Owls' Court

Museums On-Line

Well, now I know that even if I can't afford to go to New York, I can still peruse the Metropolitan Museum's collection on-line.

And the Royal Ontario Museum, too. Did anyone else know that the ROM is the fifth largest museum in North America? No, I thought not. We Canadians are so darned quiet about cool stuff like that.

Pet Peeves

If Kate asked me again what my three biggest pet peeves were, I'd have to rewrite my answer. Among those three peeves would be being taken for granted.

I detest being taken for granted. It's rude, it's not taking someone else's feelings into account, and it's using someone else.

I was put into a position this weekend where someone asked me to do something at the last minute. It wasn't a big thing, and I know perfectly well I was expected to say yes; I don't think it even crossed the questioner's mind that I'd refuse. I also know perfectly well that we always have a choice, etcetera etcetera; one can always say no. However, I was asked in front of other people, and to say no would have looked petty.

I hate being in a position like that. To me, that's taking someone for granted.

Every once in a while I work on radio dramas, and I love it. One of my contacts has a habit of calling me and asking if I'm available a couple of days before a potential performance. Same thing: simple courtesy goes a long way. Asking me to rearrange my schedule so I can fit rehearsals and a performance into it without a couple of days' notice is not only presumptuous, it's downright discourteous. The kicker here is that I love to do radio dramas, especially with this contact, and it puts my whole week off if I have to turn him down due to other scheduled events that can't be shifted or cancelled. He's always disappointed too. There's a simple solution: call me earlier. Let me know ahead of time. Assuming I'm free does both of us a disservice.

To me, being taken for granted means I'm not being considered as a real person. One of the things that frustrates me about society today is that no one seems aware that other individuals exist outside their own personal sphere. People who cut you off on the road, who stop suddenly on a crowded sidewalk, who blast their music in cars, who smoke in bus shelters - not a single one of them understands that their actions affect others around them. They're unable to understand that everyone is an individual, that we all work together. One of my husband's frequent comments while driving is, "Wow, it must be nice to be so important" when another driver drifts into our lane, or cuts across three lanes of traffic to get to an exit, or pulls out of a parking space without looking to see if anyone's coming down the lane. That saying encapsulates exactly how I feel about being taken for granted.

The Grand Poobah posted an entry a couple of weeks ago about something very similar to what I'm frustrated about. I put a lot of effort into being certain that I'm not inconveniencing anyone, to be polite, to think of others, which is probably why I snap every once in a while when I feel I haven't been offered the same consideration. Sure, I'm only human, which means that I mess up every once in a while, trip over myself, crash and burn in a particular situation; I'm not perfect. So often, though, I get fed up. Why do I bother? So few others do.

I know why I do, though. It's the same reason that Hobbes does. Because we're decent people. Because we have that queer ability to place ourselves in someone else's shoes and see how our actions will be interpreted. It's a disability at times, but overall, however, I think it gives us a really good look at the human condition. I treat others - strangers and friends - the way I would like to be treated. So when people don't extend me the same courtesy, well, after enough of being walked over, I snap. Unfortunately, sometimes I snap in the presence of someone who has no clue why, because the irritation and unfairness of it all tends to pile up until that proverbial straw on the camel's spine enters the picture.

Yes, I do often wish I weren't so damned principled. It would make life a lot easier if I were one of those people who didn't care.

From now on, I say no when I feel like it.

My Early Retirement Party

Traditionally, I dislike parties. I especially dislike parties at my place because I can't get away from them. Only once did I actually leave: I walked out of my birthday party a few years ago. I called off holding parties for that very reason: you're stuck there. You can always leave other people's parties.

Last year I decided to give it a try again, and we had a successful housewarming. Might have been a fluke, I thought. We had a couple of small gatherings throughout the year, getting me up to speed again. Nothing huge. It's not like I've suddenly decided that I'm throwing myself a big birthday party or anything. Let's not go to extremes.

MLG suggested I have people over to mark my last day of work before my sabbatical. I anticipated a quiet evening with much conversation. Sure, why not, I said.

Well, this morning, I walked into my kitchen and looked at the number of empty bottles on the counter and the table. I have no idea how few people could drink so much. I'm afraid to do the math. The glorious thing is, though, that it wasn't an alcohol-fest (I just don't do those); it was simply a terrific evening. I think everyone needed to relax. And for once, I was happy to be the excuse everyone used to kick back.

Note to self: drink O'Casey's with cream again sometime. Mmm.

So people had fun. Yes, we had that good conversation thing; there was also much laughter, good music (in my CD changer at the beginning of the evening: Buffy - the Musical, Ella Fitzgerald, the LOTR soundtrack, Great Big Seas's Turn, and Classic Yo-Yo Ma... I am nothing if not eclectic), good food (I made baked Camembert with sage and then forgot I'd made it, although everyone else tells me it was terrific), and of course, good company. I know good people. And it's good when we all get together.

My first day of my non-retail life was lovely. I went for a walk at 9 AM, grinning like an idiot. I practiced. I read. I napped a bit. I tidied up all those bottles and cans (still unable to comprehend how much alcohol was consumed). I nibbled bread and cheese. All in all, a wonderfully relaxed day. My parents should be en route to Montreal from Oakville; I'm really looking forward to seeing them soon too.

Life is pretty darn okay.

Concert Countdown

It was a three-hour, gruelling dress rehearsal. At the end of it all we stumbled out of the church, exhausted. We were driven, forced to repeat bars over and over again, made to feel like we were all fumbling amateurs, threatened with removing pieces from the program if we couldn't get it absolutely right. When we were released, our conductor thanked us, and said quietly that we should all be very proud of ourselves, because we sounded fantastic.

I should know this tactic by now; I've worked in theatre for seventeen years. It gets me every time, though.

If I had any doubt as to my sight-reading abilities, they were assuaged by the smooth, adept performance of the German aria Andras distributed when we arrived. It seems that in the eleventh hour we have added another piece to the program. For those of you who know Marian Siminski, our lovely and talented Mozart soloist from our last concert (and, incidentally, the musical director of Lakeshore Light Opera who has directed me for years), she'll be back on Monday night.

The church is lovely, so if anyone gets bored with the music, they can look at the architecture and all the saints (if they tire of Andras gesticulating wildly). I know I spent a lot of time looking at it while various sections worked through rough sections and transitions. (Oh, we had our share, don't think we didn't.) We played with all the doors open last night, and people walking by came in and sat at the back for a while when they heard the music. I thought it was lovely. Imagine taking a stroll by the lake as the sun is going down, and the air is cooling off, and you hear this wonderful soaring Mozart which draws you in. The church melds the sound beautifully; I can see why many groups choose to record in such places. I can also see the immense technical headaches they create, namely that the brass and winds sound like they're a fraction of a second behind the strings at times, because the sanctuary is round and collectes their sound before projecting it outwards.

One. One more day. Seven hours. Then friends, and music, and a summer of freelancing, writing, and catching up on me again.

Willowy

For some reason, I feel six feet tall today, willowy and all leg. My cello feels tiny. I hefted it through metro turnstiles and (worse) the outside doors to the stations themselves, where the vacuum created by the trains sucks them shut on you, forcing you to struggle to keep them open. Hard at the best of times; nigh impossible when you're carrying sixteen hundred dollars that could all too quickly become firewood. Today it was easy, though.

I am, however, stuck humming I'm Getting Married In The Morning from My Fair Lady, since I played the Lerner & Loewe medley to bits this morning. I simply cannot get the Camelot section - Lusty Month of May is a cinch, but the actual Camelot theme - it's a write-off. Fortunately I surge back supremely well with The Night They Invented Champage, thanks to MLG who burst into song in HMV last week when I asked him what show it was from. (You had to be there. No, really.)

