Owls' Court

And Now For Something Not Punk, Rock, Or Whatever Ashley MacIsaac Qualifies As

The fall Lakeshore Chamber Orchestra concert has been confirmed: Sunday November 20th, at the glorious St-Joachim church in Pointe-Claire Village where we always do our Canada Day concert. (There will, however, be no ringing of the church bells and fireworks to cap this particular concert. Please make a valiant effort to rein in your disappointment.) I'm assuming our start time will be 19h30, as usual.

To refresh your memory, here's the programme:

Ouverture zur Oper Idomeneus, Mozart
Violin concerto Op. 61, Beethoven
Symphony No. 101 "The Clock", Haydn

Write it on your calendars, and so forth. Admission's usually $10. Yes, it's out on the West Island, but the church is really lovely and makes up for the trip. (The music's pretty good, too.) I usually encourage those facing public transport to get together and coax a vehicle-enabled friend along by offering to pay for their ticket. It works nicely. If you need directions and so forth, do please ask.

Battle Damage

This should amuse:

Sitting under different lighting at orchestra Wednesday night, I not only saw the severe beating the middle right rib is taking from whacking it with the frog of my bow during the more vigorous songs (I'd noticed this before, of course, but I didn't think the damage was this extensive), but also something new:

There's a divot forming on my fingerboard where I thwack it with the metal fingerpick during Julia.

Cool.

Oh, Right, I'm A Cellist In A Chamber Orchestra Too

Which is something I have known intellectually for the past three weeks, but forgot emotionally while playing The Ramones, The Horrorpops, and the music of various groups emphatically not of the chamber orchestra sort.

Tonight, though, I remembered why I play chamber music. I like it. I like it a lot. I enjoy the rhythms, the legato phrasing, the singing melody lines, the fugues, the dynamics. (In fact, the word "dynamics" recently escaped me until tonight, otherwise I would have used it during the dual band post-mortem to explain to Invisible why they thought the equipment settings were off so that the cello couldn't be heard in the opening verse of Hazy Shade Of Winter. I was playing with dynamics, using the side of the bow hair to make the barest whisper of sound to flow under Jan's bell-like chords. Compare the use of full bow hair and lots of arm weight to produce the solid grounded sound of the alternating two notes in the intro of Do You Remember Rock'n'Roll Radio. Pianissimo versus fortissimo.)

But chamber orchestra. Yes.

At orchestra, I'm inspired by the sounds other people make. Their instruments sing. And in an ensemble like this, the goal isn't to stand out, it's to blend in. You should meld seamlessly with your section so that it sounds like a single instrument. If I can get my instrument to sing as theirs do, then I'm doing it right.

I met someone new tonight. He's probably a bit younger than I am, and he's one of the most incredible cellists I've had the fortune to sit with while he just played around. He picked up someone's cello and played most of the first movement of the Elgar cello concerto. And his phrasing was phenomenal. He played the opening sequence slowly, giving it lots of room to breathe, before moving into the melody and giving it a bit more momentum. We chatted a bit, and I let him know how much I liked his phrasing, and then he continued with the movement. It was awe-inspiring. I just sat there with my eyes unfocused and listened to him pull sound out of the instrument, listened to his fingers sliding, to his bow changes. If I ever played it, that's how I'd do it. I've never heard it played like that before.

And get this: he's playing second bassoon for us. Bassoon!

I asked why he switched, and he said that oh no, he hadn't switched; the cello is still his main instrument, he'd never give it up. He just thought bassoon would be interesting. And I can sort of see why; it's the cello of the wind section. And he's certainly got the cello down well enough.

For lots of people, hearing an impressive soloist perform on their instrument, however informally, produces one of two reactions. Either they're intimidated and slink home despondently thinking they'll never be that good, or they're inspired to work even harder to attain a similar level of expertise. I'm a member of neither camp. I sat there dreamily and absorbed that Elgar through every pore of my being, and appreciated each moment of it, but I didn't wish I had that kind of skill. I just don't like soloing. I find it boring. The excitement and attraction of playing music for me is working in a group of some kind, of feeling the give and take between sections, the dialogue between various musical lines. In fact, I found myself thinking of telling him that I'm the bassist in an eclectic fusion band and that we do a lot of our own arrangements. I didn't, of course; it wasn't the time or the place. But I found myself wanting to share that part of my musical life, simply because his interpretation of the Elgar opened something up inside me.

So no; I don't feel hopelessly untalented, or all fired up to practice more. But I am reminded of how much I love making music in different forms, with different people. I was reminded of it in spades Saturday night while playing at the gig, but tonight I relearned it through simply listening to another cellist. Thanks, Alec.

Stunned

So we put a donation bank out at the gig on Saturday night, to help ease the cost of renting the space and the equipment. We pay for all of it out of our own pockets, you see, to have fun and entertain people we know.

There was a staggering amount in that bank at the end of the evening. At the dual band post-gig meeting last night, it was revealed that not only was there a staggering amount, but a handful of people had put twenty dollar bills in there.

Twenty dollar bills. We were expecting twonies.

The staggering total paid for half the rental fee. A full half.

My friends, you are wonderful, amazing, generous people. Both bands are lucky to know you. We are deeply grateful.

A Triumph!

Thanks to everyone who came out last night to the Invisible/Random Colour concert. We had a blast, surmounted technical difficulty like pros, and we even danced to Sheena Is A Punk Rocker during sound check.

And a huge thank you goes out to my bandmates, who sailed through those difficulties with great aplomb, and nailed the other stuff beautifully; every single one of you is someone I would never swap out for anyone else. You make the band what it is. Thanks also go to Invisible, who cheered us and gave us very satisfying reactions to our unique rendition of their original song A-D-E, and to our encore song Do You Remember Rock'n'Roll Radio, the song we've kept secret so long in order to give them a treat.

Countdown

I burned my tongue with the hot chocolate I had during the rehearsal break last night.

But that was the only bad thing about the evening.

It is good, I think, that we are now excited about the gig tonight, as opposed to fixating on the things we don't have down perfectly as we've been doing in the final rehearsals leading up to it. It's live music. It's not supposed to be perfect. You want perfect, listen to a CD of a studio recording. Live is all about energy and immediacy and the moment.

And it will be quite a moment. Lots of them, actually. From the opening notes of the first song to the final chords of the last.

I have a list this long of things to get done today. I'm off to do them. And I must remember to eat more than once, too.

Random

I want another cello so I can call her Wisteria.

The brain's sparking at random times pulling some very odd thoughts out of the ether today. In between rocking Liam, that is, who is having a difficult day, poor kid.

Off to finish the strap extensions on my corset.

Sunday Morning After

And... a most excellent birthday is heartily wished for the Baroness! (Who, incidentally, provided the lovely voice of the Singing Sword of Somewhere Or Other last night during one of the radio dramas of Tarasmas, and delivered the wonderful line of, "What, you were expecting a glaive guisarme?")

The reviews of Tarasmas are already being posted, and in general they cover three things:

1. Piles of fun were had by all.

2. Damn, but those of us who have been onstage before all miss being on stage.

3. Good friends, good family, and good times, all provided by the Master of Ceremonies, the Man of the Day himself, Taras.

4. Implied but not expressly stated anywhere as of yet until now: Taras writes damn fine plays. He knows character, he knows dialogue, and he can even plot. His sense of humour is unparalleled in these situations. His use of genre stereotype (film noir, Victorian drama of manners/murder-mystery, cheesy space opera) makes for glorious hilarity and lots of delicious genre-related in-jokes. He makes being handed a script ten minutes before you go onstage fun instead of annoying or terrifying, depending on who you are.

Tarasmas is an opportunity for all of to celebrate a friend we all value, love, and respect by performing his works. He claims writing radio plays and renting a hall in which to perform them is to celebrate his friends. I can't see how the two perceptions of the meaning of Tarasmas contradict one another. That's part of the fun.

363 days till next year's extravaganza.

No, No, No

Oscar-winning actor Nicolas Cage, who stars in the upcoming comic-book adaptation Ghost Rider, became a father for the second time on Oct. 3 and named his newborn son Kal-el, the Kryptonian birth name of Superman.

I knew he was a geek. But really, there are limits.

(Via a sidebar on Sci-Fi Wire.)

Anxiety Dreams

I had a dream last night where I realised I'd written a whole section on the Harvest sabbat and hadn't researched a single thing to support my claims. So when I got up in the middle of the night to feed Liam, I went into my office and pulled out an encyclopedia of Celtic mythology to look up "Mabon". And yes, exactly as I said in the book: Divine Son. Not a heck of a lot else known.

And blessed equinox to you all, by the way. I don't call it Mabon because, well, see above. Makes little sense. To me, Divine Son always sounds like it should be associated with the Vernal Equinox, not the Autumnal.

This week's been stressful in general because I can't work while HRH is out of the house painting Ceri's walls: Liam is either being fed, being held and comforted, playing, or sleeping in my arms because he won't sleep anywhere else. I know the work is sitting in my office, and I know it's due next Wednesday, and just knowing I can't do anything about it is really revving my stress levels. So HRH came home early today to allow me (a) to get my hair cut for the first time in over six months, and (b) to work on this tech read and response. He's doing the same on Monday because Liam has a doctor's appointment in the early afternoon, and he'll watch Liam the rest of the day while I work again.

My book reviews are being put even lower down on the list or priorities because they're a non-paying gig. Well, I get the books free, but you know what I mean. I begged an extension from the editor. At least the books are read (plenty of time to do that in the middle of the night while breastfeeding) and the reviews exist in note form.

Orchestra last night: loverly. We kick ass. And this with only two rehearsals. Much happiness.

All right, break's over. Back to reading about religious ethics.

In Action!

Look! I play the cello! Here's proof!

Scott caught a few pictures of the band at rehearsal when he and Ceri's parents stopped by. I know we're playing Julia by the Horrorpops in this particular picture, because (a) I'm concentrating really hard, and (b) it's the only one of this set that I play pizzicato. (Thanks for the pictures, Scott, and happy birthday!)

And... the amp, in its first photo appearance!

Come to think of it, this was also the first time anyone other than the band heard the amp in use. An auspicious debut, I think.

Serious Coolness

Okay, I'm not a squealy fangirl, but do this picture and this picture too make anyone else obsessively count the days till November 18?

Coincidentally, there was a Harry Potter film marathon that happened here yesterday. (I said that I did not endorse Liam seeing the films before having the booksread to him. HRH figured it was safe, because Liam would quickly forget all the visuals anyway -- as in, overnight -- and thus be able to enjoy the books and come up with his own visualisations of characters and settings.) So now I'm all ready for seeing Goblet of Fire.

Back Into The Swing

Orchestra begins again on the 14th!

And we can now officially tremble -- the next Random Colour gig is next month. It wasn't so bad last week when it was "October-which-is-two-months-down-the-line", but now it's "October-which-is-next-month". Eep.

Edits ho!

Valuable Teaching Tools

Everything I Know I've Learned From English Folk Ballads.

My favourites are, "If you’re a brunette, give up" and "Avoid navigable waterways. Don’t let yourself be talked into going down by the wild rippling water, the wan water, the salt sea shore, the strand, the lowlands low, the Burning Thames, and any area where the grass grows green on the banks of some pool. Cliffs overlooking navigable waterways aren’t safe either."

lovely and creative and talented

ai731 and I spent three hours really working on Holly McNarland's "Do You Get High" this afternoon. We also took a good look at the music for "Patience" and made a couple of tentative decisions regarding arrangments.

We got a lot of work done today and are terribly pleased with ourselves. It's so much easier to go through music with another string player who's directly involved in what you're playing, because we can bounce things off one another, and play notes against chords, and make immediate decisions regarding who plays what and adjust majors to minors and whatnot on the spot.

In fact, we ought to do it more often.

Plus I got a cucumber. And she got a tomato. Garden exchange is so cool.

Alas, Jane, How They Mistreat You

Wow, does the new Pride & Prejudice trailer ever leave me cold. Keira Knightley just isn't Elizabeth Bennett. She sounds so stilted. And the trailer makes it sound like a college or high school story. Yeesh.

Who Put The Alphabet In Alphabetical Order?

Good gods -- why has no one told me that They Might Be Giants does children's albums?

This will be Liam's first CD.

HRH is appropriately cooled out.

Reviews Up

I've been a bit behind in formatting and posting my book reviews from the past six months. I think I can be forgiven under the two books/one move/one baby circumstances.

Witchcraft Out Of The Shadows by Leo Ruickbie
Pagan Dream of the Renaissance by Joscelyn Godwin
Modern-Day Druidess by Cassandra Eason
Witches' Craft by Bruce Wilborn
Irish Witchcraft from an Irish Witch by Lora O'Brien.

Bestest Bandmates Ever

I love my bandmates. At the last rehearsal, I arrived in the new practice space to discover the absence of the chairs I thought were already there. I ended up perching on the edge of Scott's new tube amp (nice amp, not terribly comfortable to sit upon) as it was the only thing even remotely close to the correct height. This week when I walked in, there was a lovely padded drum stool festooned with colourful ribbon sitting right in the middle of the room, and a birthday card waiting for me. I've never had an adjustable stool for cello-playing. The cellist is very happy. So is her lower back. And I can swivel from side to side!

Bestest bandmates ever.

And even though we were at only 3/5 of our roster, we managed to get three songs somewhat worked out. Now ai731 and I have somewhere to go from as we work on our own at home.

All three of us slept in this morning, which was lovely. Apart from an unexpected rescheduling of the middle of the day, and the woman downstairs doing her laundry while I was taking a last-minute shower before dashing out to pick up ai731 (resulting in first the hot water, then the cold water vanishing as well, just as I'd finished shampooing my hair), the day has been rather good.

(BTW, that sketch is the one done in my birthday card by Karine, lead singer and artist extraordinaire.)

Live The Tragedy!

Hamlet - the Text Adventure.

(Via Matociquala.)

Random Colour Rehearsal Joy

Damn, we're good.

And, damn, it's good to be back.

Apart from wanting to shoot tabbers who don't tab an entire song in the proper order (grr -- were these people even listening to the same song?), I feel fantastic and I enjoyed this afternoon's rehearsal very much. It pays to have chords written down in advance, even if one hasn't tried them out on the instrument to see if they're 100% correct. It gives us something to go on.

I can't wait to see what we accomplish next week.

Final Frontier

From CNN.com:

LOS ANGELES, California (AP) -- James Doohan, the burly chief engineer of the Starship Enterprise in the original "Star Trek" TV series and motion pictures who responded to the apocryphal command "Beam me up, Scotty," died early Wednesday. He was 85.

Doohan died at 5:30 a.m. (1330 GMT) at his Redmond, Washington, home with his wife of 28 years, Wende, at his side, Los Angeles agent and longtime friend Steve Stevens said. The cause of death was pneumonia and Alzheimer's disease, he said.

Things I didn't know:

- Doohan was Canadian (how on earth did this escape my Canadian artist-radar?)

- "He was among the Canadian forces that landed on Juno Beach on D-Day."

Out of all the Trek alumni, I always had a soft spot for Doohan. Go well.

If Only

Hey, the Metropolitan Museum of Art in NY is looking for a full-time assistant editor for its publishing branch.

Well, we can dream, can't we?

Everyone Is Doing It

Someone should tell Liam that the story's not going to make much sense unless he reads the first five books.

Ceri, This Is For You

Although the other book-lovers and aspiring quilters of my readership will get a kick out of it, too:

Since the publication of her first Elm Creek Quilt novel, bestselling author Jennifer Chiaverini recreates the quilts her characters make in her stories.

In her new novel, THE SUGAR CAMP QUILT, Dorothea Granger sews a quilt using the Album block, a traditional "friendship quilt" pattern. Instead of the customary signatures of her friends, Dorothea obtains scraps of muslin autographed by authors and "other personages of note." and raffles off the finished quilt to raise money to build a public library.

In real life, Dorothea's project inspired Jennifer to create an Authors' Album quilt for an organization close to her heart: Capital Candlelighters, the Madison, Wisconsin branch of the Candlelighters Childhood Cancer Foundation.

And she's gotten 61 authors to generously autograph patches for the Authors' Album patchwork quilt which will be raffled at the Wisconsin Quilt Expo on September 17, 2005.

Participating authors include Dave Barry, Elizabeth Berg, Judy Blume, Ray Bradbury, Eric Carle, Beverly Cleary, Sue Grafton, Sophie Kinsella, Ursula K. Le Guin, Jacquelyn Mitchard, Tom Perrotta, Anna Quindlen, Nicholas Sparks, Jennifer Weiner, and Rosemary Wells.

(From Buzz, Balls & Hype.)

Chiaverini has a page on the quilt here that lists all the participating authors, and has lovely pictures.

Who else is drooling about the idea of owning this?

Mine!

I have my Harry Potter book.

And on the box, it is clearly marked, "Deliver on July 16 2005".

::checks calendar::

Uh-hunh.

(I read the first twenty pages of HRH's copy last night while he was off changing the baby before I fed him, and I laughed out loud a couple of times. I'm looking forward to being able to settle down with it on July 26.)

On the good side of things, the leftover crap that belonged to the previous deadbeat scuttle-off-into-the-night tenants is gone! Yes! Gone! We have a full garage to ourselves! Or we will once our landlord comes to take the final two items tomorrow.

Erm

My copy of The Half-Blood Prince did not arrive today.

Hmm.

Doesn't upset me overly, as I'm not the one reading it. HRH, on the other hand, is trying to pretend that it doesn't matter that much, not really...

It will probably be here Monday.

Reading

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince is being released in under fifteen hours, and I am beginning to realise that I really oughtn't read it when it arrives on my doorstep.

It's not that I don't want to read it -- oh, heavens, of course I do. Even though I know I'll read it too fast, in great glomping swallows, as I did the last two. I've been reading Harry Potter since the first book came out in paperback.

No, it's that I have ten days left to finish chapters in my own book, and to cut out all the deadwood and otherwise highlighted material that either Belongs In A Different Book (Which Has Not Yet Been Written Or Conceived Of), or is Just Awful And Should Never Have Seen The Light Of Day. And if I didn't have a baby fresh out of the hospital, I might have gone ahead with the new Potter installment anyway, despite the deadline. The original plan, of course, was to have the green witch book handed in on July 1, and to read the new Potter book in my last two weeks of non-baby life. Now, I think I could handle a new baby and reading the new book: in fact, having to put the book down every hour and a half and spend an hour doing something else would probably solve the reading-too-fast problem. But finishing the MS for deadline, plus a new baby, and the new Potter? It would have a devastating effect on the poor green witch book.

Thus, I think HRH will have the unlooked-for and certainly unexpected luxury of reading it first. Don't say I never make sacrifices for you, dear.

Besides, I'm reading other wonderful stuff. While I feed Liam, I'm reading Nigella Lawson's How To Eat, the irony of which amuses me terribly. Since I enjoyed reading Feast so much my parents gave me Nigella's first two cookbooks for my birthday, and I'm enjoying the first quite a lot. I've never been one to just read through cookbooks; I find it too difficult to envision what the end product of a list of ingredients and basic directions on what to do with them could look or taste like. In my world, cookbooks are practical manuals, not relaxing or entertaining reading material. But Nigella has pages and pages of narrative with the recipes nestled within it, so I understand what the goal is and how she's thought the recipe out. Her style is so breezy that it's refreshing to read just as literature.

And I began reading The Dream of Scipio byIain Pears while I was in the hspital earlier this week. It's simply lovely: nice and full yet clear and flowing, rather like ice-cold stream water with that taste of rock and green. It's intellectual, yet doesn't ask you to work hard to get the story. I really enjoyed Pears' mystery series about art theft, and I'm discovering that he has the same excellent handle on historical fiction involving poetry and philosophy.

