. Although you really ought to recognise a B flat scale when you see one.
Happy fourth anniversary, my love!
To all my American friends and acquaintences, both those whom I have met face-to-face and those whom I have met in the cyberworld:
You have my sincerest sympathies. Canada’s nice at this time of year.
I was musing about something deep this morning, but I’ve forgotten what it was.
Six thumbs up for Ceri’s apple pie. Not too tart; not too sweet; not too gooey. Perfect pastry. Her Nanny would be proud.
My husband enjoyed another piece for breakfast and says it was just as delicious the morning after.
Over tea last night the topic of ancestors came up, and I was thinking about it this morning. It’s always such a pity that by the time we’re old enough to appreciate the stories and the knowledge that our grandparents possess, they’re gone. It’s some sort of comfort that my spiritual path involves honouring my genelogical ancestors, and my spiritual ancestors as well. I have a connection to the past that extends past the living face-to-face exchanges, and I value it greatly.
I also have an adorable black kitten who actually jumped up on my lap for a cuddle when I got home this afternoon. And I was initiated into the mysteries of making perfume waters at work today. I even labelled them, and they look just like the ones on the shelf. I am terribly proud of myself. I picked up my beautiful, pristine, luminescent copy of Neil Gaiman’s Endless Nights this afternoon as well. So, all in all, quite the red-letter day.
Now, if I could only get news of how the submission of my contract to the publishing board of the US publisher went today, my happiness would be complete.