There's hope for me yet.

Orchestra Dreams

It's happened. I've had a play dream about orchestra.

Play dreams, for those who have never been involved in theatre, involve a variety of disasters revolving around the production which is rapidly approaching. They trick you by showing up even when you are fully confident in your abilities and the show. By dragging themselves out of your subconscious, they make you second-guess yourself, create your own doubt, and generally weaken that supreme confidence you worked so hard to construct inthe first place. Essentially, play dreams are paradox-creators. They're self-fullfilling prophecies of the worst kind.

This one wasn't completely awful, though, since for some reason Ceri was sitting next to me. No clue what she was doing in the cello section - without an instrument, no less, although she had a music stand (which I didn't) and a good chair (which I was also missing). No, she didn't have a sax.

I was sitting in the first chair (naturally - play dreams go right for the way to make you panic the most) and the whole thing began without me having my music out and ready, because the damn music stand kept swinging back and forth and wouldn't support my music properly (this, at least, is based in fact), nor was there a chair available that was the right height. I didn't even have my cello out of the case before Andras began conducting.

And, to make matters worse, he began with the Bizet.

I should have sat back and let them go. After all, it's the first movement of the Bizet I detest.

I woke up with that annoying racing heart feeling that's always worse in the middle of the night. My sense of time was so messed up that I thought it wasmorning, but it was only an hour after I'd fallen asleep. So I slept again to have more vaguely bad musical dreams until I woke up this morning and realised that the concert is not in fact a week away. It's on Monday.

I've been meaning to practice for the past three days, and something always comes up - my husband doesn't do something out of the house like he said he was going to, I fell asleep on the floor because my back hurt, I lost track of time, etc etc etc. I have a dress rehearsal tonight. I get half an hour this morning, then Saturday, then Sunday, then that's it. My parental units are in town for the concert and I'm spending the day with them on Monday.

Actually, that's lots more time than I thought I'd have. For some reason I thought I'd have to cram in a half-hour on each weekend day and that would be it. I can play a lot more than that. Good.

Enough delaying. I'm going to go practice now.

(Including today: two more days. And today isn't the regular eleven-hour shift from hell since I must leave early for this dress rehearsal.)

I should try one with

I should try one with a Vanilla Coke.

Gah. Only if I require a massive sugar intake to save my life for some arcane reason. Or if I'm feeling very, very sorry for myself.

I forget sometimes that sugar doses which wouldn't have made me blink as a child now make me choke.

On the Ever-Evolving Nature of Snack Food

Once again I venture boldly into the snack foods that challenge The Way It's Always Been.

I scoffed at the idea of Chocolate Creme Oreos. I said, "That's just a Fudgee-O."

I sit corrected.

I'd forgotten, of course, that the cookie part of the Oreo sandwich is not the same as the cookie part of a Fudgee-O sandwich. It's that delicious crumbly dark chocolate wafer type of cookie, as opposed to the, well, fudgey cookies in a Fudgee-O.

Chocolate Creme Oreos are yummy. And just think how impressed Martha will be at your next dinner when you present a cleverly arranged contrating pattern of Chocolate and Classic Oreos as a dessert platter!

I should try one with a Vanilla Coke.

Mother Nature 2, Civilisation 0

Sometimes, when you decide to rough it, life throws you an extra curve ball.

I went camping this weekend for the first time since grade seven. (No, I don't want to tell you how long ago that was.) It was quite enjoyable - we got there early, set things up, had a lovely quiet afternoon, had a communal dinner with others who arrived later, did the campfire thing, slept well, ate a couple more meals, packed up, left. Glorious weather. Lovely silence. Much green. Few bugs. I must make the observation that a disproportionate amount of time is spent preparing food or eating, which leads me to believe that camp food should actually be more of a gourmet experience than it usually is. I mean, heck, if you're going to spend that much time creating a meal, you might as well Create a Meal, right? I spent more time thinking about/working with food in a day than I usually do in a week. Next time, the husband and I will design ourselves a real menu, and gourmandise to our hearts' content.

We came home and went to a late afternoon birthday party for a very young lady, which was lovely - we saw all sorts of people we hadn't seen in a while. As an added bonus, we had front row seats to an exquisite electrical storm accompanied by waves of pounding rain and a terrific wind. We stood on the back porch with other storm lovers and revelled in the thunder and lightning (which hit the train tracks a hundred feet south of us) until it finally became just rain. We left not long after that, around seven-ish. I'm not sure what time we got home, because the entire neighbourhood had lost power at six-fifteen, according to the clock on my stove. That lovely storm we'd watched had knocked out a lot of the island's electricity, and - worse - had torn up our beautiful park with its mature trees. We walked through the park to check the damage before we even went into our apartment; the trees have been snapped in half or by a third, the branches lying strewn on the wet grass like the fallen after a battle. The trees were mostly all right; some had snapped due to the beginnings of rot, but others were in shock from having perfectly healthy limbs torn from them and flung thirty to fifty feet away. I comforted them as best I could because it just didn't seem right to walk away from them again after stepping over their branches and pushing past wet leaves. Yes, I hugged them, and stroked them, and told them it would be all right; I'm not kidding when I said they were in shock. I felt what I felt. An extremely violent sudden gust must have raged through the area - that's the only reason we can think of for the trees snapping like that, for snap they did, all in the same direction with similar breaks; it wasn't from a constant bending or weakening, and they certainly weren't all dozen or so struck by lightning.

We came home and lit candles in the darker parts of the flat and ate the extra-creamy chocolate ice cream that was rapidly losing the "ice" part of its definition, which was fun. When we went to sleep we were confident that the power would be back in the morning; in fact, we were slightly surprised that five hours later, it hadn't been restored. We put it down to reduced crews working on the Sunday eve of a civic holiday and blew out our candles.

Well, naturally it wasn't back in the morning. We bought ice (which was in short supply) and used the cooler we'd taken camping with us to pack our frozen (thawing) meat and such. My husband grumbled. I said, "Yes, but we had a lovely visit last night, and a wonderful camping trip!" to which he replied, "Yeah, well, still feels like we're camping somehow." Our kitchen is equipped with a gas stove, so we could still boil water for tea and soup and such; and the husband went out to the car and brought in the coffee percolator we'd used on the Hibachi over the weekend, which worked just as well on our gas elements. He went off to work fortified with percolated coffee, and I spent the day reading and napping on the living room floor. Oh yes - I cleaned out the fridge too. Funny; I so often don't have the radio or a CD on when I have the option, but yesterday the knowledge that I couldn't turn music on nagged me no end, all day.

We'd planned to do laundry, but with no hot water or power we ended up travelling to my in-laws' place on the South Shore (how ironic is that, after the ice storm?) so showers and clean clothes could be had. They had just returned from a weekend of camping themselves, but were happy to see us, and we had a relaxing casual dinner. When we left our apartment, we'd been without electricity for twenty-four hours. It amuses me to some extent; for six years I lived near the airport, and my power never went down - even during the ice storm I only lost it for a couple of hours or so. I'm not much for the constant use of electrical devices - I don't watch TV very often, I don't play computer games, I use candles a lot anyway, etcetera - but I missed hot water, and the loss of most of my frozen food irritated me. Bits of the neighbourhood were restored at various times of the day - the south side of our street had power early yesterday, for example; however, the poor depanneur next to us on our side of the street spent the day emptying his freezers and setting his shelves out against the building walls to dry off. Coming home late last night we thought the whole neigbourhood was back... until we turned onto our cross street and nearly had a fit to see that the street on our block was dark. Fortunately, we're on a corner, and our building is apparently wired into the main street, not the cross street; our power had been restored nine minutes before we came home, according to all our flashing digital clocks. (Note to self: find a nice old-fashioned wind-up analog clock.)