I also have Kelley Armstrong's new Haunted to read next, and Kim Harrison's Every Which Way But Dead. And Paze lent me not only Tipping the Velvet but Eats, Shoots and Leaves which I've been dying to read but waiting in vain for a paperback edition. And of course, then there's Nigella's Domestic Goddess over which to drool once Liam and I are done How To Eat. So you see, I have more than enough to keep me busy over the next little while. The real problem is going to lie first with HRH as he heroically struggles to not talk to me about The Half-Blood Prince, and second with ignoring what everyone else is saying, as the world will have read it by the time I get there. I've always been good at dealing with spoilers and such -- for me the joy of books or films is how the story is told, not just what happens -- but one wonders how long one can last against a barrage of Potter-related conversation.

P'raps I shall simply ignore the Internet for a week. That ought to do quite a lot to help.

*blink* *blink*

My spellcraft book is on Ceri's Bedside Reading list.

What an odd feeling.

Better Late

I know I'm a week behind everyone else, but:

The Invisible concert so completely rocked!

Yes, I finally had the chance to watch the video, and wow, guys, you are all so amazingly cool. I can see why you're leaning in an originals-only direction: your stuff is fantastic. I loved A-D-E. Once it started I was killing myself laughing, and HRH had to ask what the joke was.

I am smitten with the lead guitarist. He's so calm and collected on stage, and his playing rocks. And he has a lovely amp. (And he's married to one of my best friends. But still.)

The opening act was some band I'd never heard of, but it was interesting. I'm looking forward to hearing what they can do with more songs, now that they've got a brief stage appearance under their -- er -- halter tops, and a shot of excellent, well-deserved confidence. Their arrangements are kind of neat, rather different, and very creative.

Still Impressing Ourselves

"We so rock," announced our drummer, "and I should know." She should; she is The Rocking Thing, after all. Random Colour just gets better and better.

ai731 and I now both have amplifiers. The local independent music shop loves us. While this may be due to the combined amount of money we spent, I prefer to think that it has to do with our sparkling personalities. I finally have my Yorkville AM 100, and she has the Yorkville AM 50, which makes her guitar sound even more fantastic. (It has a magic button in the middle where if you press it, everything goes even sweeter.) Gods help us, we bought matching amps. This amused us. And we had ever so much fun playing about with them at rehearsal. We can hear each other clearly! All four instruments are balanced! The sound is lush and full! I'm quite looking forward to Monday night's meeting when we add our vocalist into the mix and hear how the entire ensemble now sounds.

HRH did indeed paint the living room while I was gone. He also put up a new fan, vacuumed and mopped, cleaned the deck table and chairs with bleach, connected the hose, and watered the plants in the back and side gardens. I'm terribly impressed.

Like Everything Else Lately -- Where Has The Time Gone?

Random Colour's been practicing for about seven weeks now, and our mini-teaser-debut happens in nine days. I think the general feeling among the band is one of "eep!" and "we need more time!", but it's soundly offset by pride in how we've arranged the songs and how we have come together from nothing to something in such a short time.

We're only playing three songs as an opening act for Invisible, the guys' band who inspired the girls' band. It's a great way to get our feet wet before programming an entire show by ourselves in the early fall. (Maybe we'll let the guys open for us then? Turnabout's fair play, after all.)

The guys play their own style which may be based in punk, or may be based in something else... they're rather undefinable beyond their catch-phrase of "There is no loud" (and I suspect they like it that way). It's their show, really; Random Colour may be more of a curiosity than anything else. Once we've played, we'll be stashing instruments and kicking back to enjoy the main attraction ourselves.

Invisible's first performance was in a private home and the guest list was extremely abbreviated by necessity. This time the gig's taking place in a larger performance space designed to handle a larger group of people, so it's open to personal friends of someone in one of the bands. If you're one of those friends, and interested in experiencing an evening of very eclectic music played by the enthusiastic amateurs with whom you're acquainted, the details are:

When:
Saturday, June 11th
The doors open at 7:30pm, and curtain goes up at 8pm.

Where:
The Paradox (located in the Point St.Charles YMCA; email me for the address)

There is no cover charge; the bands have paid for the rental themselves in order to host this thing for their friends. If you want something to eat or drink, bring it yourself. We certainly will be.

And as a footnote to band-related stuff, a representative of each band have conjointly just signed a lease for a shared practice space. Hurrah! I'm sure ai731 is somewhat relieved at the opportunity to reclaim her living room from the pile of amps and the drum kit, but also slightly disappointed at the idea of traveling further than down her stairs to rehearsal.

This gig has been dubbed The Thing We Cannot See Past, which amuses me because my July 1 concert has always been my personal Thing I Cannot See Past around this time of year. It still is; so much so that I keep forgetting that Random Colour's gigging next Saturday because I'm obsessing about oh-my-gods-the-Tchaikovsky. Once the July 1 concert (which I will publicise in a week or so, as usual) is over, then I suddenly remember that I have a birthday soon afterwards. Don't even ask what I'm doing this year; there are three invitational-type things I'm hosting/central to that have to happen first. I may take this year off entirely, as I did a couple of years ago, although this would be in self-defence whereas the last birthday cancellation was due to everyone I knew being out of town.

On Food

Over the weekend I picked up my mother's copy of Nigella Lawson's Feast and got thoroughly lost in it. I know next to nothing of Nigella other than she's one of those cooking show people whom viewers love to hate. Whatever her provenance, her books are clear, her text interesting, her style practical yet humorous, and the recipes are much easier than they look and use ingredients I recognise. By a quarter of the way through, I had already planned four or five dinner parties' worth of meals. Because, you know, I don't have enough to do with my time.

Feast in particular appealed to me because of her examination of the role that food plays in our spiritual and seasonal celebrations. She said a few rather interesting things about the preparation and consumption of food being a natural celebration of life's blessings that really made me go "hmm". Too often I think of food as being a have-to -- have to buy, have to prepare, have to eat, have to remember to do all of the above. While I was in Oakville Mum and I went into the new Whole Foods store, and let me tell you, if I lived in the neighbourhood I'd certainly remember to shop and eat. They've taken the basic supermarket concept and applied it to organic and specialty foods. The displays are phenomenal; the decor creates a calm atmosphere. And sure, you're paying a bit more for your food, but you know what's in it -- or not in it, as the case may be. Food ought to be a celebration, not a have-to.

And now I guiltily want my own Nigella Lawson books, like Feast, How To Eat, and Domestic Goddess, because they're pretty, and fun to read, and they make me actually want to want to cook and eat food.

"Also, in the future nobody gets prenatal care."

I told HRH that if he wanted to see the new Star Wars movie while I was in Toronto next week, he could go. The reviews coming in have expressed surprise that finally, there's been a new film that almost gets it right. Too little too late, of course, but still. When one's expectations are low, one can be pleasantly surprised by mediocrity.

He declined. He'd wait till I got back, he said, and we were living in the new place, and could go together. Because, you know, sharing the experience of watching the gruesome death and reconstruction of a whiny so-called anti-hero and the subsequent purge of the Jedi is the sort of thing that brings a couple closer together. Particularly a couple who are partial to the Jedi code.

And seriously, people -- they can heal dreadful injuries with bacta, and replace lost limbs with cybernetics, and even artificially extend someone's life with technology, but if someone is pregnant the prenatal care doesn't extend to scanning the fetus? I'm sure it's reassuring to today's pregnant women to know that the prenatal care they receive is better than the prenatal care that the Republic offers.

Post-Orchestra Murmurings

I will never, never have to drive to this apartment after orchestra again. I will never have to jockey with the headlight-flashing idiots who sit on my back bumper because they think the exit lane to Decarie on Autoroute 20 eastbound is the Turcot fast lane. I will never have to make that stupid merge across the Autoroute 15 North from the Autoroute 20 Decarie on-ramp to reach the Sherbrooke Street exit. And I will never, never, ever again have to circle the block looking for parking on the correct side of the street at ten-thirty on a Wednesday night.

And I have only one more band practice that calls for wrestling the cello through that very irritating illegal front door which is not only narrower than code dictates it has to be, but the spring-closed action is weighted badly and there's no landing on the outside: it descends directly into steps, so once you struggle through the door it literally pushes you down the stairs into the foyer. Hard to handle when you're carrying a cello, or bags, or on any day when you're feeling even vaguely klutzy. Getting in's a pain too, because you have to unlock and shove open a heavy door from where you're standing below it on the stairs. With bags, etceteras. Which I'm sure is fine if you're at least six inches taller than I am. But I'm not.

The only way to play the serenade we're doing for the Canada Day concert will be to listen to the recording I borrowed over and over and over, and hope it settles into my subconscious so that my fingers produce the right sounds at the appropriate times. Five flats. Odd rhythm and unfinished musical phrases that start over again and go a little further, only to stop dead once more and do something different. The orchestra can play it alone, but add the soloist and we lose it, because he plays something very different and dramatic. Terribly frustrating. He does it so well, and as soon as we hear him we fall apart.

We played the fourth and final movement of the symphony last night too, and it's going to sound incredible in the church. Very noisy. I really like how the fourth movement is the first movement rewritten. We did the fourth, then the first, so it was really easy to see how they're connected. But argh, the opening movement is just all over the place and technically irritating. Playing it is a pain in the neck. I foresee a lot of me not keeping up and playing only every couple of notes in the very fast up and down bits. "We will have to practice this a lot at home," said my stand partner as we packed up. "Yes, it will be character-building," I replied.

But the polacca's coming along nicely. There are only the usual two or three bars where I'll have to work the fingerings and just play them over and over until my hands have them. And because I've played the Brahms dances a couple of years ago I'm fine with those, thank goodness, because I remember fighting with the rhythmic and tempo changes and I don't know if I could handle it along with all the Tchaikovsky this time round.

So yes: next Wednesday I will be in Toronto, and not at orchestra (which means I'll be missing the Brahms and the middle two movements of the symphony, and I quite like them, so boo; but because I like them I have to practice them less, so it's better that I miss them and not the other pieces). And the Wednesday after that, I will be driving home to a different address, with my very own driveway in which to park, and a front door that I don't have to fight to open and walk through.

Have I Mentioned That I've Worked In The Book Industry For Fourteen Years?

We packed some more yesterday. HRH decided he wanted to start packing the hardcover books. I saw how he was putting them in the box and heroically bit my tongue. The only time I made a suggestion was when he was about to close the box while leaving a huge gap between two stacks. I showed him that as soon as the box was picked up the books would slide around and the graphic novel corners and page edges would get damaged, and demonstrated how to tuck a few paperbacks into the smaller space in order to brace them.

Then he made boxes and watched me sort through and pack the hardcovers on the other side of the fireplace. "You're really good at that," he said honestly, watching me use every square centimetre of available space efficiently.

"I've been packing books for shipping since 1991," I said. And I still remember the stern talking-to I received the first time I packed a box, because I made the same mistake HRH did and didn't use enough packing material to secure the books. Books are fragile. They damage easily, much more so than people think. It's important to handle and pack them in such a way that they arrive at the other end in exactly the same condition. It's a professional pride thing. (Like alphabetising authors correctly in other bookstores when I see things in the wrong place on the shelf. Wait, no -- that's obsessive-compulsive behaviour, not professional pride.)

This is why I pack the books. I know how to do it. They're also mine, and it's only fair. Besides, I can cull as I go. (HRH packed the shelves behind the couch a couple of weeks ago and ended up packing a bunch of books I wanted to get rid of. I have no idea where they are. Oh well; a second cull will happen at the other end anyway, as it always does.)

The stack of boxes in the hallway has reached dangerous proportions, and can grow no further without creating a hazard. The stack of boxes in the dining room is threatening to block the window, the china cabinet, and my office bookshelves, so I told HRH to stop so I could pack that area today. I've already pulled all the books I think I'll need for the green witch project out of those bookcases, so I think I'm safe in packing the rest. And if I discover that I need to reference something that's not at hand, I'll just make a note in bright green text in the MS and do it at the other end. This will be the first move where the office gets unpacked first, before anything else.

Hmm. It has just occured to me that if I empty the office bookshelves, then I can disassemble them and move the boxes against the wall, thus clearing the window and getting the looming mountain out of my peripheral vision. This will allow me to relax a bit more while I work. They can loom behind me, I don't care. As long as I can't see them, I'm not as distracted by something that's not supposed to be there.

Excuse me. Now I must pack immediately so that I can work in more comfort this afternoon.

Music And Drama

Gosh, but it would be nice to wake up in a good mood instead of a "meh" kind of mood. It's been "meh" for about a week now.

Rehearsal last night was good. There was companionship and tea and really amazing raisin oatmeal cookies (and I'm not a raisin fan). We ran into a problem right away, though, when the intro to a song we've played before just didn't work. I've been driving myself crazy trying to figure out why. It's not timing, it's actual musical lines being played by each instrument suddenly not fitting into each other for some reason. We're fine for the second song of the set (thank goodness -- it's our "let's play this, we do it well and it will cheer us up and remind us that we're actually good" song in rehearsal). Our opening song is going to be fantastic too, and drums and bass began conspiring last night to make it more musically complex during the verses, because at the moment they're rather sparse. If we hand the current bassline to the bass drum, and the lead guitar bit no one's currently playing to the bass... suddenly things get more interesting. I'll have to work it out this week and we'll see what happens this Saturday. But the intro to that closing song is going to gnaw at me. It's worked every other time we've played it. There's no reason why it suddenly shouldn't. It will probably work perfectly well again this Saturday, just to spite us.

Overall, we have to work on openings (we tightened up every single pre-vocal intro last night, and they'll sound much better this way instead of going on for four repetitions) and definitely endings, which also have to be tighter and less draggy. And bridges, damn the things, simply for timing. And to our amusement, without a vocalist for the evening, we discovered that we all rely on verbal cues to alert us to an upcoming shift, which is no big surprise since it's the vocals that hold everything together. I'm glad the evening went as it did, even with the mystery of the suddenly botched intro of the last song in the set. We learned cool stuff about what we each play against the others. Quite productive.

I seem to remember recently saying that I'd had enough of people's dramas about imagined personal slights. Here's another one to add to the list: this morning I heard that someone who is perfectly aware of everything that I'm juggling in life at the moment was harassing another friend of mine, pressing her for my motivations for dropping all my teaching this spring, summer, and fall. Instead of being paranoid, maybe that person should remember that my life is a wall-to-wall schedule what with full-time work on a deadline (then three sets of edits and two galleys from two different books to handle in the next eight weeks), a move, two musical groups, that family thing, and all the other stuff that crops up in day to day living. I simply don't have the time or energy to devote to teaching workshops or regular classes right now. It's all about me, not anyone else. I'm not making a political statement about anyone or anything by not offering workshops. It's a personal necessity. Thanks to overscheduling, I've been walking that burn-out line since mid-March, and I don't need to court further disaster by trying to add stuff I've already cut out back in. If someone thinks I'm making a statement about them by taking care of myself, that's their problem.

So very tired of people trying to drag me into their drama. So very, very tired.

I wonder if people understand that more they push, the more I pull away.

Further To The Art Of Reading

Just out of curiousity, I checked my Past Reading List to see what I'd been reading and how much of it. According to it, I have read at least 160 books in eleven months. And that's not counting the one or two I forget to note down each month because I read them too fast. And if I read an entire YA series, I note down the series title instead of all the separate books. So single entries like the Chronicles of Narnia actually equals seven units, the Song of the Lioness equals four, and the Spiderwick Chronicles equals five. That would increase the total somewhat.

I do read a lot. Goodness. And I find it interesting that the more I have to write, the more I read to balance it out.

Musings On The Art Of Writing And How It Impacts The Art Of Reading

For the past little while, it feels like all I've been doing is writing, packing mechanically while thinking about music, and reading simply to take a break from the previous two tasks. I've totally devoured three of Iain Pears' Jonathan Argyll books in the past four days (a fascinating series about art theft, art history, and law in Rome that I just discovered thanks to someone leaving their entire Argyll collection in practically unread condition at the secondhand bookshop) after finally overdosing on Elizabeth Peters' Amelia Peabody series (I read seven of them in eight weeks, which beats my earlier streak of five in a row -- and my current obsession with stories about art, history, and theft makes me wonder what's going on in my brain). I reread Little Women and stalled on Good Wives. I read Diana Wynne Jones' first Dalemark Quartet book and then didn't feel like plunging into the second. Read a handful of other YA titles, a couple of Pratchett books, two lit'rature books (Alice Thomas Ellis' Fairy Tale thanks to Anne's recommendation, and Sarah Waters' Affinity, both excellent), a research-related book for work, another subject-related book that Educated Me by someone whom I personally respect.

And I feel like I'm just reading to pass the time and to be away from the computer and the boxes, as opposed to reading for pleasure. I get like this every once in a while; I forget why I like to read. Well, not precisely. I remember that I read for fun and to enjoy myself, so I do it, and it doesn't quite work for some reason. It has nothing to do with the quality of the books themselves: in fact, I love Peters and Pears, and the worlds and characters they've created, which would be why I devour their novels. I just don't feel satisfied with my reading experience in general these days.

I think it may have something to do with the fact that I've forgotten to appreciate the art of writing, and how to enjoy the way words are strung together to create something shiny. Non-fiction is about conveying information and instructing and educating, and it involves writing clearly along with a certain amount of Being Inspiring To Your Reader. It really isn't about creating a thing of beauty. When you try to include beauty, it often gets edited to be plain and clear, and the poetry of the words or thought is lost. It's just not the point of NF. And I've been so focused on producing NF that I'm looking at fiction and reading mechanically for what-happens-next, as opposed to relishing how it's being done.

It's slightly disconcerting to realise that for me, a good writing day is defined by producing a certain amount of words, as opposed to a day where I'm proud of what I've actually written. Being deadline- and quota-driven on an NF book is unlike being deadline- and quota-driven for a fiction project. The craft is completely different.

I'm really, really glad I'm taking a year off from writing NF and just sticking to editing and tech reading. I think it will help my writing and reading immensely.

See The Jargon Develop Before Your Very Eyes

Treeware: a book that is physically printed on dead trees, rather than being digitally represented as phosphors on a screen.

It's from Scalzi's recent entry on piracy at Whatever, via BoingBoing.

For Roo

I'm a couple of days behind, but still:

China Mieville won the 2005 Arthur C. Clarke award for Iron Council. (Go on, Roo - squeal. You know you want to.)

Rings Forth Its Jolliest Tune

CBC Radio Two is playing requests, as they do during between 9 and 12.

It's such a pleasure to realise that along with the actual body of the song itself, I remember the entire litany of insults from the intro to the Ruddygore second-act song "When The Night Wind Howls", and can sing along, even though I did the operetta seven years ago, in '98. Of course, it takes a lot to knock a song out of my head, particularly if I've heard it a few times a week for five months. Still. It amuses me.

Yet More Amp Talk

So today, after bringing les kittens to Ceri's place (I was pleasantly surprised at how I was not consumed by kitten envy), Ceri and I dropped into Italmelodie to look at the acoustic amps.

They had the largest selection of the four shops I'd visited. For a moment I thought this was a good thing. Then I looked closer, and discovered that half were 50 or 60 watt amps, and the rest were over $600. Not a good sign.

They did have the Yorkville AM50, priced at $399, so I tried it out. It couldn't have been more different from the AM100 I tried last Saturday: it sounded awful. The Crate 60 watt I tested before it sounded worse, though. Seems that the basic rule of thumb is true: an acoustic amp under 100 watts just doesn't cut it when connected to an instrument like a cello. I'm sure they're fine for acoustic guitars, but they don't seem to have enough of a balanced range for the cello, or the appropriate strength to carry the bowed sound without sounding hollow. And with less options on an amp of lower wattage, I can't balance the sound reproduction enough to get it sounding right. From my experiences, a higher wattage creates a better sound. (No, boys, not just a louder sound. And can you believe that's the first question the salesguy asked? "How loud do you want it to be?" "I'm not concerned with volume," I said. "I want good sound reproduction." Does everyone associate higher amperage with volume, or is it a guy thing?)