It's odd to notice that your mind automatically begins making plans. What do I have in the pantry, what do I need, is the grocery store out of electricity as well, what should I stock up on, who else might need help, etcetera, etcetera. I was thankful to have gas, so I could still have tea (while there's tea there's hope!), and overall it wasn't a huge personal inconvenience. It just served to remind me how thankful I should be for the tiny miracles that we don't notice - like flipping the light switch in the front entryway, or washing your hands in hot water. And laundry.

I have an osteopath appointment this morning, then it's off to work. The official countdown begins: including today, four days to go.

Adaptability a Must

Friends who are adaptable are wonderful to have.

Yesterday, a few of us had planned to catch Cobra: The Musical at the Fringe Festival. We met early for dinner, and by the time we got our food we were looking at our watches and calculating the time we had left to go get in line to secure tickets. It was do-able. "No problem," I said, half-jokingly; "if we miss it we can always go see Fellowship of the Ring again."

Oops.

Well, dinner meandered on, and when we'd done we looked at our watches again and hmmed and hawed, and waffled, and even though we probably could have caught the last few tickets for Cobra: The Musical, we ended up going to see LOTR:FOTR again, even though we'd missed the beginning by about fifteen minutes. We walked in just as Frodo and Sam were leaving. Everyone's seen the film at least twice, so it's not like anyone was left wondering what was happening. We watched it with pure glee. This was decadence. We went for the fight scenes, for the coolness waves, for Aragorn and Arwen and Boromir and Gandalf and Legolas, and yes, even the hobbits useless in a fight scene.

I noticed something this time around, too. The scene between Frodo and Boromir at the end goes wrong because Frodo is becoming paranoid, not because Boromir is losing it. Boromir is remarkably sympathetic and controlled right up to the point where Frodo turns his back, and Boromir realises that he's trying to leave. That's when he snaps, right there. From Boromir's POV, it must look like Frodo's just going to waltz right up to Mount Doom and hand over the ring to the bad guys. Now, Boromir's pretty convinced this Fellowship thing isn't going to succeed anyway, so he's been thinking all along about the good guys using the Ring as best they can before the bad guys get their hands on it again, but abiding by the general consensus. It's a rather logical POV, if you think about it. So he tries to grab it from Frodo before the hobbit takes off and walks right into a trap or something. The whole thing, though, revolves around Frodo's paranoia, not Boromir's obsession with the Ring. It's a fine distinction, probably only made by acting, but it's there. I was very impressed.

And then...the preview.

I have one word to say: EOWYN!

When Bill and Stephen and I did our LOTR guest spot on CBC Radio One last December, we were discussing the alarming possibility that the scriptwriters had combined Arwen and Eowyn into a single character. I was pleased last night to discover that our fears were put to rest.

Damn, it looks good.

"How long do we have to wait?" my husband groaned as the credits rolled by. "Six months," I said, bouncing in my seat, "but we get the first DVD in August, then the Special Edition DVD in November, so there will be lots of LOTR to keep us happy until then." After all, it's been a whole six months since we first saw it, as unbelievable as that is. The next six will fly by.

So, you see, having friends who can be adaptable and flexible enough to toss one plan over the shoulder and readily agree on another is an asset. Thanks, all; we had a blast.

Timothy Findley: An Appreciation

Timothy Findley is dead.

There's no graceful way to say it. I was jolted awake this morning with the six o'clock news because my husband didn't get out of bed fast enough to turn it off so I could sleep. I sat up and said, "What?" to the saddened woman reading the news. I think I startled him.

Seventy-one. Died in his sleep in the warm south of France, where he moved after selling his wonderful home Stone Orchard in Ontario. Canadian seasons were getting to be too much for him. He still did work in Stratford in the summer, though.

My first thought was a selfish one. Timothy Findley is dead. I will have no more new books.

My next thought was almost as selfish. Timothy Fndley is dead. I will never meet him.

One of my dearest possessions is a signed hardcover copy of Inside Memory: Pages From a Writer's Notebook. Findley's writing style is so wry, so personal, that his journal makes for a humorous read while instructing in the art of living. One of my most awe-full memories of encountering an author is the lecture/reading he gave at Concordia when his novella You Went Away came out. He was deathly ill with one of those Canadian colds - he spoke around a cough drop that he replenished at regular intervals through his reading, and you could tell he wasn't up to his usual sparkling, mischeivous self. Yet he still made a connection with me, and likely most of the audience. I didn't have the money to buy the book at the time (the lecture was free), but when it came out in paperback I brought it home and cherished the reading of it, hearing his voice.

He began as an actor, which also endeared him to me. You could hear when he spoke: extravagant words rolling off the tongue, the use of dynamics, the rich timbre of his voice. I think many authors are actors at heart (and if they aren't perhaps that's why they're missing some sort of dimension that adds the spark of life to their work). He loved the theatre all his life, and worked closely with the Stratford Theatre in southern Ontario for decades, creating several original works for performance, and appearing in their author series frequently as well.

Like Robertson Davies, Timothy Findley represents everything that is bright and good about Canadian literature to me. He explored contemporary struggle in a uniquely Canadian way, while still appealing to international audiences. Findley and Davies always seemed to have an intellectual approach to their prose that appeals to my vaguely elitist taste for a national literature that is elegant and still touches my heart. "There's always something very magical about print," he said. "There's also something magical about the act of writing." He's so right. There's a magic to capturing a vision, a feeling, in symbols that lie inert on a page until someone opens the book and reconstructs your vision. Writing and reading is a constant act of creation and abandonment that fascinates me.

Timothy Findley was a gentleman. He was a graceful man, with a great love of life. He was courageous, and refused to hide his homosexuality behind closed doors. He never used it as a soapbox either, for which I admired him greatly. He simply chose to live his life, in his own fashion. He loved food, struggled with alcoholism (that day in the lecture-hall, he refused to take even cough syrup), luxuriated in comfort and aesthetic beauty. He was an inspiration to me as a writer, and I feel bereft.

Tiff: for all your work, your thoughts, and your mentorship to the people of Canada both in the arts and in other disciplines, I thank you. One of his favourite sayings was, "Against despair - be well." Today, I will remember that saying often.

Rehearsal last night was gruelling.

Rehearsal last night was gruelling. We just didn't seem to be completely there; all a bit off, not listening to one another, the usual "I'm tired" symptoms. I sat next to someone who did his CEGEP degree in music performance... and I was better than he was. At least I obeyed tempo markings and dynamics. Walter has moved up to sit next to our principal cellist. I'm already sitting closer than I was last concert, but that's by attrition! With a summer off, however, and two hours of practice a day, I think I can deserve a second chair. I know I'm better than I was when we began; I want to improve even more. And you now what? As much as I love Beethoven and Mozart, I miss Bach. I'm looking forward to getting comfortable with JSB again this summer.

I had the strangest dream last night: I woke up to Stuart McLean and Tom Allen sitting in my old bedroom, and they told me about a writing exercise where if I wrote a thirty-page piece, and if I pledged ten dollars, my company would match it and then CBC would double-match it. The topic was something about Asian educational deprivation.

I told you it was strange. What was stranger was that I didn't think it odd that these two CBC hosts would be sitting in my old bedroom, chatting until I woke up.