After I tested those two, this not-as-helpful-as-the-others-were salesguy said, "I want you to try something else," and plugged my pick-up into the $1,400 Genz Benz Shenandoah tube amp. Sure, it sounded miraculous. If I were a professional I might put it on my short list. But if I had a spare $1,400 lying around, though, I'd be trading in the instrument and using the cash to upgrade it. Heck, $1,400 is more than I paid for it (yeah, yeah, secondhand and ten years ago, but still).

It looks like I'll end up with the Yorkville AM100. I'm kind of pleased about that. Jimi has definitely been the most helpful and friendly salesguy so far, and it feels good to know that I'll go back to his independent shop to buy it from him. So this will be my gift to myself, partially for the stress of the Wicca book, and partially a birthday gift. I like to treat myself to one out-of-the-ordinary purchase each book, and I haven't gifted myself for this one yet. HRH's new income also makes this decision a wee bit easier.

So. Voila. Hopefully, the next thing I say about amplifiers within two weeks will be that I have one. I'm sure you're pleased about that. I have rather been going on about it, I know; it's helped me work out my thoughts and opinions on the models I've tested.

No One Promised Us Easy

The Tchaikovsky symphony is fiendishly difficult technically -- lots of accidentals in a non-intuitive key to begin with, and everyone comes in an a odd place, masses of syncopation in thirty-second and sixteenth notes that doesn't stay on a regular syncopated beat, and short phrases that don't feel like phrases at all unless you can hear the overall product and understand that you're tossing a word or two into someone else's sentence. Something that doesn't sound musical when you practice is very hard to wrap your mind around. It's one of those pieces that's almost impossible to practice on your own, because you have no context at all for what you're doing. So basically, in rehearsal I have to make a mark in the margin next to a system that I know I have to practice for next time because I'm not getting it while playing with everyone else, and I work on those little bits even though they sound wrong on their own. Everything else is timing, and I really need to be in the group to do that properly.

Being at rehearsal and having each section play at half-speed (or slower in some cases) means that I can actually hear what's going on, and how what I'm doing fits into the greater scheme of things. Sure, this is true in general of any musical group practice, but in the Tchaikovsky it's particularly important because of all those technical issues. Last night was immensely better than the week before for my self-confidence (last week's migraine notwithstanding). It also helped that my stand partner was different yet again, and only asked for my attention during breaks as opposed to when I was trying to concentrate.

The Tchaikovsky symphony isn't really our style; it's unlike anything else we've been accustomed to playing. Apparently there are a few members of the orchestra who are decidedly unhappy with it. I think that if we work at it, it will be remarkably impressive and quite an achievement. Yes, it's messy, and technically challenging, and not overly pleasant to rehearse or listen to unless it's top-notch; and yes, it wasn't written for chamber orchestra, and stylistically it's unlike our usual fare; but I've never played Tchaikovsky before and damn it, I'm going to give it my all, because it's a new experience and because I want to know that I did it. Rather like the Elgar I played with Cantabile, and Beethoven's ninth: technically, they were way beyond me, but I stuck with it, and I'm glad I did.

"We'll Start Monday."

Anyone else as amused by the new M&M ad campaign as I am? It makes fun of the M&M characters and George Lucas at the same time. (You can see the TV spot by clicking one of the lower links on the right sidebar while you're in the Light Side section.)

The R2-D2 M&M is perfect. I'm not so sure about the Chewbacca one, though.

This Tchaikovsky Goes To Eleven

Holy cats -- evidently I wasn't listening fully last time I tossed the recording of the Tchaikovsky 2nd symphony in. Now that it's blaring right in front of me through the computer speakers with all three volume controls set at max, it's kind of in my face and hard to ignore.

This symphony is going to kick ass, if I can pull my act together enough to play it accurately. Playing it will be a remarkably heady experience.

For my percussionist friends, you'll be thrilled to know that it has cymbals. Lots and lots of cymbal action in the final movement. And wow, what a final movement, in a serious "this goes to eleven" sort of way. It's all amazing, but the fourth movement really takes the first movement and pushes it beyond what you'd expect.

November!

"Soon we must all face the choice between what is right... and what is easy."

Eeeeee!

Random Colour Debut Minus Five Weeks

Band was lovely, although we missed our drummer, who was at a wedding. It was an interesting exercise to work without a drumbeat; we discovered that we can keep pretty good time, and it also gave us an opportunity to focus on tuning and arrangement. The sax and the vocalist did some really nifty playing with the intro of the opening song that I'm looking forward to hearing more of, too. Overall, yesterday's work pointed out how good we were in most places, and how there were certain bits each of us really had to take home and work on. At the end ai731 observed that after six weeks of working on music by ourselves and four rehearsals with instruments, we were all secure enough in what we were playing to actually start having fun and listening to what other people were doing. She's right. That security makes a huge difference.

This was the first rehearsal where I'd remembered my pick-up, so I plugged into t!'s very large tube amp for rehearsal purposes, and I'm told it made a difference. I tried amps at Jimi's for an hour yesterday morning, and it looks like the Yorkville AM100 100 watt acoustic amp is tied with the Crate for first place. I brought HRH with me, although the original plan was for him to drop me off and go do groceries while I tested equipment. I tried four amps in all: the Yorkville 100-watt acoustic, a Roland 150-watt keyboard amp (pointless, really icky sound), the Yorkville AM150 (better than the keyboard amp, but not a smooth as the 100-watt), and finally a straightforward electric bass amp, the Yorkville BassMaster XM50 50-watt amp. Of everything, it really narrowed down to the Yorkville AM100 acoustic amp (accurate sound reproduction, mellow, and warm) and, oddly enough, the BassMaster XM50 (which amplified my cello, period, and was really bare-bones).

It was a really enjoyable experience. Afterwards, I asked HRH's opinion of each amp, and he tried to duck out of it by saying that he had no musical training so he couldn't help me. I pointed out that what I wanted was a genuine gut response from someone who wasn't analysing the sound, not a trained evaluation. So he thought about it, and said that the electric bass amp amplified the cello adequately so that it could be heard, but that it gave it a slightly hollow tone: you could tell it was being run through electronic equipment. The acoustic amp made the cello sound like a really big cello, and not amped at all: rich and full.

The observations pretty much reflected my own suspicions, but it was good to get them from someone who was standing back, and who didn't throw technical terms at me. Plus HRH has that hearing problem, and he told me that with the acoustic amp he heard sounds he'd never heard before while I was playing, which indicates to me that the amp is capable of reproducing sound even more fully than I'd thought or been able to hear myself, since I take the cello's sound for granted.

I wish I could have both the Crate and the Yorkville acoustic together in the same room to test them one right after the other. I still have to stop by Italmelodie to see if they have anything different, but if it comes down to these two then I'm not sure what I'll get. The Yorkville is $499 (although the price tag officially says $525); the Crate is $670 on sale for $550, so the price isn't really a major deciding factor. Jimi's an independent retailer, so my preference for supporting that kind of shop may end up being the real deciding factor. The other reason I'm leaning towards the Yorkville is because to test it I sat in the tiny space in front of the cash desk, next to the door propped open to Sherbrooke Street, surrounded by equipment and people wandering in and out. I tried the Crate in a plush little carpeted room, shut away from the crowds. Any atmosphere in which I'll be using the amp will more likely resemble the reality of Jimi's store than the artifice of a private rehearsal room. The Crate is prettier to look at, but that's really not a huge issue. I could lift the Yorkville; I didn't try to lift the Crate, so I'm not sure how heavy it is. (Checking the specs, I see that the Crate is 42 lbs, whereas the Yorkville is 27.5 lbs. I think I just found another point in the Yorkville's favour.) Like the Crate, the Yorkville has an instrument input and a microphone input, as well as a decent effects selection which may be fun to play with at some point.

I fussed a bit about the cost issue again in the car, and then I realised that an amplifier doesn't really depreciate much so long as it's in excellent shape electronically and physically. If I don't use it after a couple of years, then I can sell it and recoup a goodly amount of the original capital I invested in it. It made me feel better.

One more research and testing trip to Ital, then I'll have a final slate from which to choose.

More Amp Stuff

I called Jimi's Music around the corner to see what acoustic amps they had in stock. He doesn't carry anything below a 100 watt acoustic, because, in his opinion, it's not worth it for decent sound. Which is as I suspected, and appears to be the general opinion amongst those who amplify their cellos. Friendly guy, and he thinks amping a cello is cool. I appear to be on a lucky streak with salesmen.

I'll meander over tomorrow morning to try them out. He's got a 100 watt Yorkville (yay, Canadian product!) at $499, and he also suggested a Roland keyboard amp for a decent full-range reproduction (aha, another option I already knew about -- I'm so impressed with my research). So I'll try that too, just to hear the difference, although it's even more expensive.

(Someday I should just collate all my random amp trivia and put it up somewhere for reference.)

I took a break from writing to try t!'s little practice amp, and it was an exercise in futility. It doesn't amplify so much as add that odd tinny sound to the natural projection. I get a decent amplified sound when I play the D string or the A string, which is nice, but getting no amplification on the C or G strings eliminates the entire lower half of the register. As Scott said in an earlier comment, it's only a 10 watt and the tiny box probably limits the sound instead of enchancing it. There's another reason acoustic amps tend to be more expensive; the speakers and boxes are bigger, allowing for richer sound.

Who Says Classical Music Isn't Sexy?

Ivan Hewitt of arts.telegraph.co.uk wonders why marketing is trying to sell classical music by showcasing sexy women and smoldering men, when there's plenty of arousal to be found in the music itself.

So, one way or another, the idea has taken root that classical music in itself is completely sexless, and needs an urgent transfusion of this life-giving elixir from the marketing department.

Which is really a travesty of the truth, because classical music is mostly full of sex, or to put it better, eroticism - it's just that it's hidden, buried in music's grammar.

Every time you hear a dissonance (a tense-sounding interval or chord) melt into a consonant one, you're hearing the basic erotic pattern of arousal and relief. That's true even in the chaste polyphony of Renaissance church music (which is why some of it doesn't sound half as chaste as it ought to).

But where that pattern is spiced up with really grinding dissonances, or where it's repeated in ascending sequences, each repetition more intense that the last, then the sexual connotation becomes blindingly clear.

Italian madrigals of the early 17th century are full of these sequences, often leading to a particularly scrunchy dissonance at the phrase "I die upon your breast" - a favourite euphemism for orgasm.

"Scrunchy dissonance" -- what a wonderful phrase. I included this paragraph simply to share it with you.

But it's true -- music is designed to stick its hands into the guts of your emotions in order to twist them all up, creating a physical tension followed by a release of that tension and a subsequent relaxation. Sex appeal doesn't lie only in looks; it has to do with emotional and chemical reaction. Music affects that, too.

The entire article makes for interesting reading, particularly if you're interested in music of any kind.

(Found via Arts & Letters Daily.)

Amp Shopping

I am now the proud owner of...

... a recording of the Tchaikovsky second symphony.

I know. You wanted to see the words "an amp." So did I, but I appear to have expensive tastes.

Ceri asked for a full report, so get yourself a cup of tea and some biscuits, because this one's long.

I cheerfully eat any sweeping words I have said about Steve's overall service. While my general opinion of their staff has not changed, I have finally dealt with a single salesperson of knowledge, intellect, personality, and respect for his clients. Of course, I was in the acoustic section, which may attract a certain kind of personality. I certainly wasn't condescended to or brushed aside. (Yes, I got his name, his sales number, and a phone number. If I buy anything there, even just a patch cord, I want the sale credited to him whether he's there or not.)

When t! and I walked into the main amp room I cringed at the lack of space available, lack of privacy, the noise, and the seemingly haphazard arragement of amplifiers. This was precisely the environment I dreaded. Would I have to sift through these piles of black and silver things to find an acoustic amp, and try it out in a place with no elbow room, among the guitar show-offs? We stepped through a door into the next room in hopes of finding the acoustic amps segregated with the acoustic instruments, and glory be, they were.

The selection of acoustic amps was nowhere near the selection of electric amps in the previous room, which is to be expected. What I didn't expect -- or at least, not to this extent -- was how much more expensive the acoustic amps would be. The price range I was planning to give to any salesperson was around $250. My secret price ceiling was $350. These started at $450. Eep.

They had a lovely little carpeted room for me to go into and close the door, just like in most luthiers, which was a blessed relief. I took out my new pick-up for the first time and set it up, fastening it to the inside of the bridge on the bass side. The cord is about four feet long, which is a nice length for me; it's not like a cellist moves around a lot. (I may need an extender patch cord eventually, depending on where the future cello amp has to be placed for best sound balance in performance, but that's not a problem; it's always good to have an extra patch cord in the gig kit anyway.) There were about eight or nine amps in the little room, and I ruled half of them out right away because of price or size. So the salesguy plugged me into the smaller Fender amp (an Acoustasonic 30 watt, I think) -- and left.

He left. Yet one more reason why I like this salesman. He didn't hang around and criticize or try to sell me on something.

Anyway, the Fender amps sucked. The point of an acoustic instrument, in my not so humble opinion, is that it sounds acoustic. The Fender amp -- both the first one, and the larger second one, which I think was a 50 watt Acoustic Junior or a Junior DSP -- made it sound... well... electric. An amp is supposed to boost your sound, not change it, unless you engage the effects.

Even with the dead Fender sound, the first couple of strokes I played were really, really odd for me. I'm used to hearing my cello produce a deep sound range-wise, and a low sound hearing-wise -- and by low, I mean a sound that I feel is close to the ground. This lifted the sound up, so that I was hearing it somewhere around my head instead of between my knees and solar plexus. It was slightly disconcerting. Also disconcerting was the fact that the pick-up picks up everything -- fingers touching strings, bow changes, position shifts, and so on. These are all major no-nos in classical orchestral playing. If you hear it, your technique sucks. So to hear it, and hear it so obviously thanks to the amp, made me cringe.

Overall, I didn't like the sound of the Fender amps one bit. I found it thin, lacking in depth, and cold.

So I plugged into the 125 watt Crate CA125D, which may have been a mistake, because I am totally in love with it. The cello sounds warm, balanced, clear, and mellow. There are two inputs, one for the instrument, one for a microphone (which will be useful in future gigs). There are a reasonable number of knobs that control things I understand (balance, fade, bass-mid-treble, and so forth), and only one or two others I'd have to learn to use. The knobs have a nice action on them, too. There's also an equaliser. And it's pretty (it's actually a lighter colour than the one in this picture; in real life it's the colour of my oak bookcases).

And it's $550, after the $120 sale discount.

I have expensive tastes. Which, now that I think about it, isn't surprising. More expensive amp, to match the more expensive instrument. If I played an electric bass which cost a quarter of what my cello did secondhand, then I'd be able to pick up an an equally inexpensive amp at a quarter of the cost of the decent acoustic amps.

I cannot justify buying an amp that is is half a thousand dollars. I absolutely cannot. (Although let me tell you, when I spoke to HRH later on the phone, and he told me about the new salary he was being paid -- which is a few thousand more per year than had originally been negotiated -- suddenly it didn't seem as unattainable, which is a bad, bad thing.) I keep repeating the words simply a hobby, and RRSP, and RESP, and fridge, and other such important things. Although part of me is still stunned at the prices, another part of me is pointing out that many professional musicians require amps that are more expensive than their instruments. If I did that, my amp would be a minimum of two thousand dollars, which boggles the mind even more. But good gods -- the amount of stuff I could buy for $550. Like one and a half low-end professional carbon fiber cello bows. Or two full sets of gold strings. Or new brakes for the car, plus a full set of new tires. Or two-thirds of the fridge we need. (Or that icky-sounding 50 watt Fender amp. But I digress.)

t! missed hearing the lovely Crate amp, because he was enthralled with a Beaver Creek acoustic bass. He brought it in while I was packing up -- there was nothing else in the practice room worth trying -- and plugged it in after a tech fixed an input jack problem, and noodled about with it for a while. The sound was lovely, absolutely divine. He's been looking for an acoustic bass, and it's within his price range. "Talk me out of it," he said. I don't think I did a good enough job, because he had a rebuttal for every reasonable point I made, but he walked away sans bass nonetheless. Although he has the definite intention to return at some point if the offer of a freelance contract within his corp is confirmed today.

We then walked to Archambault, which wasn't really a useful trip at all (apart from picking up that Tchaikovsky CD, that is). Although the general atmosphere is more relaxing than the grating energy of Steve's, the amps are squirreled away under their guitars, and there's no place for a cello to set up in the narrow aisles. Nor are the acoustic amps in an obvious place; they must be thrown in any which way among everything else, because I couldn't find any. There wasn't anything there that I really wanted to try badly enough, either, or an electric amp of any sort that I couldn't try at Italmelodie next Monday morning (like the Traynors, and the Behrengers), so we left and walked back tot he car, which was parked close to Steve's.

We did a lot of walking last night, which is my own fault -- I had a terrific parking spot on St Laurent just below Viger, and I didn't want to try to find new parking for the sake of a five-minute drive. When we left Steve's, I said, "Hey, Archambault's only a couple of major streets east and two blocks north; let's walk there." Well, the fifteen minute walk there wasn't bad, but it took about twenty minutes to get back to the car, and I was rather tired by the time we arrived. I'd forgotten that I was carrying more than usual (a cello and extra passenger make it difficult enough to get to and from the door at orchestra!), that my lung capacity is different, and that I'd had my lower back osteo in the morning, which usually means I'm sore around the lumbar and pelvic region the same evening. I was in a great shape with lots of energy when we started; not so great by the time we'd made the round trip. (Good cardio workout, though.) So we looked at the time, thought about how long it would take to get to Italmelodie, how little time that would leave for actual testing, and decided to call it a night for the amp shopping.

It was a really interesting experience. I learned a lot about producing sound while amped in just that half an hour or so of messing about. I learned that moving my pick-up around on the bridge to the centre or the treble side or under the bridge affects the amped sound. I learned that apart from messing with knobs on the amp itself (a much too obvious short-cut), changing how I hold my bow and what part of the bow hair I use to produce sound affects how the amp sounds. I discovered that my shifting and finger placement technique is going to need a lot of cleaning up. It was fascinating to experiment with technique and hear how the amp reflected it back to me. It's going to be a really valuable learning tool, when I finally get one. And interestingly enough, my experience with the Fender acoustic amps echoes the experiences of other cellists who have nixed them as undesirable for cello amplification. I didn't remember that until I was discussing my research with t! on the walk back from Archambault.

After a couple of weeks of intensive research into amps, my brain is full of trivia. Such as: An acoustic instrument requires more amps to accurately reproduce the sound cleanly. A bass instrument, whether acoustic or electric, also requires more amps to accurately reproduce the lower tones (simple physics). An acoustic instrument, particularly a bass instrument, is actually limited by an electric bass amp, because it can't reproduce the mid-tones and higher register, and can actually deaden the bass register. For a cello, something like an electric keyboard amp or a well-balanced guitar amp will deliver the most balanced sound reproduction (both of which I will defintely try at Italmelodie next week). Ideally, an acoustic instrument should be used with an amp designed specifically for acoustic amplification, because it's a different kind of sound reproduction and will deliver a cleaner, more focused sound. So logically, an acoustic bass instrument requires a higher total of amps for accurate reproduction, which means, of course, that it's going to cost more money. My goal, of course, is to test a variety of amps to find one with an accurate, mellow, balanced sound that I like (no matter what it's designed for) and a price that I find acceptable as well.

It was a great evening, and t!'s moral support was invaluable to me. He even sent me home with his new Ibanez IBZ10B, the little electric bass practice amp he picked up a week or so ago, to experiment some more and hear what an electric amp sounds like. Although the amps are going to be nowhere near what I need, I'm looking forward to messing about with it -- and with the bigger amp and the huge tube amp in ai731's basement this Saturday.

I slept wonderfully once I was back home, and woke up only ten minutes after HRH got out of bed this morning. I'm in a terrific mood, and all geared up for more amp tests. I'd love to go to Italmelodie to continue to research, but the body's simply not going to let me do it today. (Besides, I sent HRH off to work in the car to make sure I wouldn't head up there.) I may -- may -- walk leisurely over to Jimi's down the way later, to see what they have in acoustic amps, but only if the body will allow. Besides, I have writing to get done, and a final polish on that article Ceri kindly edited for me last night.

Musical Challenges

Orchestra last night, of course, and two of the wind players stood up to tell us how well the concert had gone, how well it had been received by fellow musicians in the audience, and to congratulate the conductor. We all applauded him, and it's about time. They're right; there's been a marked improvement over the last three performances. He's challenging us, and we're rising to the occasion.

Of course, the subsequent rehearsal showed us exactly how much of a challenge we've been given this time around: we're playing Tchaikovsky's Symphony No. 2 in C minor, the "Little Russian". Three flats. Russian folk melodies, which means it's not quite the genre of melody we're used to. Argh. When sight-read, it sounds horrible. After really working a couple of passages in the first movement, however, I could hear it beginning to resolve and had a glimmer of what it might perhaps someday sound like, which may even turn out to be something close to what Tchaikovsky wrote. I've got to get a recording, though, so I can hear what it's supposed to sound like. I thought I had all of Tchaikovsky's symphonies, but I seem to be missing the second and the third. It figures.

We got a pile of new music too: Strauss's overture to Die Fledermaus (fun, fun, fun -- a bitch to play in places, but terribly fun, and everyone knows it); Brahms' Hungarian Dances, no. 5 and 6 (we've played other dances from this series before); the Polonaise from Tchaikovsky's opera Eugene Onegin; and the Serenade Melancholique, also Tchaikovsky. We're being terribly Russian this Canada Day.

Nine rehearsals before this concert; that's all. I haven't looked at the serenade or the polonaise yet, but so far the Strauss and the Brahms are all right; it's the symphony that's really, really going to need work. On the practice schedule, the conductor's programmed two movements every rehearsal, and we're alternating the poloniase and serenade one week with the overtures and dances the next week. It's going to be tight, but we'll make it.

All this, plus the Random Colour songs for early June, too. Working with such a different style of music with the band is forcing my musical awareness to develop in a new direction, making me think about music in a different way and to experiment with how I produce sound. The type of sound required by the bass line to a jazz song or a punk song, for example, is very different from the bass required in a piece by, oh, Tchaikovsky. (And thanks to all the gods that be for that.) Most of the technique I've learned over the past ten years has to be shoved to the back of my mind, because it produces a sound completely inappropriate to what we're playing. It's just another challenge.

Double Mailbox Joy

I got my acoustic pick-up in the mail today! (So much for being extra careful to instruct the seller by e-mail and written letter to contact me as soon as payment had been received and/or when the item shipped, so I'd know when to expect it. Does no one follow directions?)

And... I also got the cheque for finishing the Wicca book in the very same mailbox at the very same time!

You now what this means, of course. It means Serious Acoustic Amp Research, In Person.

As In, 'Oh God, Oh God, We're All Going To Die' Interesting

We just watched the trailer for Serenity.

Oh, yeah. September 30th, we are so there.

(Thanks, Scott!)

Official!

The wait is finally over for the more than 30,000 fans who signed an online petition, and joined in the grass roots campaign to bring Jim Henson's Fraggle Rock back into their homes in a proper DVD release. HIT has officially stated that they are no longer considering season box sets - they are making them.

“Fraggle Rock – Season 1 Box Set” is due for release in fall 2005. At this time the exact release date, retail price, and disc specifications/features have not be finalized. They hope to have an official press release ready sometime this summer with all the details. HIT has yet to commit to producing box sets for seasons 2 through 5. They state that the future sets are likely, but will also depend on the success of the first season sets.

Read the whole news article at Muppet Central!

Of course, the Muppet Show DVD sets are still unconfirmed...

When Bassists Talk About Bass Lines

Bassist #1: "Are most of the bass lines to vocal songs really just the root of whatever chord the guitarist is playing? Because sure, it works musically, but wow, that's unimaginative."

Bassist #2: "What do you expect from someone who picked up guitar to play guitar, and only thinks of a bass as a guitar with too few strings to play chords? That’s why you usually can’t even tell the bass is there."

Except if you take away the bass line, everything goes unstable because the foundation is suddenly missing. You feel a bass line; you don't hear it. And no, I'm not talking about how high the amp is set; it's a subconscious recognition. If your bass line vanishes, the piece just feels wrong. Thus, it's highy ironic that most bass lines are written by guitarists or vocalists. Yes, the resulting bass line is solid, but it's usually not very interesting. A bass line written by a bassist will provide that basic support and foundation as well as adding the extra dimension of "enhancing the melody," as Bassist #2 put it later in the conversation.

Food for thought.

Yes, yes, I'm writing as well as getting philosophical about bass lines.

Meh

I was off all day, out of sync with life in general from the moment I got up.

I couldn't hear or connect with what I was playing at rehearsal; couldn't properly hear or connect with what anyone else was playing; couldn't settle in and have fun the way I did last week. Maybe I was still riding the high from that successful and impressive first rehearsal, and was expecting this week to be as phenomenal. It seemed as if last week's dynamism was missing, which I suppose would naturally follow once the excitement of discovering that we were better than we'd feared had settled down, to be replaced by work. And today was definitely a day of work more than play: we were hacking things out, adding things, dropping things, trying new things out, and frankly, just trying to get through a song while remaining aware of how everything interlocked. We need solid basics before we start making the songs pretty or getting them up to speed (basics being who's playing what, when, at what time, and so forth). It's a slow process, but necessary. We can't do anything about dynamics either until everyone's got the proper equipment, so there's no point in even addressing overall balance. But it didn't help that I was feeling claustrophobic, dull, and lacklustre. Then again, that pretty much describes how I've felt overall for the past couple of days, so no big surprise.

And I'm trying very hard to psych myself up for a rather important ritual tomorrow, and I just don't have the energy (another excellent way to describe the past couple of days). I'm tired; I ache; and things are just gloomy.

Meh.

I do, however, have a stuffed turtle from Boston, courtesy of Lu.

More Music Chatter

We had a lovely little visit with ai731 and t! last night, for they were in the area making musical purchases. Got to sigh over ai731's elegant new electrified acoustic with steel strings, which has an absolutely gorgeous bell-like tone that's bright enough to be heard, but that's still mellow and not tinny in the least; the same reason I prefer to string a harp with wire instead of nylon. t! walked in with the very same Ibanez bass practice amp I'd looked at semi-seriously when Ceri and I took a walk over to the shop a couple of days ago, and I was right: Ibanez is a bass specialist brand, which would explain why I heard that MLG's Ibanez practice amp for guitar is not the best-sounding of things. (Then again, it also came in a kit, which means the guitar itself is probably not of overly high quality either, and the quality of all elements involved is always reflected in sound.) "I will let you try it," t! said when I poked at it. I likes my friends; they share their toys.

Today, it's off to the music shops with the girls for more gifts, a look at drum stools, and the second stage of serious amp research. This time, I will be armed with a checklist of desired features plus actual brand names and model numbers to price, in preparation for a visit to try out the lucky finalists for sound with the cello once I've fitted it with that pick-up I'm waiting for.

Which means I ought to get myself in gear and get some writing done this morning, since this afternoon will be spent elsewhere. No procrastinating today. Writing first, play afterwards.

Happy Birthday!

It's the birthdate of Charlotte Bronte today, born in 1816.

The Writer's Almanac says:

in 1847, each [sister] had a book published: Anne's was Agnes Grey, Emily's was Wuthering Heights, and Charlotte's was Jane Eyre. Charlotte, considered the best writer of the three, introduced a new type of heroine to English fiction—an intelligent, passionate woman who refuses to accept the traditional role of female subservience. The book was a great success. Unfortunately, within the following year, Branwell, Emily, and Anne all died.

I howled. Yes, how dreadful that she produced a new type of heroine, and then her siblings all died the next year. Rather unfortunate paragraph formatting, that.

Sunday Music

Last night's concert was excellent -- very tight. Fantastic work from everyone, particularly our section of Cello-Playing Mice. When things go well, the evening always flys by and the two hours are over before I know it. Although my legs falling asleep from the wooden chair being just a smidge too high were a definite indication of time passing. Halfway through the symphony in the second half, I rearranged my legs so that they were stretched to the left and crossed at the ankles instead of feet flat on the floor, one knee on either side of the cello. Unorthodox, but it helped for a bit. Thanks again to everyone who came out -- it always means a lot to me.

The Random Colour meeting was terrific as well, particularly since we ended up working out music not once but twice for one song, and acing the second (up until the part where we have to modulate at the bridge, that is; we decided to work on that at home since I had to flee to eat and change for the other concert). I'm impressed with how well we worked together, particularly for those who'd never played with others before (or played their instrument!). The girls have decided that bowing the cello sounds pretty darned cool in the second song we worked, so I'll mess about with that in the other songs at home to see what happens.

Good thing we'd casually looked at amps and pick-ups earlier, because as soon as Ceri started tuning her sax both the stringed instruments realised that we'd need to amp simply in order to be heard. My inexpensive cello pick-up is already on order; I doubt it will be here for the next rehearsal this weekend, but then, I won't have an amp either, so that's fine. I won't be able to get the baby amp, either, until HRH's EI snarl gets worked out, which, gods willing, will be this week. The girls are meeting every weekend from now till Invisible's mid-June concert in order to really ace a couple of songs; we have less time than they did for their first gig, and we've chosen harder songs (enthusiastic overacheivers that we are).

Today: errands; more edits; some green witch work.

On Mice And A Dynamic Smorgasbord

I had a lovely afternoon lazing about yesterday, napping and reading all of He Shall Thunder In The Sky by Elizabeth Peters (yeah, I hit a second-hand bookstore on the way home and picked up two more Egyptian archaeological mysteries). I figured I deserved it after the agony of the copy-edits so far, and the incredible amount of hard work we did at yesterday's three-hour dress rehearsal.

It never ceases to amaze me how awful our sound is simply from rehearsing in that cavern of an auditorium at the high school. When we get the chamber orchestra into a cosy, intimate space like the church we're playing at tonight, the sound is just a mush of everything -- no finesse, no control. And it's a direct result of not being able to (a) hear ourselves, and (b) hear the other sections in rehearsal. So a lot of the dress consists of refining dynamics, as well as practicing transitions. (Overheard from the second violin section during the Schubert scherzo: "This is a dynamic smorgasbord.") The entire cello section (those of us who care, anyway) are now officially Playing Like Mice most of the time. I'm serious -- a couple of us wrote "MICE" at the top of a couple of sheets of music to remember that we have to whisper and create the most delicate of small sounds. And this in a mf passage. You see how mouse-like we have to be? (And that's mouse-like, not Mouse-like; if we were Mouse-like we'd be those rampaging fuzzy-elephant-kitten types who romp through the Schubert scherzo in the style of my little grey-brown tabby cat.)

So yes, concert tonight. But first, a couple of hours with the Random Colour girls, where we will see what happens when we try to commit music with little to no idea of key signatures or actual notes associated with the songs. Should be... interesting. This is probably going to be very good for me, as it will strengthen my improv skills and wean me away from a slavish over-reliance on printed music.

Have You Met My Cricket-Mouse, Sir?

Our conductor, on doing the Scherzo from the Schubert symphony no. 6 last night one last time after playing through the entire programme:

"This has to be gentle and playful. Kittens. Think kittens playing."

My thought? (Unvoiced, of course.)

"Geez, you really don't know my kittens, do you."

But that opening phrase, while gentle and playful, is then echoed in a galumphing sort of way, which is where I envision my herd-of-fuzzy-elephant kittens coming into the musical equation to destroy the dainty innocence created thus far, and all's well.

Sunday night's concert is going to be rather enjoyable, I think. If I can keep from cracking up when we play that bit of the Scherzo, that is.

Amusing

Comment found on Jump the Shark, as regards The Muppet Show (which, by the way, most agree did not jump the shark):

I don't know what Kermit and the gang are doing now days, but Electric Mayhem musician Janis is now appearing in major motion pictures under the pseudonym "Gwyneth Paltrow".

Computer Update

Photoshop has completely vanished. Completely. Except for the shortcuts. I wonder if it was on the SCSI drive, which would make no sense whatsoever because I install all my programs on the C or the D partition.

My firewall went wonky and seized control of my internet this morning, because it thought it had been hacked as a result of the changes we made to the system. I went through the whole sequence of renaming of the internet logs file and doing a clean reinstall of the program, and now it's behaving.

I wonder what's next.

Outings

Ceri and I went out and ran errands yesterday,and the only thing I managed to buy for myself the entire afternoon while we were together was a guitar pick. A nice, thick, felted pick that cost a whole $0.95, which, as Ceri informed me and I saw by the posted prices on all the bins, is expensive for a pick. I'm used to my accessories costing anywhere from $30 up, so something that's less than a dollar feels like a real steal to me. At dinner last night, someone asked why I bought it. Well, I have a suspicion that when I play regular pizz under the other Random Colour girls' instruments and vocals, no one's going to hear anything, so I thought a pick might help focus the sound. We'll find out on Sunday.

I was also scouting out prices of acoustic instrument amplifiers (for a similar reason, see above), and I really, really hate salespeople who automatically pull out the most expensive thing they have on the shelf and tell you that it's the exact product you need because it has the best sound and every other product on their shelves is crap. I'm sorry, this isn't my livelihood, nor is it even a major hobby investment. I refuse to pay over one hundred and fifty dollars for something I only intend to mess around with to see what happens. All I want is an inexpensive pick-up with which to experiment. Sure, you get what you pay for, but I'm in this for fun once every couple of weeks, not professional profit.

I did, however, have lots and lots of fun buying musical gifts for someone else. And I picked up some blank music manuscript paper in prep for this Sunday's rehearsal, just in case, because I can't find mine.

We also found a lovely cafe which makes real hot chocolate -- the bitter kind. It was heavenly. I will definitely return there at some point.

Chamber Orchestra Concert Reminder

Yes, I do more than worry about being the bass player in an all-girl band; I also obsess about that wretched passage of thirty-second notes in the Rossini Pas de Six that my chamber orchestra is playing.

That same chamber orchestra is performing our annual Spring Concert in Pointe-Claire this Sunday night.

Location: Valois United Church, 70 Belmont (corner King) Pointe-Claire

Date and Time: Sunday April 17 at 19h00 (yes, that's this Sunday)

Admission: $10 (free for 18 and under)

Programme: "Tancredi" Overture, Rossini
Sonata in E minor for Cello and String Orchestra, Vivaldi (soloist: Violaine Brochu)
"Les Petits Riens" ballet music, Mozart
"William tell" Pas de Six, Rossini
Symphony No. 6 in C, Schubert

STM travel info
Mapquest
Bribing your favourite driver with paying their admission is always good too.

Time Didn't Flow This Quickly When I Was A Kid

Is it possible that Invisible's One Night Only show was a month ago already? (Okay, a month yesterday, but nit-picking when I'm trying to be magnaminous to my psyche today is Not Allowed.)

I know March kind of evaporated on me what with deadlines and edits and edits yet again, plus an Easter weekend away, but really.

So when's the next one, gentlemen?

We're Smart, Of Course We Read

Or should that be, "Of Course We're Smart, We Read"?

Study examines Canadian book-buying habits

TORONTO - Canadians spent almost as much money on books as they did on buying newspapers and watching movies in 2001, according to a government-funded report issued Thursday.

The statistical report, which analyzes data gathered during the 2001 census, showed that 48 per cent of all Canadian households bought books, spending a total of $1.1 billion on them.

Though a greater percentage of Canadian households spent money on newspapers (63 per cent) and movies (61 per cent), the total amount spent on each category was similar to that spent on books: overall spending on newspapers and movies amounted to $1.2 billion each.

By comparison, Canadians spent $451 million on live sporting events.

About three quarters (76 per cent) of Canada's highest-income households (earning $100,000 or more) spent money on books, compared to about one quarter of those in the lowest-income bracket (earning $20,000 or less). However, these low-income buyers spent much more of their total household income on books – the $111 they spent amounted to five times more, comparatively, than the $282 spent on average by high-income households.

The report also revealed that:

* There is only a small difference in the number of households that spend money on books based on where people live: 50% of people living in large cities buy books; 44%, in small cities; 45% in rural areas.
* Households that are active or spend money on other arts and leisure activities – like the performing arts, museums or sporting events – are more likely to buy books.
* Those with children are more likely to spend money on books but households without children spend more money on average and in total.
* Book spending across Canada increased by 23 per cent between 1997 and 2001.

The authors of the report said, however, that their findings don't necessarily reflect the total number of readers in Canada. "There are many ways to enjoy books without spending money on them, such as borrowing from libraries or friends," the report read.

Compiled by Hill Strategies Research Inc., the report was funded by the Canada Council for the Arts, the Department of Canadian Heritage and the Ontario Arts Council.

So as a nation, we buy a lot of books; but we probably read even more than the ones we buy so these numbers could be even more impressive. Very cool.

Via CBC Arts.

Random Colour, Meeting #1: Set List

I have fun friends, in a fun band, and we're going to play fun music.

Whereas Invisible started a band just to play, and eventually realised they should probably do a gig-type thing, we are already planning our second performance. We are nothing if not enthusiastic and future-conscious.

And amaretto sours are yummy. Thanks, gang!

Who Knew Prepping For The First Band Practice Would Be So Hard?

The sugar syrup crystallized, even though I took it off the heat when I was supposed to. I think I jogged some of the grains off the sides of the pan, and they did that evil turn-the-whole-pan-into-crystals trick. I rescued what I could. Still tastes like sugar syrup.

And I discovered that I only had a tablespoon of lemon juice left, so I'll have to make the sour mix at ai731's place after I've picked up a new bottle (plus another bag of sugar) along with evil nibble food.

:headdesk:

At least I got the blender down from the very highest shelf without killing myself or anyone else. (No, HRH isn't home, otherwise he'd've done it, or had a fit about me doing it.)

Ta-Da!

There's more up on HRH's computer animation portfolio page!

Now I must scurry to meet Ceri for lunch before we settle down to work.

Shop Independent When Possible!

Nine hours of editing. Halfway through the book. Enough is enough, or I will be useless to finish the last half in the six hours I have tomorrow.

I direct your attention to BookSense, a US independant bookshop locator. A pity it doesn't include a Canadian or UK search engine, but still, a remarkable alternative to chains and big-box stores. (Located via Neil Gaiman.)

Undead

I'm currently watching the "Bela Lugosi Is Dead" video cap from the Invisible concert. I have to say that even though the songs portions of the video are huge and the transfer is time-consuming, I really, really hope the other songs make it to WAV format. (And the banter between the songs, too, because Invisible is about banter almost as much as they're about punk music.)

Can I just say again how much fun Invisible is? They're so cool.

This Spade is A Garden Digging Implement

Cardinal Tarcisio Bertone got a lot of flak for urging Catholics not to buy or read The Da Vinci Code. The book's defenders had a good time with the story, casting Bertone as a would-be censor (which, to be fair, he probably is). If Bertone had just urged people not to read the book because it's terrible, he probably wouldn't have been mocked so relentlessly.

- From Michael Schaub at Bookslut

Rebirth

Every single time I hear Stravinsky's Firebird Suite on the radio, I'm astonished anew at how beautiful it is. It says "spring" to me so much more than The Rite of Spring.

More HRH Talent

As promised, here are two shots from HRH's final project. You can click on them to see them in their original larger size.

This is the very first frame of the whole animated sequence, which brings the camera in and down to the ship, then pans from the bow through the rigging and along the deck, then up the aft deck past the wheel, over the back railing, and then turns to focus on the back of the ship as the camera pans away. (It looks dark, but that's just the angle the lighting is at in this frame. It gets much brighter as the camera moves in.)