Cello Repairs

One of the good things about teaching workshops is that suddenly you have money again, despite the infrequency of the payment, and despite how the total is dependent upon how many students register. Last night's gain went immediately to bills, of course, just like that last few have, but the next one I'm reserving to have my fingerboard restained and my bridge replaced. I took a good look at it today and saw to my dismay that not only was it warping (the wood piece holding the strings off the belly of the instrument is curving over), it's twisting as well (i.e., it's warping to the side as well as horizontally, meaning that as a result the pressure on it is more uneven than usual) thereby increasing the possibility that the bridge could collapse, or slip and slam my strings down on the cello proper, creating cracks and gashes and even holes. No need to explain how that can (a) bring down the value of the instrument, or (b) really reduce the playability and sound quality. A cello with a hole in it is just a piece of wood. Not to mention a huge knife in a cellist's heart. I believe this is the original bridge, and since my cello is approximately as old as I am, that's quite the life for a bit of wood about five inches by four inches.

So, next month, I'll take my baby in to the luthier and leave her overnight, then bring her home to get used to the new bridge which should be good for at least another ten years or so, depending on how extreme our weather gets (wood responds to everything!). This fall before orchestra begins again, I should think about replacing the strings again too; it will have been about three years since this set was put on, and strings stretch and lose their tension after a while. They probably should have been replaced before (once a year is proper maintenance), but strings are like socks - I wear them out, because in my mind they should last longer than they do.

Summer Preview

I'm having a lovely taste of what this summer might be like. I have today off, since I took a co-worker's shift on Monday. It's sunny; I have all the windows open. I read a whole book. (Witch Boy, by Russell Moon. Odd.) I doodled about on my laptop. I played my cello for two hours straight. (Much black stuff came off onto my fingertips. Ew. But wow, what a workout. I'm looking forward to keeping this up.) I walked to the pharmacy and did some postal stuff I'd been meaning to do.

I feel fantastic. And I still have a couple of hours before orchestra.

I also moved the coffee table out of the middle of the living room. It just seemed like the thing to do. It's almost as if with more room in here, I'm in a better mood. No, it doesn't make sense. Without the table, though, I feel more relaxed, less stressed, less shut in, I suppose. And there's room for me to lie down on the floor with the laptop, or to set up my cello without moving a bunch of stuff around. When I was a teenager I used to move my room around when I felt like it; it gave me a sense of control over my environment and the freedom to move physical furniture around to reflect my mental furniture. It's amazing how different life can seem just because you've switched the positioning of things around you.

Hair Colour and Teaching

So I'm brushing my hair last night, and I looked in the mirror, and - hey, when did my hair get so long? It was only a month or so ago that I was moaning about how I wanted Pre-Raphaelite locks cascading down my back, and I was all mopy about how it would never happen. Looking over my shoulder into the mirror, I can see I'm mostly there all of a sudden.

My hair is acting in a peculiar fashion. I decided a while ago to put an end to the never-ending cycle of chromatic experiments that I'd been doing for the past couple of years, and to put a seal on it I resolved to henna my hair, which is the kiss of death if you ever want to use chemical colour again. Natural herbal colour and chemical colour don't mix well at all. (Think of that scene in Anne of Green Gables where her hair turns green, and you've pretty much got it.) So I did my research, ordered some brown henna, and did the deed last weekend. Now my hair is more like I remember it: thicker, wavy, even. And, apparently, longer. I cringe when I think about the chemical damage I must have done. Henna is a natural conditioner that's great for your hair and scalp, and heaven knows I needed help. Maybe my hair is rewarding me.

It's a beautiful day today - more like what we expect from late June in Montreal. Sunny, a bit humid. I never cease to be amazed at how much of an effect the weather has on my mood.

I taught another class last night. At the end of a workshop I always ask if there was something the students would have liked to seen more of, less of, explained differently. Last night when I asked, all they did was thank me for being clear, concise, unbiased, and dynamic. I even got a round of applause. Not only that, they all decided to come back for my next workshop in two weeks as well. I think I must have hit on something, here. I'm always surprised when people enjoy my workshops - not because I think they're bad (I work too hard on them for them to be anything but good!), but because I think those attending will be left rather neutral towards me and the material. All I'm doing is giving them information, after all, or guiding them though an exploration process where they discover their own answers. I keep forgetting that while I've known this material for a while, they're all new to it, so it's two solid hours of discovery and communion with others of like mind, where as individuals they often think they're alone in their interests. The newness of it all, plus the bonus of meeting others, has to be exciting. I must be facilitating this excitement and discovery is some sort of constructive fashion. As much as I think I'm not a people person, a friend pointed out to me the other day that I care about others, which automatically makes me a people person whether I like it or not. If I didn't care, I wouldn't be as approachable. Which makes sense, in an irritating sort of way. The reason people like being with me and seek me out is because I'm a decent human being, even if I'd prefer to be alone a lot of the time. Seems contradictory, but it isn't. Alas.

As if Vanilla Coke wasn't

As if Vanilla Coke wasn't enough of a discovery, now I've found a new chocolate bar too: the Hershey's Sidekick. The wrapper says, "Milk Chocolate, Peanut Butter and Soft Nougats". (Nougats? I though "nougat" was a collective term, like "chocolate". But I digress.)

In reality, what they've done with this new chocolate bar is a simple case of cross-breeding a Mars Bar with a Wunderbar.

It is soft and yummy. It is evil.

Two Vanilla Cokes left.

Now it's raining again. I

Now it's raining again.

I live in a city with a schizophrenic weather system.

Marika Bournaki is the name

Marika Bournaki is the name of the eleven-year-old pianist who knocked my slippers off with the Chopin. Here's a full list of the performers and their pieces; you can click on each name for a full list of their accomplishments.

And what have I done with my life?

Just kidding. These kids have had opportunities that didn't come my way, that's all. I chose different paths. What a world lies ahead of them, though...

Kids and the Arts

I love promoting interest in the arts. I particularly love promoting the arts to young people.

In this case, however, it sounds like the young people are at a point I'll probably never reach in my lifetime.

CBC Radio Two is broadcasting a series of performances across the country called Up and Coming, a series that showcases a variety of musical talent aged nineteen and under. I've been listening incredulously as violins, pianos and cellos stream out from my speakers and repeatedly distract me from my at-home work today. The final straw came when I heard the best rendition of Chopin's Fantaisie impromptu I'd ever heard, and listened in astonishment when the host told us that the performer was an eleven year old girl from Montreal. Eleven!

These kids are phenomenal, and I love that CBC has created this new forum for young talent to be heard and appreciated. It's an audition process, naturally. If the jury selects you to perform, you also are entered into a people's choice type of contest. Those listening at the live concerts, and later on the radio, can vote for their favourite. The winner receives a scholarship to a music program in Banff, Alberta.

These kids out to be national treasures. I mean, just think of how much their brains must be worth already - and they can only get more valuable. Musicians tend to insure their instruments fanatically; maybe they should insure their heads, too...

See? Now it's sunning out.

See? Now it's sunning out.

YUL and Weather

It's raining again.

If you surf through various Montreal blogs, you discover rather quickly that we talk about the weather frequently. For example, the five Montreal blogs I checked out this morning all mentioned that it rained this weekend. Mine didn't, but this post makes up for it. (I decided I didn't want to dwell on standing in the rain for forty minutes on the corner of Cavendish and Sherbrooke, where there's a nasty wind-tunnel effect. And you certainly didn't need to hear how miserable I was.)

We're very sensitive to weather. It changes, frequently. We're at its mercy, even though we don't allow it to stop us. A Montrealer can make it to work through pretty much anything, which is why we laugh at Torontonians when they call out the army after a snowfall. Still, weather play an enormous role in our lives. The sun comes out - we smile. It rains for six weeks - we grump. (And become perpetually soggy, which makes our tempers short.) Yet through it all, most of us find the room in our days and hearts to appreciate the weather. "Look at that wind!" we'll say. Or, "The lightning - it's so brittle and beautiful, isn't it?" Yep. Montrealers understand how weather fits into our personalities, all right. We are in awe, even if we grumble. We lean into a storm and relish it. We soak up the sun on the mountain when we can. Short skirts, sandals. Parkas, hiking boots. Gloves. Hats, sun or winter.

So, it's raining today. Like it did Sunday, and Saturday too. This time last year, the farmers were crying for rain. The corn was only a couple of inches high. This year, they're crying for it to stop. The stalks are rotting in the fields. Despite our lovely damp Spring, our fruits and vegetables will cost a lot more than usual this summer. They're calling for a damp Summer, which means you'll be seeing a lot of YUL posts about rain.

You've been warned.

Vanilla Coke and Brain Research

I have tasted Vanilla Coke, and it is the nectar of the gods.

I was walking down the street with a friend on the way to work when I saw a huge display of it in a shop window. I dragged him in, bought a box, brought it to work and passed them around. The general response is that it's okay; some people prefer Cherry Coke, others adore the Vanilla. I am one of the latter.

It tastes exactly like my Vanilla Schnaaps/Coke blend, but without that sharp alcoholic feeling on the back of your tongue. I so desperately do not want to become used to this taste. I want to make sure it's a treat every time I drink it. I'm also afraid they'll just yank it from the market without warning, so I'm considering stocking up on it against that very nightmarish occurance.

In other news, Ceri thoughfully sent me a link about some research they're doing on the brains of musicians. Evidently they're discovering that:

Musicians have bigger and more sensitive brains than people who do not play instruments, scientists revealed yesterday.

The professionals, who all performed regularly, showed 102 per cent more activity in their auditory cortex than non-musicians. Activity in the brains of amateur musicians was on average 37 per cent higher than in those who did not play an instrument, the researchers said in a report in Nature Neuroscience. The auditory cortex consists mainly of "grey matter" or nerve cells called neurons, which are interconnected by long filament-like axons, or "white matter".

All the math and stuff can be found here in the news report.

Ceri suggests that I wear a helmet to protect my apparently valuable auditory cortex. How fortuitous that I will be looking into Blue Cross today.

Good gods. When did we

Good gods. When did we pass 2000 hits?

Well, It's Bright

Well. Our bathroom is yellow.

See, we went to Home Depot yesterday to look at paint chips for the kitchen, and we ended up buying the paint we'd decided on for the bathroom. Being temporarily useless at anything requiring a reaching movement, I was shut out of the exercise while my husband painted.

It's, um, yellow. Lemony yellow. The colour of whipped egg yolks with a bit of sugar in them. It's not as dark as we'd expected; we were hoping for more of an deeper tone to it as it dried. It's not awful; it's just, well, different.

It's going to take a bit of getting used to, I think. It's definitely better than the stark white was.

On other fronts, NSW was (as usual) a terrific session, very character-driven as opposed to action-oriented. We got our new mission parameters: go into occupied worlds and incite rebellion. Sounds good, and very Star Wars-y; it presents a vast variety of potential situations. No one seemed to mind that I spent the session standing, leaning against the wall, or flat on my back on the living room floor. Chairs appear to aggravate my back.

Bank errands, then an interview on Pagan weddings, then work this afternoon. Then we'll see what state we are in at the end of it all, and if ye old spine can stand (pun unintentional, I assure you; there's not much humour in me when it comes to this any more) a public ritual tonight or not.

Hmm. I've been looking over the last few entries, and I seem to have a one-track mind. Just to prove to you that I'm not completely obsessed with my back:

NSW tonight! Blasters and Force points have already been packed and are waiting by the door!

Back: 1, Autumn: 0

I'm sitting perched on my ergonomic kneely-chair, which is certainly not serving me ergonomically at the moment: my feet are up on the knee part and Maggie in on my lap. I keep bending down to kiss her between her ears, which is lovely and soft and she smells good, but the motion is not serving my back well at all!

I'm feeling rather foolish and guilty this morning. I came home from work early yesterday on the edge because I couldn't stop my back from hurting - my Secret Weapon was useless. Trying to explain it to someone, I used the feeling of being hit with a baseball or a bat as a comparative image - you know, that sudden breathless feeling? Another good one would be if you've ever fallen flat on your back while on ice skates: you feet are in the air, then you land square on your back. If I had to register the pain on a Pain-O-Metre, I think it would end up being surprisingly low. It's just the eternal-ness of it. It hurts to breathe. (Not to mislead you about the pain, though; the Pain-O-Metre would indeed register spikes, when I try to move a way my spine decides I shouldn't, and I get spasms. Lovely.)

Anyway, what ended up happening is that when I got home, I fell onto my bed and realised that I couldn't get up. I shed a few angry tears, then dozed a bit until the husband came home. He had to call someone we were supposed to pick up to take to an evening gathering to tell her he'd be late. She ended up calling back to tell him the gathering was cancelled.

Now, sure, other factors were likely involved, but, as usual, I feel responsible. I know they really wanted me there, but I couldn't face an hour in the car, let alone wandering around a forest. Ergo, common sense says I had to stay home. Not being able to get out of bed is usually a good indication of this. However, it doesn't change the fact that I feel dreadful. I feel like I'm lying to everyone somehow: I'm leaving work early, I'm cancelling outings... I know I'm making people angry, and it just upsets me more.

My husband made me take two muscle relaxants, which knocked me out as usual, since the brilliant medical world can't seem to develop a muscle relaxant that isn't also a sedative. While I was out, he picked up the fixings for dinner and made mushroom rice and some lovely pork tenderloin, which was yummy and very welcome when I woke up again a couple of hours later. I took two more muscle relaxants this morning, did the requisite dozing-whilst-knocked-out, and experimented with getting up. Now I'm trying to psyche myself up for work again. It's raining, and I've been told that if it's quiet, I can go home. We shall see.

Yes, I called the osteopath and put myself on their cancellation list. If someone cancels their appointment, they are to call me at home and at work, no matter when.

Maybe I'll just lie still for two months and not move. And I keep coming back to the "what did I do to deserve this?" train of thought, no matter how I try to stay away from it.

Enough With the Stress and Anxiety Already

Woke up this morning with my mouth dry and metallic, nauseous, heart racing, no feeling in my fingers or toes, absolutely certain that as soon as I got out of bed something horrible would happen. And naturally, this was one of the few days my husband decided to not wake me up to say goodbye, so I was alone.

Ah yes. I remember these. Panic attacks. Where your body tricks you into thinking you're dying. Where something short-circuits for whatever undiscernable reason and you get flung into fight-or-flight without so much as a by-your-leave. I haven't had one of these for a while.

I forced myself out of bed and decided to take a relaxing lavender bath with some Bach playing. Normally this would be a one-two combination that would have me calm again in no time. Instead, I got back pain in the tub.

What? What does my body (or my mind?) want from me? Does it want to be kept busy and tired all the time? Does it want room to relax and take a look around? No matter what I do I seem to run up against a wall. I don't know whether my subconscious is panicking because it sees two months of not-working looming ever closer, or if it's breaking down because it knows the end is in sight.

My husband broke my cat's bowl last night, her beautiful perfect blue bowl that I threw myself on a pottery wheel over twelve years ago. It was the best piece I produced. When I saw it I just looked at it, feeling dull. Normally I'd feel more upset. I know, it's just the cat's bowl, but it was a piece of my artwork. He glued it back together, but it won't leave my brain for some reason. It bothers me.

Okay. Deprived of Vanilla Coke,

Okay. Deprived of Vanilla Coke, I tried this new 7-Up Tropical thing.

Remember Fresca?

It's Fresca.

Suspiciously Cheerful

I got my music folder back!

Yay!