This view doesn't actually appear in the animated sequence; it's an alternate camera angle of a single frame.

They look so real to me. I know I've seen the construction of these images pretty much from the basic shapes onward, and I still can look at them and think they're actual pictures.

Is The Price Increase Supposed To Help Sales?

A month ago I reported that publishers are starting to develop a new book format that is larger than a mass-market paperback but smaller than a trade paperback. Naturally, they're to be priced accordingly, which is stupid because pocketbooks already cost too much.

Well, Peter Olson, the current CEO of Random House, gave a talk yesterday and basically summed up my personal opinion of the whole matter. Publisher's Lunch puts it this way:

Following the Bertelsmann press conference in Berlin yesterday to announce annual results, Random House CEO Peter Olson gave public voice to some of his thoughts on competitors' mass upperback strategy: "The acceptance of that format [the traditional mass market] with that particular size and at those price points is so great, it would be a major change if readers gravitated to something different at this point."

The point, to put it a little more bluntly, is to question whether raising prices by almost 20 percent on the industry's most affordable format will actually help the category. In recent weeks, some Random House executives have made the point that the type size of mass market books can be made larger to accommodate older readers without requiring price increases or a repositioning of the format itself. Olson underscored in his remarks that mass market books still comprise over a third of Random's sales.

More Giants Pass

Andre Norton died last night.

Mailbox Love

HRH, your copy of The Incredibles DVD just arrived, along with my copy of the new Druidcraft Tarot.

So much for you getting work done on those portfolio demo projects tonight, hmm?

The windows are open to let in the spring air, I'm drinking cranberry punch, there is much cat love to be had, and thank you Ceri for the No Doubt CD. Now I'm wondering where the books which shipped just before the DVD parcel have gone, because they technically should have arrived first...

Spring Concert Announcement!

No, not Random Colour; give us a chance to pull something together first, would you?

The Lakeshore Chamber Orchestra is pleased to announce the second concert of the 2004-05 season, to take place on Sunday April 17 at 19.00h. The orchestra will be performing at Valois United Church in Valois, Pointe-Claire, located on the corner of Belmont and King streets. Admission is $10.

The programme for the evening is:

Tancredi overture - Rossini
Sixth Symphony - Schubert
Selections from Les Petits Riens ballet music - Mozart
The 'Pas de Six' from William Tell - Rossini
Cello Sonata no. 5 in E minor for orchestra and solo cello - Vivaldi

Mark your calendars!

Did I Mention It's An All-Girl Band?

I may also have previously mentioned that our lead singer is a multi-talented artiste. View the evidence for yourself.

Click on the picture to see a close-up of Karine's work.

We're batting around song suggestions and trying to plan a get-together (which, seeing as how there are seven people involved who all have jobs, lives, and families, is going to be a special challenge). I wonder if any of these women know that while I've been playing for ten years and I can sight-read decently enough, my improvisational skills suck. Not to mention that playing in front of people without an orchestra behind me is one of those experiences which triggers anxiety in a big way. This will be good for me.

And it occurred to me last night at orchestra (where we finally got a confirmed concert date, woo-hoo!) that the idea of this band may have popped into Ceri's mind simply so that she could hear me play the cello in a setting where she could actually hear me, and not me and thirty-nine other people. It was followed, naturally, by a dismissal of the notion as unlikely. She was much too excited about the idea in general. Besides, I think the idea was borne by me royally mucking up that insane passage in the Rossini 'Pas de Six.' I tend to think very dark things about everyone during that particular passage.

Oh Dear

It occurs to me that I have time on my hands, and since I'm being anti-social, I can sew again.

And in the Midnight Sienna pic, Karine just happens to have taken my suggestion regarding corsets and boots to heart.

Dee dee dee... let's see now: some tattered black chiffon to go under the pleated tartan mini-skirt... black ass-kicking boots... black lace over black mock-suede corset... black lace over black mock-suede bracers... dee dee dee... and I have all this lovely time and a lonely sewing machine just over there...

And now I really, really want that Yamaha electric cello. Except then I think I'd be the only band member with an electric instrument.

How To Tell Your Mother You've Joined An All-Girl Band...

... of the post-modern/punk kind called Random Colour:

I could claim that this was a post-deadline whim, but it was established with full awareness and in a state of sanity last Saturday night.

Yes, all seven of us have/will have personalized icons. Check out the ongoing, updated gallery of icons here. Thanks, Karine! It looks fabulous! (Our lead singer, like everyone else in the band, is a multi-talented artiste, don't you know.)

Fact:

I have very, extremely, remarkably talented friends.

Invisible presented an all-too short concert last night which has everyone asking when the next performance is. And I now own the original Winter Leaves Triptych by Luanna Venditti (seen here in only 2/3 of its splendour), which will be hung on the bedroom wall later today.

Spent an hour in bed this morning reading The Pagan Dream of the Renaissance by Joscelyn Godwin, a fascinating and extremely well-written examination of how the classical revival informed art, architecture, and literature of the Renaissance. Very enjoyable.

And now: I write. After tea and toast, that is.

More Boasting

Look what HRH can do!

You can click on this one to get a bigger (and clearer) picture.

He says: Here's a shot of the ship with full rigging, in an environment. Changed the sail colour from that dramatic blood-red to cream; the shadows work better this way. This is the first water design I've ever done. (The ship still looks a bit flat, because there's no texture to it at this stage.)

He's so cool.

Me? Well, I'm staying home from class (again -- HRH put his foot down last night and told me I was staying home to rest; then he put the other one down and told me that I wasn't allowed to work on the book... a necessary statement for, I must confess, I had considered doing just that as soon as he informed me I wasn't going out to teach) because this is going so agonizingly slowly. Slowly but steadily, which, as I remember being told often as a child, is how one wins the race.

Ladies And Gentlemen:

HRH is pleased to present a sample of his work from each of the two programs he's been learning at light speed over the past seven weeks:

Raven

I don't think anyone really got to see this painting in HRH's Celtic totem animal series before he gave it to my mother for Christmas. My dad just emailed me digital pictures for our records, so have a look:

Sigh

Well, evidently I wasn't able to find Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are dead on DVD for sale because it's out of print. The new edition is being released at the end of March.

Snicker

Via BoingBoing comes the Unhappy Birthday project:

Did you know Happy Birthday is copyrighted and the copyright is currently owned and actively enforced by Time Warner?

Did you know that if you sing any copyrighted song:
...at a place open to the public
...or among a substantial number of people who are not family or friends
You are involved in a public performance of that work?

Did you know an unauthorized public performance is a form of copyright infringement?

While this would please people like Chantale and I who hate surprises, especially in public, the underlying mockery points to how ludicrous the whole licensing/control issue can/has become.

(Off) Balance

CBC Radio Two is currently broadcasting a recording of JS Bach's Violin Concerto in A major (BWV 1041) as performed by Anne-Sophie Mutter and the English Chamber Orchestra. The recording balance is so perfect that it sounds like she's standing in my living room playing the violin. Unfortunately, the ECO still sounds like they're on the radio.

I finished my quick re-read of Chapel Noir last night. Now I remember why I wasn't thrilled with the turn the story takes: Nell, narrator and sidekick to Irene Adler and my favourite character, is kidnapped at the end. No wonder I didn't wait breathlessly for the next book to come out in paperback. The idea of reading a book without Nell at Irene's side wasn't much of an attraction; the interplay between the two characters is one of the series' strengths. Furthermore, Elizabeth/Pink, the new addition to the set of characters, does absolutely nothing for me. Now that I've got it I'll give the next book a chance, though; not only has Irene's companion been kidnapped, but so has her husband, which is interesting enough to draw me onward. Nell and Godfrey also work well together, and if the same party has kidnapped them, well, things have the potential to become quite interesting.

Art and Books

I just have to link to Lu's ongoing series of Winter Leaves paintings because everyone should see them and gawk at how beautiful they are. I asked to reserve the triptych after seeing only the first two pieces, but now that I've seen the new singles I'm all waffly about if I'd rather pick and choose from among the solo pieces as well. Augh! One way or another, at least three will be mine. I would love to buy them all, but that might annoy others who also wish to share in Lu's talent, and would likely also lead my husband to ask what on earth we would do with X abstract white leaf paintings. Hey, I'm going to have an office to myself in the new place (yes, it's a must); I can decorate it however I darn well please.

While I was out this morning picking up groceries, I took a pile of books to the secondhand bookstore and got about $22 for them. I walked out with pristine copies of the two latest Irene Adler books by Carole Nelson Douglas (which necessitates rereading Chapel Noir, and it's better than I remember it); a copy of Robert Rankin's Witches of Chiswick, a British humourous fantasy which I've been eyeing first in trade and then in mass-market for a while, but have been reluctant to take an $11 chance on a new author; and my ultimate score on this trip was a hardcover non-book club copy of Eragon for only eight dollars. The total of my purchases? $23. So I basically traded about ten useless books for four books I wanted in great condition. I like this game.

And when I got back there was a perfect parking spot right across from the apartment building, in the sun. I am smug.

Tip of the Hat

Hey, it's Wilhelm Karl Grimm's birthday today. Where would Teutonic folklore enthusiasts like me be without him, and without his brother Jakob? For that matter, where would nurseries, theatre, and studios like Disney be without them?

It's All In The Soundtrack, Part 2

Or, you know, the CD drive could reject every Beethoven CD I want to upload.

So, in an extreme shift of gears, we go back to Muppet Treasure Island, most of which is being added to my Editing playlist. (I mean, hey, with lyrics like "I love to hang 'em high and watch their little feet try to walk in the air while their faces turn blue," how can you miss?)

When you're a professional pirate, that's what the job's about.

It's All In The Soundtrack

I've just uploaded a whack of Haydn to my library of media. It truly is amazing how good an all-Haydn playlist can make you feel.

Now, of course, we're turning to Beethoven, which ought to make for an interesting afternoon as we continue to rwrite and expand the ever-unwieldy Wicca book.

"I just kind of conjured them up out of my subconscious and put them in order of ascending peculiarity."

It is, of course, Edward Gorey's birthday today.

Everyone hug a twisby.

Signifier, Signified

I've just begun reading a NYT Books article about Disney doing The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe due out this December, and I can feel my hackles rising before I even hit the second page.

Read with me, and itch to tear something.

Peter Sealey, an adjunct professor of marketing at the University of California, Berkeley, and a former marketing executive for Coca-Cola and Columbia Pictures, nonetheless described the project's combination of religion and children's entertainment as "an absolute time bomb in these days of extreme sensitivity."

Mr. Sealey's advice to Disney: "Either don't do it, or come completely clean, like a 'Ten Commandments' or a 'Passion of the Christ.' It seems duplicitous just to repress the religious aspects, and certainly they will all come out in this age of the Internet and strident voices on both the left and the right."

Come completely clean? Excuse me?

The beautiful thing about the Chronicles of Narnia is that they embody a story which is true to itself. You don't have to be Christian, or even be familiar with Christian symbolism to read and enjoy it.

Come clean? About what? About the fact that there's death and rebirth, and the redemption of a traitor? Hello? Did I miss the memo regarding the trademark Christianity put on those themes?

They're not exclusively religious themes, although they do appear in religious doctrines as well. Yes, Lewis became a Christian after evaluating his faith pre-Narnia. Yes, his general spirituality pervades the books. But they're not Christian texts. Come clean? Again I ask, about what?

Fortunately, there's someone else quoted in the article who gets it:

Of Lewis's work, M[artin] Kaplan said: "There's enough story and traditional emotion in the 'Narnia' books that they can let the Christian mysticism in it either be a subtext or not a part of it at all. I suspect you can portray resurrection in the same way that E. T. comes back to life, and that practically every fairy tale has a hero or heroine who seems to be gone forever but nevertheless manages to come back."

Thank you. Thank you for understanding that there's a real story in there, not just a pastiche of Christian mythology. And for suggesting that the concept of resurrection/rebirth isn't solely a Christian trope.

If Disney manages to create a "Star Wars"-like, generalized hero myth of Lewis's work without alienating its Christian fans, the potential rewards are huge.

Alienating!? Hello? Has anyone read these books? A faithful adaptation won't alientate either crowd!

Harper Collins, the publisher of the Chronicles of Narnia already went through this religious issue.

HarperCollins, the American publisher of the "Narnia" books, stepped into just such a controversy in 2001 when a memorandum from an executive with the its HarperSanFrancisco imprint surfaced with the assertion that "we'll need to be able to give emphatic assurances that no attempt will be made to correlate the stories to Christian imagery/theology." [...] A HarperCollins spokeswoman, Lisa Herling, responded then, "The goal of HarperCollins is to publish the work of C. S. Lewis to the broadest possible audience and leave any interpretation of the works to the reader."

Which is as it should be, in my opinion. Lewis didn't write them as Christian tracts; he wrte them as stories to be enjoyed. Yes, the stories employ traditional spiritual themes which happen to be found in Christianity, the author's religious path at the time, but they appear in other religious mythologies as well. In fact, having reread the series last week, I remember distinctly Aslan telling one of the children, "I am found in many forms in your world" (and yes, I'm paraphrasing, because I read them all in a row and I'm not going to dig through seven books to find the reference). The implication is that Aslan is a form of the Divine, and he recognises that there exist many interpretations of the Divine.

"They're seeing it from 10,000 feet, from which the religious themes are no longer specific to Christianity, but part of the great Joseph Campbell tradition of universal myth," Mr. Kaplan, of the Lear Center, said of "Narnia's" new caretakers.

Erm. Wouldn't that be the themes of universal myth narrowing to an exclusively Christian association in the Western world, and then being recognised by Campbell as universal once again? That is what Campbell does, after all; he points out the thematic unity between myths which predate Christianity as well as co-exist and postdate it.

Gnash, gnash.

(To read the article, you may have to go through the NYT free registration.)

Three-Word Review

Inkheart was brilliant.

That is really all there is to say on the subject.

Giants Passing Part 3

Good gods -- Hunter S. Thompson killed himself yesterday.

Duh

Publishers Look to Up-Size Paperbacks

Mass market books remain a vital, billion dollar product, enabling readers to snap up cheap, portable editions of such favorites as Dan Brown's "Angels and Demons" and John Grisham's "The Last Juror." But according to the Book Industry Study Group, a nonprofit research organization, annual sales have dropped by 65 million over the past five years, from 600 million in 1999 to 535 million in 2004.

In response, publishers are trying out a new paperback format, so new they haven't even agreed on a name for it. Penguin Group USA calls it "Penguin Premium." Simon & Schuster and Hyperion still just think of it as "new."

The new paperbacks will be at least a half-inch taller than mass market books - big enough to make the books more readable, but small enough to fit into pockets and existing store racks. In both size and prize, they will stand midway between mass market books and "trade" paperbacks, which are the same size as hardcovers.

People, come on. It's called "digest format." It's the size of most 8-12 YA fiction. It's been around for years. The UK calls them A format and B format paperbacks (can't remember which is which at the moment, though; it's been terribly long since I unpacked imported books). And frankly, I think this move has more to do with the publishers wanting to charge even more for a book than with baby boomers having a hard time reading a mass-market sized product.

(Read the whole article here.)

Patchwork? Surely You Jest

Here's part two of the SF Site interview with Susanna Clarke.

What characteristics in your writing do you feel separate you from other authors?

I'm less aware of what separates me from other authors and I'm more aware of what ties me in with other authors. I think the only thing I could say would be that I've very much followed my own preferences. For a long time, I've ceased to read what I felt I ought to read and I've just read what I really liked to read. Then I pulled them all together and borrowed shamelessly from all sorts of people to create Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell. I've put together people as far apart as Alan Moore and Neil Gaiman and G.K. Chesterton and all of these people. I just sucked out the bits I liked and made this ragtag patchwork thing. I don't think this is a unique book. I just feel I've put the combination together in a completely different way.

No, Susanna, it's a rather unique book. You may think you're borrowing, but you created something very much your own that doesn't read like anyone else's work.

And Practical

Many people I know will find this interesting:

How Much Does a Science Fiction or Fantasy Writer Make?

Tobias Buckell did a survey and has tabulated the first results to find out if having an agent helps, what your advances might be like, what various publishers offer as advances, what hardcover advances are like as compared to paperback, and how advances for later books measure up against the stats for first-time novels. Fascinating. Don't ignore the comments, they're just as interesting.

Romantic

According to the Romantic Novelists' Association, these are the top five most romantic books of all time:

MOST ROMANTIC BOOKS OF ALL TIME
1. Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
2. Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte
3. Gone With the Wind - Margaret Mitchell
4. Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier
5. Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte

(Source: The BBC News article Austen tops romantic novel poll.)

Bookshelf

The Chronicles of Narnia it is. Just finished Prince Caspian this morning.

Inkheart next, perhaps. Or the L'Engle. We shall see.

Off to run errands.

And happy Lupercalia, everyone!

Books!

Lu -- thanks for getting me the Cornelia Funke double pack of books. I read half of The Thief Lord last night before falling asleep, and the other half when I woke up this morning. It was very, very good.

And yes, I'll probably start Inkheart tonight after class. Looking back over my past reading list, I'm amazed at how many books I've read over the past month and a half. It's almost as if when I stop writing I need something completely different to focus on, and I plough through a book in one or two sittings.

I'm considering re-reading the Narnia series next, or perhaps Madeleine L'Engle's Time series.

And thanks to all who were there at Picasso's last night; it was good to touch base with everyone again! (And SavageKnight -- it was wonderful to meet you live and in person at last after two years of conversation!)

Giants Passing Part Three

I know Arthur Miller died, but the news that Jack Chalker passed away this morning hit me harder. Probably because I enjoyed Chalker's work more than I ever enjoyed that of Miller.

Hero of the Day

I found a stack of CDs that t! had lent me a while back, and I'm uploading them to the computer as I work. On is S&M, the 1999 Michael Kamen/Metallica/SF Symphony collaboration live double-disc set. I remember when the SFS announced this engagement; the classical music world was livid, which annoyed the heck out of me. Being an open-minded classical musician, I thought it was a fantastic idea; what a way to introduce the complex and remarkably classically-constructed music of Metallica to a world that thinks anything electric is evil. The recording is glorious, and you can tell the SFS is having a brilliant time. Despite the hide-bound critics' conniptions at the idea, the two concerts were sold out.

I now have two versions of Morricone's "Ecstasy of Gold", one by Yo-Yo Ma and the one on this disc. I adore them both, and they're both very different.

I should start noting down what music I'm listening to while I write this book, much as I did on my NaNo days. I'm sure it will amuse me in the future to look back and see that I wrote the section on sabbats to "Bleeding Me" and "Hero of the Day."

Take That, Mikey

Among Michael Eisner's not-so-smart business decisions was to close -- yes, close -- all the hand-drawn Disney studios, thinking that computer animation was the only way to go. That's right. He severed Disney from what made it successful in the first place.

Someone on the 2D front lines has decided to document it in a film called Dream On Silly Dreamer. Muah-hah-hah.

The film's director, Dan Lund, worked for Disney for 15 years before the company decided to shut down its hand-drawn animation studio.

He documented the layoffs that marked the end of an era in American filmmaking by interviewing his co-workers. [...]

Long a giant in the animation field, Disney was responsible in the 1990s for such hits as Beauty and the Beast, The Little Mermaid and The Lion King.

But following flops like Atlantis: The Lost Empire and Treasure Planet, the firm laid off its hand animators in 2002 to focus on computer-animated features.

One person who is giving the film a rave review is Roy Disney, the nephew of the company's founder, Walt Disney, and a former member of its board.

"It should be seen by everyone who still believes in the magic of Disney," he said in an article posted on the SaveDisney.com website, adding that Dream On Silly Dreamer puts a human face on an "institutional tragedy."

Roy Disney has campaigned to return the company to its roots as a maker of hand-drawn films.