The fire alarm went off this morning. Twice. I'm in a surprisingly good mood, regardless. Despite wrist pain (rehearsal was intense, but I walked out feeling much better about myself than I had in weeks. Practice actually does help. Wow.), back pain (no surprise there), and the knowledge that I have an eleven-hour day ahead of me... I'm remarkably chipper. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I had breakfast with friends (what else do you do when the fire alarm has you all up at an ungodly hour?) and that one of the stand-offish store cats jumped on my lap to cuddle this morning. It's sunny, too, which always helps!

More Back Pain

This back thing is just strange.

I don't normally complain about physical pain. It's a thing I have. People don't need to know about what's going on with my body; they can't do a thing about it, so why bother them? I actually don't complain about much, I think, in comparison with most people I've met. I swallow it and bear it. I don't go home from work or call in sick unless I can't stand up. Heck, I don't even take aspirin for a headache.

This back thing, though...

I honestly don't know what to make of it. It's not something obvious, like pulling it lifting heavy stuff, or being in a car accident, or something I can point at and say, "Ah! This was the cause! Must fix!" Instead, it's invisible. It just hurts.

Okay, if you're a medical professional, and you look at my spine, you can see the double curve that self-correcting scoliosis creates. (Such a pleasantly misleading term, that; self-correcting makes it sound like it's fixed, no longer a problem, have fun!) Everyday people, though, can't. So I feel a bit awkward on a bus when people are standing and I'm sitting; normally I'd get up and offer my seat to someone. Nowadays, I know darn well that if I stand on the bus with one hand clinging to a pole, I'll be in severe pain by the time I hit the metro. So there I sit, looking like a perfectly normal woman, taking up a space that someone older or heavily laden could be sitting in.

Perfectly normal, except... I can't stand for too long. I can't sit for too long. I can't use the pillows I used to use. I can't sit through a movie without discomfort. Driving has me in tears after half an hour.

Every once in a while, I wonder what I did wrong. You know - did I slouch while reading in bed too often, was it my curling style, did the posture I developed in six years of ballet training actually force my spine into an unnatural position? Both my GP and my osteopath tell me that it wasn't anything I did or didn't do; they say I was born with the mild spinal curve, then naturally grew the opposite curve further down the spine to compensate for it. Still, though, I wonder... usually around the time I have to pop a couple of Secret Weapons.

The fact that I'm taking pain-killers at all is a huge tip-off that I'm admitting something's wrong. Every once in a while at work I look at a colleague (who experiences periodic back pain) and say, "My back hurts." He looks at me helplessly and says, "I know." The fact that I'm actually saying it out loud is a huge admission on my part. The knowledge that he can't do anything about it should stop me; it's not his responsibility, he can't help me, and both of us know it, so I really should not do it. It's just... it feels so good to be able to say it out loud to someone. It helps, a little. Don't ask me why.

I keep coming back to the "what did I do?" concept. I suppose it's normal for most of Western society, seeing that we operate within a reward/punishment social system all our lives. If you do good things, you get good stuff. If you do something bad, you get back pain that tortures you while you look perfectly normal to others.

My time limit on ergonomic kneely chair has been reached. Now I have to go lie flat on the living room floor and stare at the ceiling until it's time to go teach.

But I'm not bitter.

Yeah

If you're reading this, then you should probably read the Brunching Shuttlecocks on web logs.

Temporal Confusion

I thought I had to work today. I'm obviously unable to read a calendar, because there, in plain ink, was my note on the 17th: work 2-7. Somehow I got it into my head that it was the 17th. Wishful thinking, I suppose. Then again, if it were the 17th, I would have lovely memories of a Midsummer ritual and a New Star Wars game, which I don't, so either I've been mind-wiped or it actually is the 10th.

Joy! I have a 7 AM appointment with my osteopath on July 2nd! Which, it occurs to me now, is very early on the very first day I don't have to be working. Hmmm... and also very early the morning after the July 1st concert my orchestra is playing. Well, at least I'll need the appointment to straighten out my back after playing on folding metal chairs all night - they do horrible things to poor cellists...

CURRENTLY READING:

I think I've discovered a trend. If I'm blogging, chances are good I'm not reading. If I'm not reading, it's because I've finished whatever book I was in the middle of.

Sabriel by Garth Nix was a re-read, and it was just as good the second time around. Strong characters; an excellently constructed world that would be a pity to waste (which to my delight he has not done; I've just picked up Lirael, another book set in the same world. Hence my re-read of Sabriel), and, just as I remembered, it has a slow first half and a second half that tumbles you through the concluding events.

I also read Never Burn a Witch by M. R. Sellars, the sequel to the Harm None book that had unforgivable editing errors that I complained about earlier. At least this one didn't mis-define symbols. It's a passable murder mystery with an occult twist; certainly better than the first one. The protagonist's tendency to channel murder victims and receive nicely laid out visions that direct the police to the next clue gets a little hard to swallow after a while, however. I assume a mostly occult readership for this book, which is probably a good thing, because if a mass market readership were to pick it up they'd think all Witches develop stigmata when in the presence of evil, snap in and out of Twilight-Zone like trances, are overcome by messages from "the Other Side", and so forth. Sheesh.

Must find something to put in my lonely Reading Box over there to keep The Western Way company. Oh, I've got a pile of stuff, don't get me wrong; I just have to figure out what's next.

Hollywood Princess

Flipping through random blogs, I came across this test.

I decided, for a laugh, to run through it. I said to myself, "Self, what with being so out of the celebrity and entertainment thing, you won't even recognise the Hollywood princess you end up as."

So I did it, and ended up as...

You are Sarah Michelle Gellar!
You acted in cool movies like: Scooby-Doo, Harvard Man, She's All That, Scream 2 and Cruel Intentions.

Take the "Which Hollywood Princess are you?"
quiz @ planetag.de

Later: Okay, so the other options were Alyssa Milano, Cameron Diaz, Christina Ricci, Angelina Jolie, Thora Birch, Alicia Silverstone, Reese Witherspoon, Drew Barrymore, and Claire Danes. All of whom I know. Whoever would have thought? (Note to self: remember to thank Powers That Be for not being classified as Alicia Silverstone...)

Denied!

Figures. They were out of stock. Next week, they promise.

Grr.

Buffy fans who are also academics, take note: Roz Kaveney's Reading the Vampire Slayer: An Unofficial Critical Companion to Buffy and Angel is fantabulous. I've been out of the academic community for a couple of years, but it all came back as I read essays on the function of labour in the Buffyverse, dialectics, sematics, upsetting established narratives... it was wonderful.

Music Stand Frustration

I've been patient, and good, and did I mention patient? Today, however, was the proverbial last straw. I made new copies of my music yesterday, and as I played it through I made new notes about fingerings, bowings, etcetera. However, my music stand (my $12.99 special purchased over fifteen years ago along with my flute) just doesn't stand up to supporting paper whilst writing. It swings madly back and forth, which means I have to lean the cello across my body, kind of clinch it between my ribcage and my thigh, then put the bow between my teeth in order to be able to hold the stand steady with my left hand and write with my right hand. Then I have to switch the pencil and the bow, sit up, and grab the cello before it topples over.

Today, that changes. Today I go to the bank, take out $50, and sail up to Italmelodie and buy that lovely solid-table music stand. I will be an irritating customer first, however, and take it apart in the store to make sure it collapses in a portable fashion. (No, wait, that's pointless; it comes in a flat box, so of course it collapses in a portable fashion. Italmelodie staff, you are hereby saved from an irritating customer. Consider yourselves fortunate.)

Since I will be in the neighbourhood, Ceri and I will munch and have coffee too. Life is pretty good.

Dinner Out

Enough. I practiced for two hours, my fingers hurt. So I'm playing around with the colours on my template now. "View Source" is my best friend when I find a site I like; I discover terrific colours that way, like the sage green I'm trying out here. After loading it to check it out, I have dubbed this colour scheme "Chocolate Mint", which amuses me no end. Feedback is welcome. We'll see how long it lasts. This page is always a work in progress.

Dinner was lovely, and so welcome - I was more than ready to escape the workplace. MLG and I spent a lot of time people-watching through our window at Hurley's, as it's Grand Prix weekend and there are many, many Beautiful People wandering about our fair city. (Beautiful People are those persons who sail down the street inviting you to look at them. They know that they're on display, and they've dressed to make A Statement. Some of the statements were laughable, such as the woman we passed wearing a pink sequined butterfly tied onto on her torso, with a pair of jeans. I giggled for half a block.) We talked of cabbages, kings, invasionary forces, having babies, and politics. Dinner with MLG exercises the mind and relaxes me at the same time.

In the pub I ran into an old customer from the F/SF shop who I still keep in touch with, and we mourned the loss of the shop again. Two years. It's been two years (minus three weeks) short of two years since the doors closed due to poor sales, a direct result of the big box stores opening up five minutes down the road. The concept of time becomes so surreal as you get older. When you're a kid, summer lasts forever. When you're an adult, it's more like, "Summer? When? What - wait, was that it? I must have blinked, because it's October all of a sudden." It seems like only yesterday that we put the new calendar up at work. (Actually, it seems like only yesterday that we turned the calendar page to February 2001. That's how wonky time has become.)

I read another book when you weren't looking: The Beekeeper's Apprentice by Laurie R. King. Delicious. A Holmes story after his retirement, when he meets a young lady whose mind is as sharp as his, and he informally apprentices her. Good enough to keep an eye out for the rest of the series. Wonderful summer reading.

I Have a Bad Feeling About This

I have a bad feeling that this is going to be a less than fun day. The past three have been unfairly long and slow. Someone inserted more minutes into each hour, I'm certain of it, and neglected to warn me. It's also been grumpy - everyone's been growly and lethargic and generally vaguely unhappy. I worked in the store on Tuesday, which I usually work at home, so by last night I'd used up my working-with-customers patience, and I still have another whole day to get through. The good thing is I will be dining with MLG afterwards, which will cheer me up to no end. It will also officially launch my weekend. I'm covering for someone else on Monday, however, so it will be the shortest weekend I've had in a while. I'm being generous in the covering for others department, though, becaue hey, as of the beginning of July, I won't be worrying about that for a while, will I?

Ceri, evil woman that she is, sent me links to new costume patterns, and voila, a whole new Hallowe'en concept unrolled itself in my mind. I called my husband in to share and showed him all the pictures and detailed the idea with some excitement. He put his hands on my shoulders and said, "It's a wonderful idea, and yes, you'd look perfectly stunning, but you made me promise to remind you of something: You hate costume parties."

Damn. I did, too. I do hate them. I'm a perfectionist, and obssessive, and I dislike large gatherings of people. My record for the past four years: an hour at the party; half an hour; skipped; hid far away in the hotel.

This would be so good though! I have plenty of time, too - all summer, in fact. I have excellent photo references! I have a pattern to base it on (although I'm already modifying it and adding things mentally, oh dear)! I just need to find material... I sense a trip to St Hubert street in my future.

Ceri asks, "Are you going to get a new sewing machine?" I answer, "No, just a new needle. Plus extras." I intend this costume to be as light as possible (enough with the gold lycra and the heavy tapestry!), so a sturdier machine won't be necessary (you hear that, Easy-Bake Oven of Sewing Machines? Don't let me down!). Besides... my birthday treat is to be a beautiful wooden recurve bow, and I want to buy the extras like the armguard and fingertab and arrows are sort of important too. This summer is going to be lean, and a new sewing machine is not in my long-term budget.

Curse you, Ceri! In the nicest way possible, of course.

Blogger Insider

Kate sent me her Blogger Insider questions, and I actually answered them the day I got them. All but the last one, that is, which I've been mulling over. In true Autumn fashion, I've not directly answered it, but sort of answered beside it. Here you are:

1. What's the most bizarre instrument you can play (e.g. musical saw, noseflute, etc.)?

Caveat Number One: I’m boring. Caveat Number Two: I rarely have the urge to try something unconventional. Hence, I think the most exotic instrument I play is the harp. And I certainly don’t play it often or well. It’s big, heavy, and hurts my back.

I bought a tambourine recently; that’s a bit odd. Isn’t it?

2. What's your favorite spot in Canada?

Sigh. Prince Edward Island. It’s so tiny I thought I might be able to get away with saying the whole province, but if I have to be more specific, Cavendish Beach. But it has to be deserted. Just me, sun, red sand, waves, and a good book. Sigh once more.

3. What's your favorite comic book and why?

Argh. Tell me to pick a favourite child, why don’t you. Currently: Promethea. Overall? Dunno. Depends on my mood.

4. Who's your favorite fiction author and comic book author?

Why are you making me do this? Fiction. Hmm. Who do I buy instantly in hardcover? Connie Willis, Neil Gaiman, Timothy Findley. Dead people who don’t have anything new coming out but I’d buy in hardcover if they were still publishing: Robertson Davies, Charlotte Bronte.

Comic books? A tie between Neil Gaiman and Alan Moore. (According to my shelf of graphic novels.)

5. What's your favorite song in "Once More With Feeling," the "Buffy" musical episode?

“R.I.P” stuck in my head the first time I saw it, but upon listening to it over and over, I find Xander and Anya’s song “I’ll Never Tell” is really quite well-written and performed, and is the one that keeps popping up in my brain when I’m distracted.

6. What's your favorite opera?

Mozart’s Don Giovanni. Followed by a three-way-tie between Donizetti’s La Fille du Regiment, Rossini’s La Cenerentola, and Il Barbiere di Siviglia. (The latter for its delicious mezzo-soprano role, and for the act one finale, if nothing else!)

7. If you could move anywhere in the world, where would it be?

The Borderlands, Scotland.

8. Who's the one character you can't stand to see when watching a "Star Wars" movie?

Old series or new series?

New series: Threepio is rapidly rising up the list in the new series. Jar-Jar, of course.
Old series: Boba Fett. Honestly. He’s so overrated. Ep2 sort of redeemed him for me, though. His dad was at least cool. (His action figure is certainly the best one. Is it just me or are the SW:Ep2 figures below standard?)

9. What are your top three totally irrational pet peeves?

Firstly, someone who shall remain nameless putting a margarine container, with the barest sheen of margarine along the bottom of it, back into the fridge. (“I didn’t finish it!”) Actually, that nameless someone putting anything back in the fridge or cupboard with only crumbs or drops left in it.

Secondly, not writing something down on the shopping list if you’ve finished it (or, all right, almost finished it). I don’t eat often, but when I do, I like to have all the fixings there. This will drive me directly to Axe-Murderer status, do not pass Go, do not collect $200.

Thirdly, people standing behind me. In a related vein, people reading over my shoulder. Or, people standing in front of me and conversing with sunglasses on. I hate not being able to see people, and if I can see them, I have to be able to see their eyes.

I have more, if you'd like them. Such as bad editing in a published book. Stupid spelling mistakes. (Especially in my own work, when I've proof-read and run a spell-check.) People adopting American short-cut spelling such as lite and donut, and believing that it's the right way to spell something. Shall I go on?