Lund says that Roy Disney "saw the film and is 100 per cent behind it, emotionally and creatively."

The film, which is partly animated, will have five screenings on Thursday in Minneapolis that are free to the public.

Lund says he hopes that, after seeing the film, shareholders feel "a sense of loss" and tell management that "maybe that division means more than just a financial thing."

As I'm sympathetic to the hand-drawn cause and somewhat knowledgeable about the animation industry, there are a couple of things in this news report make me twitch. The first is that none of Disney's early successes are mentioned, the movies that made the studio's reputation, that made them famous for technical achievement and telling a good story in a challenging medium. The second is that the reporter parrots Disney's claim that Treasure Island was a flop. It wasn't. It just didn't bring in as much as they expected it to, or as they wanted it to. It made a tremendously respectable take at the box office.

And what has always irritated me about Eisner's decision to close the classical animation branch of Disney is that he blamed the medium on the failure of mediocre films, not the lousy scripts and ideas upon which the films were based. Oh, no; it must have been the fact that it didn't look slick. Why, by Eisner's standards, A Shark's Tale must be miles better than Sleeping Beauty! (Pardon me while I gag, and growl.)

Read the full CBC story here

Avant Gard

What happens when the six-year-old child of an author writes her first story?

Check out John Scalzi's Athena's First Story to find out.

And for further amusement, here's an amusing and remarkably accurate instruction on how to grab your readers from the very first words of your novel, illustrated with example of a gripping story starring, er, cats.

(Lu, this should amuse you in your never-ending search for entertainment during the day!)

She Makes It Sound So Easy

Mind you, Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell ended up being 782 pages long:

Did you have an end point in mind when you start working?

I know roughly where the characters are going to end up. I just have to get them there. There was no worry in my mind that I would just reach a point and think, well is this the end or isn't it. I would know when I got there.

Read all of the SF Site's A Conversation with Susanna Clarke, Part 1.

It's More Than Just Heavy Wallpaper

There are moments when a library becomes itself. The rest of the time is potential. The book collection, arranged by subject and author, latent with pleasures and instruction, is a library in Clark Kent mode. The crux where the book, the reader and the need collide like particles in an accelerator is its apotheosis, the library as Superword.

In the midst of all the claims that the library as an intitution is dying out, the current president of the ever-expanding London Library has a couple of rather insightful things to say.

Found via Booksquare, bless her heart.

Gift From the Gods

Shut UP!

Do you know what just arrived?

My copy of Myth and Religion of the North: The Religion of Ancient Scandinavia by Turville-Petre. You know, the out-of-print rare volume I tracked down for under one hundred Canadian dollars in the UK, that wasn't going to arrive till early March?

Eeeeeee!

It's an amazing copy, too; tight, clean pages; no markings; no finger-soil on the edges; only a bit of shelf-wear on the top and bottom of the spine. It has that lovely old book smell. The binding actually cracks a bit when I open it anywhere except at the photo plates. I don't know if anyone has ever even read this book; I think it might have just sat on someone's shelf for forty years in a dim room.

I am completely delirious. I can't believe that I actually have a copy of this book.

It's a really, really good thing that I'm not in the headspace to read about Teutonic religious practices at the moment, because otherwise it would be to Hel with the Wicca book, which, after all that calculating I did yesterday, would be quite disastrous. This, then, will be my reward for breaking, oh, say, 40K next week.

LATER:
Hmm. Now that the book has been freed from the restrictive cardboard wrapping, the hard covers are curving outward a bit(known as "foxing" in the book industry). If I were a serious collector, this would be a black mark against the value of the book. It doesn't affect the precious words inside, though, which are the reason why I bought the book; it's just not as excellent a copy as I thought it was earlier. (And it's A Good Thing I'm not a serious collector, because I spend enough money on books already, thank you very much. The mind stalls at guesstimating how much a collector's edition of this rare book would cost.)

The Irony of a Pauper's Grave

It's Mozart's birthday today. He'd be a ripe old 249.

And yes, this does mean that we're now into the countdown for his 250th year. Buckle up; there's going to be a lot of music with too many notes for the next six hundred days or so.

Also...

It's Virginia Woolf's birthday today as well. She was born this day in 1882.

Rest peacefully, Virginia.

And on January 25...

Happy Robbie Burns day, to one and all!

In honour of this august occasion, I give you one of my favourite Burns poems:

To A Mouse

(Thank you, Anne, for the link!)

Lunch Break Amusement

Again with the no one being surprised:

You scored as Hermione Granger. You're one intelligent witch, but you have a hard time believing it and require constant reassurance. You are a very supportive friend who would do anything and everything to help her friends out. Hermione Granger 75% Albus Dumbledore 70% Severus Snape 65% Ron Weasley 60% Remus Lupin 60% Ginny Weasley 55% Draco Malfoy 55% Harry Potter 55% Sirius Black 50% Lord Voldemort 20% Your Harry Potter Alter Ego Is...? created with QuizFarm.com

Egad, but that second sentence should be first thing I see when I wake up, and the last thing I see before I go to sleep. I really ought to trust myself more.

Attend!

Sony and producer Steve Bing are spending more than $2 million on a script for a film adaptation of the medieval epic poem Beowulf by Richard Avary and Neil Gaiman, for Robert Zemeckis to direct, Variety reported.

Well, well, well. Interesting team. (Avary, for those who don't know (and I didn't) may or may not be the same guy who co-wrote early Tarantino films, who is also credited as Roger Avary. Argh.)

And this, of course, has nothing to do with the Beowulf film directed by Sturla Gunnarsson which is being released later this year, and which looks like it might actually get it right. During filming, screenwriter Andrew Berzins (who is Canadian, incidentally) put up a couple of thoughts about adaptation here which are worth a look for people like me who fret about transferring novels to film, let alone anonymous Old English poems.

(Via SciFi Wire.)

UPDATE:

Neil Gaiman addresses the Variety report here, and acknowledges here that there is the other Beowulf film in production "which looks really cool" but when has another version ever mattered in the world of art? And he has a point.

Parallel and Metaphor

Okay, this just fascinates me:

Knight2King Theory: Weasley is Our King

Pern's Demise

We trekked out yesterday in an effort to shake off my lingering lassitude of the weekend's not-well-ness. Naturally, we went to the bookstore. (Actually, I gave HRH the choice of going there or to the mall where there is an EB Games, and he chose Indigo. That was probably what completely cured me. He wanted to go to Indigo to get the next book in the Cornwell Arthurian series he's reading. I love him.)

I came home with four or five books, as I'd come to the end of books I'd bought with my gift-certificate, and the first one I decided to read when we got home was Dragon's Kin by Anne and Todd McCaffrey.

This book has ensured that I will never again buy a Pern novel unless it is Anne's name, and only Anne's name, on the cover. (And even then, I'll think twice, thanks to the weakness of the last few books and the lousy editorial decision she made in allowing her son to write.) Pern is now dead to me.

Having read an interview with the two authors, I know how this was written. They discussed the storyline, Todd wrote it, Anne read through it, and off to the publisher it went. And it's awful. The narrative wanders all over the place; the characterization is weak; the protagonists pop in and out irregularly; and they and the tone are more suited to a YA novel. (Not usually a slur in my POV, but in this case, when the novel was evidently written and marketed for adults, not a high recommendation, either.)

It's just a shallow book. Not much happens. I read it in two hours. There was nothing meaty in it, nothing interesting happening to the characters which made me want to spend time with them. They all told each other how they were feeling, or they talked to each other about how someone else felt, or the narrator told us how they felt instead of showing us.

Grr.

So Pern is dead to me. Okay, the last five or so novels have been iffy; for example, I wanted to like The Masterharper of Pern more than I did, because Robinton is one of my favourite characters, but it was a rehash from his POV of all sorts of information we'd received over the years through other novels. All the Skies of Pern felt flat, somehow, as if it was a book she felt obliged to write. The series gradually grew weaker over time, but I'm still nostalgic about it, as it was the first SF series I ever read. I thought that with Todd writing it, there may have been some sort of revitalisation (although any new author attempting to revive someone else's universe is immediately suspect in my mind). But, alas, it has had just the opposite effect; this book is the nail which has sealed the coffin of Pern closed.

Working Now, Honest

I think it extremely unfortunate when a book has been translated by someone with the last name of Butcher.

(Am so working. Word count now stands at 12,058, which is a clear 35 words more than what I had at last count.)

Virginia Woolf, by Hermione Lee

I would like to take this opportunity to announce that I have finally finished reading Hermione Lee's biography of Virginia Woolf, which I began about a year and a half ago. I have just moved it, with due ceremony, to my Recently Read list.

It's a long and dense book, and reading it was heavy going. Inspiring, though, particularly to a writer of any kind, because it covers so much of her work process and fears and reactions to major world events. This book sat by my bedside for eighteen months. Yesterday morning, in bed with my tea, I reached the end, and I felt a little sad because it was over.

A book like this is not something you race through. Virginia Woolf is a complex and puzzling character, and her biography reflects that. Besides, it's like reading a book about the Titanic: you know how it ends. She puts a rock in her pocket and drowns herself for fear that if she has another mental breakdown, she will not recover. It's the daily life, the discussions, the letters, the process of planning and executing her books and reviews that you read something like this to discover. You read it for an insight into the writer's psyche, their motivations, and to explore how their actions relate to the rest of the intellectual culture of the time.

I preferred this biography to the Quentin Bell one. It felt more objective, and explored further. It serves as a nice complement to A Writer's Diary, the Leonard Woolf-chosen extracts from Virginia's journals on the subject of writing.

Eighteen months of my life were spent reading this book off and on again. I'm not sure what I'll turn to next to replace it.

Bullet Dodged With Grace and Humour

We got new music last night, so no one knows how much I didn't practice the Schubert and the Rossini. I dodged that bullet rather nicely, I think.

Our principal's stand partner didn't show up (like half the orchestra, due to the weather), so I was invited up front. (Can I just say, three and a half seasons to move up from the back of eight celli to second chair? Third chair regularly? Go me.) Let's see: new music; everyone will be sight reading. Okay, sure; I'll agree to sit as second chair, because I won't embarrass myself as much as I otherwise could. And we had a lot of fun with it, and I always pick up neat little tips and tricks from the principal.

First, we got Mozart's ballet music to Les Petits Riens, and let me tell you, by the time we got to the tenth bit, we were rolling our eyes and pleading to switch to something else. There are something like fourteen little themes total after the mini overture. Some are fun. Some are pretty sparkly little things. Some are dead dull. Most are just what the name suggests -- little bits of nothing.

"We'll, um, pick and choose a selection of these to perform," suggests Douglas. We agree, and move on to the Pas de Six from William Tell. Moments into it I'm wishing we'd stayed with the nice and fluffy Mozart. It's a classic killer Rossini piece, which means measured repetitive bits interspersed with stupid fast passages. I played the latter well enough slowly, but when we accelerated the tempo I lost it because I kept trying to change my bowing between the linked triplets instead of doing two sets in one bow stroke as the score indicated. The rest is fine. It's just those twenty-five bars of insanity, repeated again ten bars later, which trips me up. This is one of the things that frustates me about sight-reading; I can either play the notes, or do the correct bowing. If I try to do both, nothing works. (Particularly when the score is handwritten. Handwritten Rossini; what a nightmare to sight-read.)

Lastly, we played a version of the Vivaldi Cello Sonata no. 5 in E minor arranged for solo cello and orchestral accompaniment. It's a beautiful piece, and our principal is the soloist; we're terribly proud of her. Douglas came over before we began and said, "Do you want to focus on the accompaniment, or do you want to play the solo part?" "Oh, sure," our principal said, all relaxed, "I'll do the solo part, I'm ready for it." "No," I said, terribly amused, "he's actually asking if you think the rest of the section can play the cello accompaniment without you." And I could see him sort of wringing his hands, wanting to say no, but the answer was yes, so I just couldn't help laughing. "Oh, they'll be fine," the principal said breezily. "Why don't we all play it once," I said, "and then you can do the solo on the repeat?" Douglas looked relieved, the principal was happy with it, and we all got a chance to run through it without looking like complete idiots.

Of course, the cello line comes in on an odd off-beat in the first full bar, and if you don't count completely precisely, you're off and it's a wreck, which happened to the entire section in the first movement on the repeat when the solo line started; but the other movements were fine, and I was proud of some bits that I played well, and I wasn't terrible in the rest of it. I'm going to practice this one until I have it really, really nailed, because if our principal is going to be busy with the solo part, I want the celli to sound solid. We lean on her a lot, so without her I want to be as confident and clear as possible. (Maybe people will lean on me; who knows.)

The problem with playing the orchestral accompaniment to a cello piece is that the entire cello section knows the solo part. We're cellists, after all. We gravitate to the cello line, particularly when it's big and out there and written to be noticeable as the solo line. And the original version of this piece is a sonata, which means there's just a keyboard continuo to support the solo line; and it's kind of hard to construct an individual bass line in your head when you're listening to the recording of all this lovely cello sound rolling along above the harpsichord. And every single one of us has likely played one of the solo movements in this piece at some point or another, and the fact that we've worked on it makes it even harder to focus on the accompaniment. (In fact, this is the piece I was working on when I finally left the music school which wasn't accomodating the fact that I was an adult with an adult's schedule. The first movement was a pain then, too. I preferred the other three.)

It's a great cross-section of music, especially with the Schubert and the Rossini overture we've already been given. It's going to be fun this winter.

Schubert Who?

Tonight is my triumphant return to chamber orchestra, after a one-month break.

I wonder if everyone will suck as much as I will, seeing as how I picked up the cello once and only once over the holiday. And even then I played Howard Shore stuff, not Schubert or Rossini, so unless I received a miraculous upgrade in my sleep I will be worse than I was at the beginning of December.

This is not encouraging. The fact that our next concert is at the beginning of April is, however, vaguely reassuring.

Like A Rocking Thing, As The Lady Says

Total word count, Wicca book: 10,572
Total words today so far: 2,184

Just heard an extract from the House of Flying Daggers film score on the radio. Fascinating indeed. I'll be adding it to my list of CDs to pick up next time I'm out music shopping, along with the score to A Series of Unfortunate Events and the Goldberg Variations as recorded by Les Violons du Roy.

Get Thee Behind Me, Amazon!

I just hit Amazon.com to research the description for a book, and right below the title bar, their home page had pulled up three of the books on my wish list, with the absolutely cruel heading of "You Know You Want It."

Elizabeth Hand's Mortal Love! The Enchanted Chocolate Pot by Caroline Stevermer and Pat Wrede! This is inhuman!

Nebula Slate Announced

The preliminary slate for the 2004 Nebula Awards is out, and it includes Cory Doctorow's Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom for best novel, and Brad Bird's script for The Incredibles. Sadly, as in recent years and other awards lists, I've not read an embarrassing number of the works nominated. Once upon a time there was a year when I was thrilled to discover that I had read four out of the five finalists for the Nebulas, Hugos, and Locus Awards; I think it was the second or third year I worked at the F/SF store. It was a good year for books, with titles released by all my favourite authors and interesting stuff written by authors I wasn't as familiar with at the time. Over the years, though, I've been reading less F/SF and more literature, mysteries, and general fiction, as well as non-fiction. And, apparently, not reading as many award-worthy books. Fnyeah. I enjoyed them; that's what counts. An award does not a good book make.

More Useless Information Than You Can Shake A Stick At

Of course you've always wanted to know what your name is in Quenya.

Mine's Íverin (although the way I spell it is slightly different, this is what it would default to). HRH's is Veurotur. (You did know that his name means "mighty ruler," right? Insert roll of eyes here.)

Quenya Lapseparma Name Book: A Brief History of Nonsense

(Thanks, Peg!)

And Because I Simply Must Say It...

Happy Twelfth Night, Dear Readers!

What Do You Mean, It Had To Happen?

Peter Rabbit gets hieroglyph tale
Once upon a time, there were four little rabbits and their names were Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail and Peter...

Beatrix Potter's classic children's book The Tale of Peter Rabbit has been translated into ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs by the British Museum.

The translation turns the story of a mischievous rabbit into symbols of the Egyptian world, shapes and squiggles.

Peter Rabbit becomes a square, a semi-circle, an ellipse and a rabbit image.

The "time seemed appropriate" for the hieroglyph version, due in April, translators said, as the story had already been published in 35 languages.

Read the full BBC News article here.

And imagine -- they encountered some obstacles along the way. "Potter's landscape and wildlife would also have been unfamiliar to ancient Egyptians - who had no words for things like blackberry, gooseberry, blackcurrant and potato." No kidding. Personally, I'm wondering how they'll translate "Mopsy" into Middle Kingdom heiroglyphics.

Giants Passing Part Two

And Will Eisner died of a heart attack on January 3 at the age of 87, due to complications with heart surgery in late December.

Giants Passing

Good lord -- SF artist Kelly Freas died yesterday at the age of 83.

Half A Century

Striking Gould In D.C.
50 Years Ago, a Grand Pianist Caught Washington's Ear

By Tim Page
Sunday, January 2, 2005

Fifty years ago this afternoon, a 22-year-old Canadian pianist named Glenn Gould walked out onto the stage of the Phillips Collection and played his first American recital.

Gould, already famous in his native land for brilliance, originality and what some considered eccentricity, did not disappoint in Washington. Instead of the usual debut fare (some flashy Liszt or Rachmaninoff, perhaps, with one of the more popular Beethoven sonatas thrown in for gravitas), Gould opened his program with music by the obscure English renaissance composer Orlando Gibbons, then moved on to the even more obscure Dutch Renaissance composer Jan Pieterszoon Sweelinck. True, he played a sonata by Beethoven (Op. 109) but also one by the Austrian modernist Alban Berg, as well as Anton Webern's eternally elusive "Variations" and a handful of pieces by Johann Sebastian Bach.

Then as now, the capital area tended to empty out around the New Year, and it is doubtful that many people attended Gould's recital on the wet, warm second day of 1955. The world was its typical messy self that Sunday: Anybody who skimmed the front page of The Washington Post would have learned that the United States and the Soviet Union were even angrier than usual with each other; that the national death toll from holiday traffic accidents was expected to top that of the previous year, with more than 500 fatalities recorded since Christmas Eve; that a teenager from Bethesda, depressed by failing grades, had shot himself with the same rifle that had once won him trophies for marksmanship.

[...]

"Glenn Gould of Toronto, Canada, and barely into his twenties, was the pianist. Few pianists play the instrument so beautifully, so lovingly, so musicianly in manner, and with such regard for its real nature and its enormous literature," Hume continued. "Glenn Gould is a pianist with rare gifts for the world. It must not long delay hearing and according him the honor and audience he deserves. We know of no pianist anything like him of any age."

[...]

A little more than a week later, Gould repeated the program in New York, a city he detested. Still, it was in Manhattan that the sultans of the music industry ran their trade, and it was there that Gould was promptly signed to what proved a lifetime recording contract with Columbia Masterworks (which later morphed into CBS Masterworks and later still into Sony Classical). His first disc was devoted to Bach's "Goldberg" Variations; when it was released in early 1956, it made Gould world-famous -- and world-famous he remains.

Gould's performing career ended not long afterwards in 1965, when he ceased public recitals in favour of working exclusively in studios. With this decision his career took a remarkable turn, and he continued to break new ground in broadcasting and composition. I've been a Gould fan since I discovered him in university. Since then I have attended a Gould symposium in Ottawa (one of my first dates with HRH) and a book launch, have contributed extensively to an electronic mailing list focused on Gould's work, and have enjoyed his work in general. I also happen to have been married on his birthday, which means that every year on my anniversary I'm serenaded by Gould on CBC Radio 2, the classical radio station to which I listen.

The WashingtonPost.com reprints the article in entirety here.