10. If you could perform any piece of music to a large audience by yourself, what piece would it be?

Ha! Assuming I could perform it with any sort of technical capability and emotional interpretation, pretty much anything by Bach. I remind you all of Caveat Number One (I’m boring), and add the following footnote: as much as I adore performing, I prefer chamber work with a few others. Solo is so... alone. You have nothing to interact with. So actually, my dream would be playing cello in a string quartet program of Beethoven's String Quartet opus 132 in A minor, followed by Ravel's String Quartet in F. Rather than performing solo, I enjoy hearing how my line intertwines with a few others. I also enjoy singing quartets or trios more than I enjoy singing alone.

There you have it.

Jean, darling that she is, brought me a whole new bottle of my Secret Weapon from her trip to Plattsburg last weekend. Now I have a bottle for home, and a bottle with a few left to keep at work. No Vanilla Coke, though. She says she'll try again next trip. Curses! Foiled!

Deleted Scenes

We did it! We did it!

We found the deleted scenes on the new Harry Potter DVD! No cheating, or checking web sites, or anything!

Only took us another hour tonight, after discovering that they were nowhere to be found during our casual exploration before watching the movie on Sunday. It was actually quite a challenge, until we figured out what we needed to do. I was the brains; my husband clicked buttons. (Remotes defy me; it's that technology/witch thing again.)

No, I'm not going to give the secret away. Suffice it to say that about half the deleted scenes should have been left in, in my opinion, including the one where Harry actually speaks Hedwig's name. Then at least it would have been said at least once in the movie.

Watching the film again has reminded me of how much I want Dame Maggie Smith's wardrobe. Especially that lovely hat with the pheasant feather, and the emerald velvet robes with the triskeles on them!

The bicycle has been road

The bicycle has been road tested.

I am not dead.

I do, however, remember why I stopped cycling as I got older. People who drive cars are self-absorbed and rude. I jammed on my brakes for an idiot who ran a stop sign because he didn't see another car coming (I didn't count, apparently); I jammed on my brakes because someone opened a car door in front of me; and I jammed on my brakes because someone pulled away from the curb in front of me. All this from going around the block after I filled the tyres with air. (Twenty-five cents! They charged me twenty-five cents to put air in my tyres!)

My back brakes are working. There are a few whirrs and clicks, and the gears change when they've given my gear shift a bit of consideration, and I have to secure the rear reflector properly, but I have a functional bicycle. Hurrah!

Bicycles and Back Pain

Back. Back hurts. Secret weapon not kicking in.

I spent yesterday afternoon cleaning up that 25$ rusty thing that if you squinted and were feeling kind, you could call a bicycle. Three hours. Three hours of applying chrome cleaner with a toothbrush, and scrubbing as hard as I could with a scrubby sponge. Being there as a task is slowly accomplished doesn’t have the same power as seeing it “before” and “after”, as my husband did when he walked in at the end of the day. “Hey!” he said. “That’s terrific! I didn’t think you’d get it that clean!”

Get it that clean? There’s still rust all over it! Okay, so the chain doesn’t flake any more when you touch it, you can see the rims again, and the fenders only have a few dull spots, but it’s still a mess. Just not as much of a mess as before. I wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen with it in public, now.

I will, however, be embarrassed after coming to a sudden stop if I don’t get the back brake calibrated correctly. Front brake – fine. Back brake – not fine. It's still stiff, although I've tried everything I can remember about brakes. A sudden stop on my head would be bad. Even though I still have a helmet (around somewhere). I’ll walk it over to the gas station down the road this afternoon and fill the tyres to see if they actually hold air. Maybe I’ll try to ride it back. Slowly.

Music Folder AWOL

I discovered something bad yesterday.

I packed up my cello and my music bag to go over to a friend’s house, and my music folder was missing. My beautiful, new, black leather music folder. With my favourite pencil. Oh yes, and all my music with my notes all over it.

Gone.

I had a sinking feeling that was oddly juxtaposed with rising panic. I must have closed it at that horrible rehearsal, then left it on the music stand. I remembered the wooden blocks I put under the back legs of the chair to tilt the seat (thereby reducing the stress on my lower back), which I usually almost forget, but I was so rattled that I forgot my music folder and walked out.

This is bad: I like that new music folder. It was my “I’m a serious musician” folder. Sure, I could go buy another one for 17$, but it’s the principle of the thing. I’ve lost all my music, my fingerings, my bowings, my highlighted key changes.

I do still have the originals (thank the gods!). As soon as I get new music, I photocopy it and use the copies as practice music. I cannot bring myself to scribble on originals, even in pencil. We sign out the music, and have to sign it back in at the end of the season, so it's good that I stored them in a seperate folder. I can always make more copies, trim them, paste them back to back, and try to recreate my fingerings, and bowings… gods, I want to cry just thinking about it. There was over three months of work in those copies.

Now. We rehearse in an auditorium in a high school. There’s always a chance that someone found my folder the next day and gave it in to the teacher who also just happens to be my conductor after hours. There’s also the chance that some kid found it, kept the folder and tossed the music, or mutilated it in some way then handed it in, or just had fun destroying it all and I'll never see it again.

The orchestra has this week off, though. I won’t know until next week if someone found it.

In the meantime, I have the originals, and I might as well devote a couple of hours to standing at the copy machines in the library down the street, staring at the wall as the harsh light rolls back and forth, and copy them all again. Which is technically against the law, I suppose, although they’re for private research/rehearsal purposes. It could also be argued that one cello part is nowhere near the full work. In fact, it’s only, what, approximately 1/12th, I think, which hardly qualifies as a major portion of a total full orchestral score.

Does life ever seem futile to you sometimes? You try and try and try, and you never seem to get anywhere?

Ooh, Look, Shiny Thing

My new Blogger Insider partner, Kate: I love her already.

As usual, today at work was spent spacing out.

Still getting adjusted to my new desk and my new space, but a healthy dose of Star Wars cereal and a cup of chai tea in the morning makes everything all right.

Whee!

Sometimes, heaven is a brisk

Sometimes, heaven is a brisk walk to the not-insane grocery store, a brisk walk back in the warm wind, and a plate of three slices of mill bread (complete with flax seeds and sunflower seeds baked right in) with slices of Jarlsberg cheese.

Mmm.

June Already?

Yes, June already.

When I woke up this morning I made myself a cup of tea and went back to bed to read Sandman: The Dream Hunters, which out of the entire Sandman oeuvre is the only story graphic novel I'd never read. There was nothing in my reserve when I stopped by the comic shop yesterday, and I just happened to see this on the shelf and decided I needed a treat. I am rather partial to foxes, and this is a retelling of a Japanese story about a fox who falls in love with a monk, sacrificing herself by intercepting a malevolent dream sent to kill him. Naturally, it's not that easy; it never is when you're in love.

I trust anything written by Neil Gaiman. I was completely unprepared for Yoshitaka Amano’s art. This book was released in hardcover back in the days when I worked in the F/SF bookshop, and the book was shipped sealed. This is a practice I have never understood. People want to look at a book before they buy it to see what’s inside, especially if it’s an illustrated novella like The Dream Hunters. If there are drop cards or loose enclosures necessary to the volume, I can almost understand it, but even then there are other ways. The book being sealed meant I couldn’t flip through it, and I never saw one on the shelves of my friends’ collections. I heard rave reviews, but never experienced the illustration for myself apart from the front and back covers.

The reviews are right. Amano has created a dream-like accompaniment for a fable about dreams which enthralls me. It is slightly eerie; very pale, but flowing, and it took me several minutes of poring over the colour plates before I saw even half the multitude of detail (and I know each time I look at it I’ll see different things). It is the perfect accompaniment to Gaiman’s fairy-tale style, which, as usual, is gloriously formal yet personal at the same time. It was a lovely way to begin the day.

I think I’ll go pull out my issues of Stardust now.