Books

The bedroom has been painted. We're here for another five months, after all, and I do spend a lot of time there. It's always been a depressing sort of grey-beige, and HRH made the mistake of saying "I'm bored" the day before New Year's. So the upper two-thirds are a lovely pale peach, the lower third is a darker peach, and there's a crisp white chair-rail separating the two. Very nice. No, I did not help; I'm working on a book. Besides, the paint fumes were bothering me even when I went in periodically for a few minutes to appreciate the transformation.

We went out to Indigo yesterday, because I had a gift certificate courtesy of my parents, and because the hardcovers were still on for 30% off. Neither of the books I was hoping to find were in stock, of course (being Elizabeth Hand's Mortal Love, and Guy Gavriel Kay's Last Light of the Sun; I've been holding off on the latter because of the mixed reviews I've been finding); and none of the reference books on my wish list are ever on store shelves. I am, quite simply, too focused on a narrow academic area of alternative spirituality to simply shop off general shelves filled with pop stuff). I did, however, find a copy of The Grand Tour -- which I have been enjoying immensely, as I knew I would -- and if there had been a hardcover copy of The Enchanted Chocolate Pot I'd have bought it too. I really have no idea why these are now marketed as YA books; not that a thirteen year old or so won't enjoy it, it's just that the original was published as an adult novel so very many years ago. Maybe it's the age of the protagonists (late teens), or the fact that it's a light fantasy (which nonetheless includes death and torture and danger and, well, sex, in veiled terms, as well as requiring a certain familiarity with post-Napoleonic war European history). I picked up the hardcover of Juliet Marillier's Foxmask too, a sequel to Wolfskin, because at thirty percent off it's equivalent to the trade paperback price, and why wait until the trade is out later when I can have it now and pay no more for the privilege? I also snagged a copy of Seduced by Moonlight by Laurell K Hamilton, the latest Merry Gentry paperback, which I will save for when I need something light in the next month or two.

So I have books to read again, and heave a deep sigh of relief. I borrowed Ceri's copy of Angel of Darkness by Sam Key/Charles de Lint, and when I'd read one chapter I realised that I was in no way in the mood for a horror story where kids get killed in gruesome fashion. I think it's going back to her, otherwise it's probably going to sit on my shelf for ages as it has likewise sat on hers.

The Problem With Proving a Negative

I am thankful. Booksquare thinks that Dan Brown's writing is dreck, too.

The column is inspired by Laura Miller's excellent Salon article, "The Da Vinci Crock," which is also really worth a read; if you don't have an account, go for the free day pass (it only takes 20 seconds to get it).

Recent history offers many examples of Americans' inability to tell fact from fiction, but none more tangled than the story of Dan Brown's "Da Vinci Code." The book is among the most popular novels of all time, with 8 million copies sold since its publication last year and what seems to be a permanent reserved slot on the bestseller list. You see people reading it on planes and trains, and if at a social event you happen to mention that you write about books for a living, someone is sure to pull you aside eagerly to discuss it. This baffles and annoys a lot of literary types, many of whom haven't read The Da Vinci Code or couldn't get past the first few hackneyed pages. Why is the public so preoccupied with this cheesy thriller? they wonder.

The Da Vinci Code has characters so thin they're practically transparent, ludicrous dialogue, and prose that's 100 percent cliché. Even by conventional thriller standards, the book isn't particularly good; the plot is simply one long chase sequence, and the "good guy who turns out to be evil" is obviously a ringer from the moment he's introduced. Dan Brown is no Robert Ludlum, so why has his thriller so outdistanced the work of his betters?

The answer is that what readers love about the novel has nothing to do with story, or character, or mood, or any of the qualities we admire in good fiction. They love it because of the nonfiction material the book supposedly contains, a complicated, centuries-spanning conspiracy theory. The people who buttonhole me at parties and barbecues to talk about The Da Vinci Code usually can't even remember the names of the novel's two main characters or anything that happens to them. What entrances these readers is the possibility that a secret society has protected a religious and historical secret for almost 2,000 years, a secret that could undermine Christianity as we know it.

Miller goes on to point out that although Brown can always claim his shaky history is fiction, things get awkward when the authors of Holy Blood, Holy Grail smack him with a lawsuit claiming he lifted his "history" straight from their non-fiction book... which claims to be based on historical fact, but which has, in turn, been seriously debunked in recent years. Erm. As Miller says, " In The Da Vinci Code Brown had one really good idea: to use a rudimentary thriller plot to spoon-feed readers the Grail theory concocted by Baigent, Leigh and Lincoln. You get the impression Brown never expected The Da Vinci Code to take the world by storm or that it would invite the kind of scrutiny his novel cannot withstand."

The main problem with a book like this arises from the fact that it's nigh-impossible to prove a negative. You can't dismiss conspiracy theory, becuse it just further feeds the conspiracy through being a cover-up. People love the idea that there might be something secret and shadowy out there. The lack of solid scholarship about any of it, which is what frustrates the academics, merely enriches the popular imagination.

New Reviews

Two new book reviews have been uploaded to Owldaughter:

Raising Witches: Teaching the Wiccan Faith to Children by Ashleen O'Gaea;

and

Grimoire for the Apprentice Wizard edited by Oberon Zell-Ravenheart.

And see, I am so very good; nowhere in the second review do I mention the artwork at the bottom of this page.

If You Are Interested In Stories With Happy Endings, You Would Be Better Off Reading Some Other Book...

HRH took me out to see A Series of Unfortunate Events yesterday and goodness my, they actually managed to capture the books. It's dark. Really dark. I don't think some of the parents understood how dark it actually was, as they grew increasingly concerned while the movie unfolded. (Does no one read? No, wait; don't answer that. I know.) The kids were riveted, though.

The production design is wonderful (think Edward Gorey as seen through a Tim Burton lens), and while Jim Carrey has never been one of my favourite actors, they managed to rein him in enough to fill the creepy role of Count Olaf in all his manifestations quite decently. Liam Akin and Emily Browning were simply excellent as Klaus and Violet Baudelaire (despite Klaus' lack of perpetual glasses), and while their lines are a bit less erudite than those in the books, they still manage to portray "inventor" and "well-read" clearly and convincingly. Kara and Shelby Hoffman share the role of the toddler Sunny, "who bites things," and who was given subtitles so that the audience could understand what she was saying, similar in fashion to Snicket interpreting her gurgles in the book. The mix of accents makes for a slightly skewed perception of the environment at first, but the awkwardness soon blends into the general surreal steampunk evil which pervades the film. The costume design is just as delicious as the steampunk backgrounds. The casting of of Meryl Streep as Aunt Josephine was a stroke of genius, as was Billy Connolly as Uncle Monty. And Thomas Newman's score is a must-own.

Jude Law narrates the film as Lemony Snicket, and while I always read Snicket's voice as lugubrious and morally stentorian in the books, Law's gentle and sorrowful voice seems to complement the visual melodrama quite well. This film begins with the first half of book one, then covers the basic plots of books two and three, and ends with the second half of book one, and the story ends up flowing surprisingly well. Law's narration helps bind it together. The links between the stories and the hidden secrets are made a bit more obvious, which also helps strengthen what might have otherwise been a very shallow plot. Yes, it's a bit episodic, but it works in this instance; the film is about "a series of unfortunate events," after all.

And don't walk out as soon as the happy yet shaky ending fades away... the animation of the end credits is among the best I've seen. (You can leave once the cool bits are done, though; we stayed in case there was a theatrical Easter Egg, and the only thing that showed up was a dreadful one-verse ditty sung by Carrey which was evidently cut from the film.)

If you're a fan of melodrama, take this one in. It's not a must-see on the big screen, so you can wait to rent it (or maybe I'll have a Melancholy Movie Night when the DVD is released, who knows).

Have I mentioned how sick I am of people comparing modern children's books to Harry Potter? Every second review I read of this film either smashes it (or the books) because it isn't Harry Potter, or gushes because it's like Harry Potter (have they read either series?). Honestly. Get over it, people. There are other children's books out there, and this series is nothing like Rowling's series, nor is it meant to be. Okay; there are orphans, and bad things happen, and there's a conspiracy. But that's where the similarity ends. For heaven's sake, those three things happen in practically every Dickens book as well, but you don't hear me whinging that Snicket or Rowling ripped him off, do you?

Sunshine

I finished Robin McKinley's Sunshine a day ago. I'd been looking forward to this book, as it had been positively reviewed. I usually really enjoy McKinley's stuff. This time, though...

Well, the whole thing felt like a stream of consciousness narrative that never really connected with the actual action. The plot is a terrific concept, and takes place amid some fantastic world-building. It's just that despite being inside the protagonist's head all the time, it never really seemed as if I knew her, or how she felt.

I'm still puzzled as to why exactly I didn't get into it. Vampires, creatures, urban magic, post-apocalyptic, secret forces keeping an eye on the Others, people just tryingto be normalin the face of it all... it's got terrific ingredients. And at no time does it use them to shock the reader; they're all matter-of-fact and well-integrated into the world McKinley has created. So it must have been the writing style which tripped me up. Sunshine is not at all like her other books; it presents a radical shift in tone and presentation. While I usually commend an author for doing this and breaking out of a safe tried-and-true niche, I guess I didn't expect such a drastic difference from Spindle's End, for example, which was the last McKinley book I read. Granted, the subject matter is very different, and I expected an equally different delivery -- I guess it just wasn't what I wanted at the time.

I'll read it again in a couple of years. I can tell it's a good book. I just can't wrap my mind around why it slipped past me.

Solstice

How did HRH and I spend the longest night of the year, before this bitingly cold Solstice day? (Apart from sleeping, that is?)

Watching The Return of the King extended edition DVD, of course. All 250 minutes of it. Plus some appendices.

The phrase "pack a lunch" is meaningless in this context. "Lay in provisions for a siege" is more accurate. An enjoyable siege, mind you. A siege where I get to see more of David Wenham and Viggo Mortensen, and watch people build sets. (Ed. note: And Karl Urban. Did I mention Karl Urban?)

And for those who have been as concerned about my constant low-grade headaches: my blood pressure is no longer low, but officially normal (huzzah, little platelets! yay you!); and my doctor recommends drinking even more to keep myself properly hydrated. If it's as easy as that, I'm going to feel pretty foolish. I'm hoping the LCD helps, too.

Gorey Meets Shakespeare

In the mood for some macabre Shakespeare humour?

Who Doth Ambition Shun

Stratford pairs Bard with Barenaked Ladies
Thu, 09 Dec 2004 10:26:11 EST

STRATFORD, ONT. - The Barenaked Ladies will be teaming up with the Bard this summer. The Stratford Festival announced Wednesday it has enlisted the wacky pop group to compose music for its 2005 production of As You Like It.

"This offers us an opportunity to present the audience with a marriage between recorded and live music," lead singer Steven Page said in a statement.

"As You Like It has more songs built into it than any other of Shakespeare's plays, and they help to propel the plot and characters."

The group will write and record songs and incidental music, to which the festival actors will sing live on stage.

Page called it a "gift" to be able to write music to accompany Shakespeare's words.

"It's hard to ask for a better co-writer, really, even if he is a little unbending in his approach to collaboration!" he said. [...]

The 1960s-inspired production of As You Like It, directed by Antoni Cimolino, will run at the festival from June through October 2005, with previews beginning in late April.

This isn't the first time the Festival has commissioned works from popular musicians to accompany Shakespearean productions. In 2001, Loreena McKennitt composed the music for The Merchant of Venice, and in 1963 Duke Ellington took on Timon of Athens.

Written by CBC News Online staff, and found here.

Texture and Light

Secret's in the paint: chemist finds ground glass in Renaissance works
Thu, 09 Dec 2004 11:40:24 EST

Paris: - Ground glass may have been the secret material employed by European Renaissance painters to create colours of remarkable brightness and translucence.

Barbara Berrie, a chemist working for Washington's National Gallery of Art, made the discovery while analyzing three paintings by 16th century Italian masters: St. Catherine by Lorenzo Lotto, The Alba Madonna by Raphael and Christ at the Sea of Galilee by Tintoretto.

After harmlessly scanning the paintings under an electron microscope, Berrie discovered clusters of silicon, oxygen, sodium, calcium and aluminum – all indicative of glass particles.

She discerned small quantities of the glass in a translucent green paint and two kinds of yellow paint used by all three artists.

While art historians knew that smalt blue was made of ground cobalt glass, this discovery shows that artists added it to a much wider range of tints.

The find expands the scarce knowledge experts have about the actual techniques of the Renaissance artists.

Berrie's findings will be published in the Dec. 11 issue of New Scientist, the British science and technology weekly.

Written by CBC News Online staff and found here.

Wallop

So I twisted my lower back somehow yesterday and there was no way I was going to orchestra to sit in agony for two hours, so I stayed home and finished reading Alice Hoffman's The Probable Future instead. (Good, but I think I read it too fast, as I usually do.) Eventually HRH and I turned on the TV to watch Smallville, which turned out to be a repeat of the last season finale followed by the premiere of the current season. And there, standing in the Smallville Medical Centre dressed in a blue medical uniform, was Dan Joffre, telling Erica Durance that she had to fill out medical forms for the guy hit by lightning that she brought in whether she liked it or not.

Dan Joffre?

At my exclamation HRH came in from the kitchen to see what was going on. I pointed Dan out, and explained that I'd done a couple of seasons of touring children's theatre with the guy about seven years ago. t! told me that he'd once briefly spotted Dan in an episode of DaVinci's Inquest. Now he's showing up on Smallville.

Small world.

And for a brief moment I thought, "Yeah, and what have I done with my life?" Then I remembered that I'm the series editor of a new line of books, a consultant for an entire publishing imprint, my first book will be released in May, and they signed me for a second one. Other people who worked in that touring theatre group with Dan are working in game development, or have their own companies. We're doing quite well, thank you. Quite well indeed.

Sigh

Regular readers know my ambivalence concerning the adaptation of books for the big screen.

God is cut from film of Dark Materials
By Sam Coates
Times Online, Britain

THE Hollywood adaptation of Philip Pullman’s trilogy His Dark Materials, in which two children do battle with an evil, all-powerful church, is being rewritten to remove anti-religious overtones.

Chris Weitz, the director, has horrified fans by announcing that references to the church are likely to be banished in his film. Meanwhile the “Authority”, the weak God figure, will become “any arbitrary establishment that curtails the freedom of the individual”.

The studio wants alterations because of fears of a backlash from the Christian Right in the United States. The changes are being made with the support of Pullman, who told The Times last year that he received “a large amount” for the rights.

Dear Readers... no, I can't even formulate the words. Later in the article the question of exactly what Pullman is supporting sort of comes up, which reminds me of what Alan Moore said when he'd sold the rights to League of Extraordinary Gentlemen and the studio created the monstrosity known as LXG, he shrugged and said something along the lines of, "They bought the rights to the idea, not the work I did." Pullman did what he wanted to in the books. Now the director thinks the specific identification as the Church as a figure of evil in this particular setting needs to be toned down so the movie will sell. Mustn't upset the ones who will be paying money to see the show, after all.

Director Chris Weitz has said: "[T]here may be some modification of terms. You will probably not hear of the church, but you will hear of the Magisterium. Those who will understand will understand.” Meaning, if you've read the books you know what's going on, so why are you complaining?

I know it's hard to balance being true to the original and re-telling the story in a new medium. But argh, you know? The need for this frustrates me.

And Stoppard was dumped as screenwriter? What's wrong with them?

Inquisition Symphony

Apocalyptica's rendition of "Nothing Else Matters," one of my favourite Metallica pieces, is a perfect piece which encapsulates heavy metal reduced to four cellos.

And then, there's always the fun of distortion and the amps, too. But the purity of "Nothing Else Matters" is what gets me every time.

Muppet Show DVD Season Box Sets Unofficially Announced

An administrator over at MuppetCentral.com picked up this little tidbit at the Henson Film Festival and posted it. Muppet fans, rejoice!

What I Did Last Sunday

Yesterday was a wonderful day. Ceri taught a bunch of us how to piece a quilt block together. The pattern is called Steps to the Altar, which is appropriate because it was a spiritual exercise. It was fascinating, and I finished my block during the actual workshop itself, but only because I'm an experienced hand sewer (although I've never pieced blocks before). Ceri and I had gone on a field trip to La Maison de Calico out in Pointe Claire Village on Friday, and while I was there I discovered the art of machine quilting. Quilting is the actual process of sewing a decorative stitch through the layers of your pieced blocks, quilt batting, and a backing. Ceri's a staunch traditionalist who wouldn't let a machine anywhere near her quilts, but I fell in love with the tone-on-tone designs created by machine quilting solid non-pieced cloth. I'm going to have to explore this. Curses! Another craft technique!

And last night was our debut concert of the 2004-05 season. Gratifyingly, there were about four times as many people in the audience as there were at the May concert in this church, and a larger audience is always a good thing. Everything went so well. Earlier in the day t! and I had used the words "in the zone" in reference to playing music, and that's what the whole evening felt like: I was in the cello zone. My eyes were seeing the notes on the page and my brain was transmitting the correct fingerings and bowings to my hands without engaging the concious mind, leaving me free to enjoy what was gong on without getting gummed up in the mechanics of the process. Sure, there were a couple of places where I lost what I was doing, came to in the sea of sound around me, and sat in mild confusion for a moment or so while I tried to find where we were in the music, but they were few and far between. And even better, I was able to slip back into that zen mode of playing quickly and with no difficulty, in order to enjoy the rest of the piece.

Every piece came off better than I had expected, but three stand out in my mind as really very good. I'm always worried about the Egmont Overture; it has some odd fingerings and rhythmic shifts for the celli, which make a couple of places where the theme rests with us sound weak. Every section pulled it off, though, with style and panache, and it kicked the evening off marvellously. The Water Music suite was a relief, because in warm-up the trumpets weren't in tune with one another and I think everyone was secretly worried that it would sink like a stone. But again, everything was practially perfect, and once the relief had manifested about halfway through the first movement, we settled in and really enjoyed it. And of course, the second half of the program, Beethoven's Symphony no. 1, blew everyone away, including us. I saw our conductor's face glow when we had played the last chords and spontaneously break into an excited grin before he looked down, composed himself, then looked up again to say thank you to us and bring us to our feet to receive the applause.

Ceri and Pasley, who came with us, loved it too, and there's nothing like walking out into a crisp November night with good friends who very evidently enjoyed themselves, and who chatter with you about the various cool bits of the night. Thanks, ladies! Your presence always means a lot to me. And the fact that my husband loves this kind of music that I've introduced him to helps, as well.

I always enjoy playing concerts, but I think this one is the one I've enjoyed the most so far. I find this curious, because the two concertos we played weren't really to my liking. If I could take them out and substitute one of the Haydn symphonies, and perhaps a Mozart symphony as well, then it might have been my ideal concert. But really, most of it had to do with how relaxed I was, how comfortable I was with the music, and the attainment of that elusive "in the cello zone" state.

Maybe I should piece quilt blocks before every concert. Or maybe it was the chicken nuggets I had for dinner.

Concert Reminder!

Did you catch the mention of a dress rehearsal in my last post? Yes, the first concert for the Lakeshore Chamber Orchestra 2004-05 season is finally here!

The details:

November 21, 2004 at 19.00 h
Valois United Church
70 Belmont Avenue, Pointe-Claire, QC
(corner King's Road and Belmont, north of Highway 20 and west of Sources Blvd)
Admission $10

The programme:

Beethoven's Egmont overture
Handel's Water Music suite II in D major
Stamitz' Double Clarinet Concerto in B major
Mozart's Horn Concerto No. I in D major

and the piece de resistance,

Beethoven's First Symphony

Okay, it's all really amazing, but I love ending with this symphony, I truly do. I see from the concert post-mortem I wrote after the concert we played in this church last May that "the church has beautiful acoustics. One never knows what to expect when one plays in a new venue; it stuns me how so many similarly-structured churches can have such wildly varying acoustic qualities. This is one of the best I've played in so far. The sound was full, well-rounded and rich." And the orchestra ain't half bad, either. We also have some phenomenal soloists playing with us, including our two clarinetists, a new horn player, and a guest trumpet.

I've left the last two rehearsals simply blazing with excitement, so that ought to tell you something about how I'm playing and how much fun I'm having. That's always a good sign.

As always, here are directions:

Mapquest, for those with autos or friends with autos who may be bribed with a ticket and a coffee
STM bus from Lionel Groulx

Canada Reads 2005!

Think your book club is big? Check out the coast-to-coast book club with the largest membership in Canada!

The 2005 Canada Reads slate has been announced:

* Leonard Cohen's Beautiful Losers, defended by singer-songwriter Rufus Wainwright;
* Margaret Atwood's Oryx and Crake, defended by Toronto city councillor Olivia Chow;
* Frank Parker Day's Rockbound, defended by author Donna Morrissey;
* Mairuth Sarsfield's No Crystal Stair, defended by Olympic fencer Sherraine MacKay;
* Jacques Poulin's Volkswagen Blues (translated by Sheila Fischman), defended by author and former National Librarian Roch Carrier.

And yet again, I have read none of these. It usually takes me a couple of years to work up to a new Margaret Atwood, which explains why Oryx and Crake still isn't on my shelf. I thought I might own Beautiful Losers but I checked, and it's The Favourite Game that's on my shelf. No Crystal Stair is a YA novel about various characters interacting within the black community in 1940s Quebec. The Chapters-Indigo site says that Rockbound is "extraordinary Maritime fiction. Gritty and realistic, it combines intricate detail of fishermen's lives and accurate East Coast dialect with literary analogies and references to the Canterbury Tales and The Tempest" (oh dear). And they say this about Volkswagen Blues: "Jack, a man in search of his brother. In a Volkswagen van, he travels east from Montreal to the Gaspé, then west and south to St. Louis and then farther south and farther west. Early in his travels, Jack picks up a hitchhiking woman who becomes his travelling companion. The geographical journey --through Detroit, into Chicago, on to St. Louis, along the Oregon Trail, and into California - becomes a metaphor for the history of the French in North America." (Oh dear, again. Who writes these blurbs? Why do they have to sound so pretentious? What's wrong with a good story standing on its own?)

You have plenty of time to read, because the first book battle begins on February 21 on CBC Radio. A different book by a Canadian author is debated each day and citizens vote until a sole survivor stands victorious amid the dust on February 25th. Past winners have included Next Episode (Prochain Épisode) by Hubert Aquin in 2003; In the Skin of a Lion by Michael Ondaatjie; and The Last Crossing by Guy Vanderhaeghe. Check out the Canada Reads website for more details!

Arts In the News

Sears and Kmart have signed a deal to merge, thus ensuring the triumph of polyester everywhere.

But seriously --

MIriam Towes, who lost the Giller Prize to Alice Munroe last week, has won the Governor General's Award for English Fiction. Her book, A Complicated Kindness, is about a 16 year old girl in a Manitoba Mennonite community. And again, just as with the Giller Prize last week, I am ashamed to say that I have read none of the fiction nominees this year.

What do you get if you win a GG?

The Canada Council for the Arts funds, administers and promotes the Governor General’s Literary Awards. Each laureate will receive a cheque for $15,000 and a specially-crafted copy of the winning book bound by master bookbinder Pierre Ouvrard. The Governor General will also present certificates to the publishers of the winning books, and the Canada Council will provide each publisher with a $3,000 grant to support promotional activities for the winning book.

If you lose, you get a $1,000 consolation prize.

You can read the Canada Council for the Arts' press release announcing al the winners here.

And finally...

John Morgan, who retired from the Royal Canadian Air Farce comedy team, has died at age 74.

Morgan was once asked his reason for being a writer.

"I figured if I was going to get stabbed in the back, I'd prefer it to be with a pen," he responded.

Indeed.

Jonathan Strange

I've finished Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, and may I just say to everyone who's touting this as a Harry Potter Book for adults that being set in England, the existence of magic, and a male magic-wielding protagonist does not a Harry Potter book make?

Excellent book; very dense, quite philosophical (which was just fne for academically-minded me), slow action, lots of subtle showing-not-telling. Magic exists openly, but mostly as theoretical, thus creating social conflict when practical magicians begin to emerge. Superb characters; and great Napoleonic magic-in-warfare stuff. I love Wellington, and I think he may be my favourite secondary character, closely tied with Arabella Strange.

It's not Harry Potter at all, so it's a good thing I didn't pick it up for that reason. If you're looking for something Potterish to tide you over until The Half-Blood Prince comes out (still a dreadful title), this is not it. It's very good; it's very intellectual. I just don't want anyone buying it for the wrong reasons thanks to peer marketing which is just wrong. Besides, it implies that Harry Potter isn't acceptable reading for adults, and by now you know where I stand on adults ignoring well-written and thoughtful YA fiction just because it's written for kids.

Music and the Brain

October 25, 2004

What is the secret of music's strange power? Seeking an answer, scientists are piecing together a picture of what happens in the brains of listeners and musicians

By Norman M. Weinberger

Music surrounds us -– and we wouldn't have it any other way. An exhilarating orchestral crescendo can bring tears to our eyes and send shivers down our spines. Background swells add emotive punch to movies and TV shows. Organists at ballgames bring us together, cheering, to our feet. Parents croon soothingly to infants.

And our fondness has deep roots: we have been making music since the dawn of culture. More than 30,000 years ago early humans were already playing bone flutes, percussive instruments and jaw harps -- and all known societies throughout the world have had music. Indeed, our appreciation appears to be innate. Infants as young as two months will turn toward consonant, or pleasant, sounds and away from dissonant ones. And when a symphony's denouement gives delicious chills, the same kinds of pleasure centers of the brain light up as they do when eating chocolate, having sex or taking cocaine.

Therein lies an intriguing biological mystery: Why is music -- universally beloved and uniquely powerful in its ability to wring emotions -- so pervasive and important to us?

Read the whole article at Scientific American.com.

(Found via Arts & Letters Daily.)

Costuming Aside

The original costume that Keira Knightley wore for the passing-out-off-the-tower scene in Pirates of the Caribbean just sold on eBay for a mere $8,100 USD.

Why Yes, The Heart Transplant Was A Success, Thank You

I picked up my cello from the luthier yesterday morning before going in to work at the store, and all day I wondered about how it would sound at orchestra that night. See, the endpin being replaced was exciting, because it's easily seen and handled, but it really doesn't have an effect on the sound. The soundpost, on the other hand, is a different matter entirely. It's an innocuous little piece of pine dowel wedged inside between the belly and the back of the instrument, where you can't see it unless you hold the cello upside-down and at an angle to catch the light, squinting into one of the f-holes. And yet, it's one of the most important elements, as it's what allows the whole body to vibrate the way it does, in conjunction with the bass bar. In French the soundpost is called l'âme, or the soul, and the position of it is crucial to defining and optimising the individual sound of the instrument.

I arrived at rehearsal while everyone was tuning, and I was a bit off-centre because I'd wedged dinner into the slim space between getting home and leaving for orchestra. Our second cellist was absent, so the principal motioned me forward to sit with her. Then I had to fiddle around with my endpin and the leather strap in which to set it, as we were playing in a music room with a smooth tile floor, and not on the auditorium stage where I can just spike it into the floor and not worry about it slipping. I'd made practice copies of all my music, because I hate scribbling on the originals we get, and to my annoyance I somehow managed to miss copying the final page of the Beethoven symphony, so I had to scramble while we were playing to pull out the original and flip to where we were. All in all, I was flustered all night because I felt two seconds behind everyone else in everything we did.

My cello, however, sounded marvellous. When the principal asked me how I was, I patted my cello and said, "I just picked her up today -- she has a new endpin and a new soundpost." "Ah," she said with a smile, "the baby has a new heart." And the transplant appears to have been a success. Despite feeling vaguely frantic through the entire rehearsal, I did rather well, and only really lost it in a couple of places. I was playing so quietly in the trouble spots that it wasn't very noticeable anyway. My cello has always been a relatively easy instrument from which to draw good sound; but now it's even easier. Sitting directly in front of the conductor and between the principal cellist and the principal violist is enough to make anyone slightly nervous, but despite that and the fluster I really liked the sound I was producing.

So yes: the operation was a success, and my cello sounds marvellous. I also really like the steadiness of my new endpin, and the extended reach on it. They gave me my old one back, and when I compared them at home for HRH you can see that the new one is six inches longer as well as stronger. I feel more confident about holding the instrument while I play (and alternatively, letting it go to add proper vibrato). So all around, these improvements have pleased me, which is a good thing because they cost me two hundred dollars, parts and labour. It's an expensive hobby.

I have my cello back. I feel better now.

Happy Birthday, Redux

I could do a review of last night's show that t! wrote, directed, produced, and stage managed for his birthday, but everyone knows how good it was, whether they were there or not. I want to thank t!, of course, without whom; my fellow core cast members, one of whom I've worked with before (okay, for the past fifteen years), and three whom I was pleased to make share the stage with for the first time; the game-for-anything extras; and the fabulous audience.

t! is the first person to cast me as the femme fatale instead of the girl next door, has given me my second opportunity to play a bad guy, and let me use a gun. A real one. In front of people. My gods, I'll be riding on that one for a while.

Read or Die

No, seriously. Read or Die is the reading journal of a Canadian writer and editor.

Omniverous bibliophile in her mid-30s; married, one child. Former academic editor; at present freelancing. Passionate about books: their history, their present, and their future. The house is crammed full of books, and there has to be a better way of storing them: maximum potential is not being achieved.

Why Read or Die? It accurately sums up how I feel about reading. If I stop reading some day, check my pulse.

I believe that books do not have to be finished once started (life is far too short), that it is a good thing to read more than one book at a time, and that one should always have at least three books on them in case of disaster. Comments are welcome: a healthy mind is stimulated by lively discussion of ideas and opinions. Broaden my world, but don't expect me to agree with you all the time.

And her user pic is from the ROD TV series, of course.

Omnivorous bibliophile. What a nice, succinct way of saying, "I read a lot, I read a lot of different books, and I read a lot of different books at the same time."

Luthier Joy

The luthier was quiet and sunny and still has that dreamy relaxed feeling to it. The morning was delightfully sunny without being too hot, the smell of the fall leaves is everywhere, and my CD player loves me back. I smiled at everyone I saw.

They had four end pins which I looked at. The Stalhammer bent pin was over two hundred dollars before labour, which due to how it needs to be set would cost about three hundred dollars alone (gulp), and the other high-end pin was an adaptable one which could be straight or bent, depending on how you set it. It too was way above my price range. Of the other two, the first was a steel pin in a rosewood plug, a couple of steps above the one which came with my cello, which was seventy dollars; the other was carbon fiber and really light, and was the one I really preferred, but I couldn't justify paying twice the cost of the basic steel pin just because it was light and a matte black. "It will help improve your sound as all lighter accessories do, because it doesn't inhibit the vibration as much," the technician said. "I play a top-quality student cello," I said. "Putting beautful accessories on it and hoping it will sound better is like kitting a mule out in racing tack and expecting it to beat Seabiscuit."

Then the luthier called me over into the workshop (Into the workshop! Ah, bliss!) where she showed me that my soundpost was now a little too short for where it should ideally be placed. This is a perfectly natural consequence of the minute flexing and shifts of the instrument's belly and back due to age and environment. Oh good, I thought; it's not all my fault. I'd loosened the strings that much before and the post hadn't fallen, so I was rather stumped at how it had happened this time. Now I know. If it sounds odd that an instrument should change shape like this, remember that wood is an organic substance, and that this cello is about thirty-five years old; you change over that many years too. The luthier also showed me that the bridge is warped again, and should be replaced. "Again?" I said. "I just had it done last year."

Well, I can't afford to have all the work done; it would cost over four hundred dollars. So we agreed on the end pin (seventy for the pin and thirty for labour) and the replacement of the soundpost with a newly carved one (seventy for that, as it too has to be individually carved for each instrument), and I'll get the bridge replaced next year. I've also been thinking of a new fingerboard as well, or at least having this one replaned so it's a little more arched (the flatter it is, the more difficult it is to play one string alone) which will probably cost around one hundred and fifty, and getting them both done at the same time makes sense, as the curve of each has to match. That's one of the reasons why replacing the bridge is such a big deal; the luthier has to take the time to shape the blank bridge into a smooth echo of the fingerboard's slope. It's not a question of just tossing a new one in; every instrument is different.

My contracts for the green witchcraft book arrived today. Let's see; I think I'll promise myself a new bridge and fingerboard when the second cheque arrives. That sounds ideal, and timely as well.

I also stopped by the tea shop and treated myself to two new tins of tea: La Mer de Hemingway, which is Ceylon infused with lemon and lime oils, and Nectar de Trefle, a simple Ceylon infused with clover honey. Gods, I love these folks. They blend the most amazing teas. Aware that I'd be paying for cello repairs early next week, however, I postponed my purchase of a Bodum teapot. Perhaps that will be a gift to myself when the signing cheque for the green witchcraft book arrives in a month.

I also visited various little shops on St Denis street on the way back from the luthier, such as Pierres d'Ailleur (Roo, you're right, they're amazing!), Mains en Folie (funky washable clothes in suede, lace, ribbon, and stretch velvet in earth tones and jewel tones), and Librairie Boule de Neige (which, ironically enough, I'd never seen before).

I only bought the tea today. I wanted to buy amber jewelry, and long wrap suede skirts, and shirt velvet tops, but I did not. I am also feeling virtuous because I walked for three hours straight (except for the half-hour on the metro).

Meanwhile

Since I have to go to the luthier anyway, I might as well look into replacing my endpin. Yeah, I know I've been talking about this for a year (okay, maybe not here, she says after doing a quick search of the blog to reveal that no, actually, it's either been said aloud to various people or all in her head, which is entirely possible, the poor dear) but now that the cello's going to the cello doctor for a couple of days, I'll take this opportunity to ask as I don't have to make a special trip.

The bent endpin I'd like to try is going to cost around $150 minimum before labour, so I think I'll ask if they have a cello outfitted with one already to handle to test it out to make sure that it's really, really what I want. Otherwise, I just need a new 18-inch pin, because my 12-inch is too damn short.

And the Stamitz double clarinet concerto? Lovely and relaxed, and a wonderful foil to the angsty Beethoven Egmont overture. I love playing Baroque music. This concerto feels a bit unfinished, though; it ends with a minuet, and over years of exposure to minuets being followed by a final allegro movement, just stopping like that after the final 3/8 bar seems awkward. Ah well.

And I have a new CD player to take with me on the metro, with lovely sound. The behind-the-head earphones are taking a bit of getting used to, but overall, so far I'm very pleased. Where did I buy it? Zellers, of all places. Nice salesguy. No loud irritating music chasing me out. Go figure.

Oh, For --

Gods damn it -- the soundpost on my cello just fell out of place. Words cannot express how much I do not need this to happen to me right now.

Now I have to go to the luthier tomorrow.

Escaflowne!

Oooh -- the Escaflowne Perfect Collection, featuring all 26 episodes plus the movie, becomes available in North America on October 26.

And it's much less expensive than the Witch Hunter Robin complete collection also coming out this month.

(Where do I find this information? On the fps Upcoming Releases page. Who hooks me on these things? Ceri and Scott. Evil.)

The Wild Wood

I see that I completely forgot to mention that I was reading/have now read the re-release of Charles de Lint's The Wild Wood. This was part of the Faerielands series masterminded by Brian Froud, co-creator Robert Gould, and producer Byron Preiss. Froud painted a series of faeries, spread them out in front of selected authors of fantasy and speculative fiction, and told them to eack pick a painting that would serve as their inspiration for a short novel. The only stipulation was that the novel had to involve "a recognition that Faerie, inextricably bound as it is to nature and natural forces, is gravely threatened by the ecological crises that human beings have brought to our world."

Two books were released before the project was drowned out by publisher restructuring: Something Rich and Strange by Patricia McKillip (due for re-release in January 2005), and de Lint's The Wild Wood. The original editions featured the Froud art which the author chose as inspiration. Hence, the original cover of the de Lint book is a direct mirror of what the protagonist sees as part of an aggressive vision in the very first chapter. The art cannot be reproduced in the new editions due to rights issues, but there's nothing stopping you from going to World Of Froud site to look at the page on the Faerielands project to view the art which served as the springboard for the authors. (The two other authors involved in the project, Midori Snyder and Terri Windling, had their novels published elsewhere without the Froud art, making the McKillip and de Lint titles two very sought-after collectibles, both for their rarity and the cover art.)

The Wild Wood is short; it's more of a novella than a novel. The narrative flows beautifully, replete with the trademark de Lint ethereal feeling, with pictures painted in words, with the hush of twilight and winter. It features the standard juxtaposition of nature, man, and faerie. Real characters with flaws people it, about whom the author does not feel the need to explain everything. Some parts are a bit awkward, such as the revelation of why the frustrated artist Eithnie and the main female faerie have a connection, and the end is rather abrupt, even with the brief epilogue. Some characters seemto existonly to advance the plot, or to provide a solution later on. Yet, one doesn't really mind. The reader is too enmeshed in the feeling that de Lint is so successful at conjuring up.

The Wild Wood was originally published in 1994, and it feels approximately of an era with Into the Green. While reading it, one can sense at times a foreshadowing of Memory and Dream, which was published in the same year, so if you've read that one recently give yourself a while before you read The Wild Wood in order to appreciate it. If you like de Lint's early work, you will enjoy this too. If all you've read are more recent works exploring interaction with the spirit world, such as The Onion Girl or Forests of the Heart, try this as a taste of what his earlier work is like. The $19.95 CDN price tag is steep for the length of it, however, so check your local library or the shelves of a fellow de Lint fan in order to borrow it.

"I Am Elmo:" Use of first person a first for the Muppet

Elmo Monster, star of children's program Sesame Street, stunned viewers yesterday by announcing he had mastered the use of pronouns.

"Hello. I am Elmo and welcome to my world," the furry orange Muppet intoned solemnly at the start of his enourmously popular Elmo's World segment Tuesday.

Surrounded by co-stars Drawer, Door, Shade, Computer, Piano, and Chair, as well as best friend Rosita, Elmo made the tearful admission before an audience of millions: "For a long time I have struggled with who I am, struggled to be understood," the star continued, "but at long last Elmo...I mean...I feel I can express myself as God intended."

Read the entire shocking revelation at Being Daddy.

(Thanks, Creating Text(iles)!)

Eeeee!

CANADA: Jasper Fforde Tour for Something Rotten

Friday October 22nd: MONTREAL

7:30 p.m. Thursday Next Literary Festival
Format: Talk/reading - 45 minutes to 1 hour.
Followed by short discussion/Q&A period and booksigning.
Location: McGill University Bookstore
3420 McTavish Street
Contact: Jack Hannaan
Phone: 514-398-8357

Eeeee!

Who's with me?

(And damn -- it's a Friday, when I'm teaching. I'll figure something out!)

From the Sublime to the Ridiculous

I like spending holiday weekends with my parents. Because I'm out of my usual environment, I'm not faced with a long list of Things I Should Be Doing and thus can only relax. Pretty much the only things I can do here are nap, eat, and read. Oh, and shop, but this trip we focused on picking up coffee beans and imported British chocolate bars. (Ah, Fry's chocolate... Galaxy bars... Walnut Whips... it's a good thing I only come down here every six weeks or so.)

So, while being forced to relax yesterday, I read Jasper Fforde's Something Rotten from beginning to end. It was excellent, which was a given on one hand (it's Fforde, after all), but also a relief on the other. I hadn't really enjoyed The Well of Lost Plots, the previous Thursday Next book, as much as I'd enjoyed the first two books in the series. I liked Something Rotten as much as I'd liked The Eyre Affair. How can you not love a book that comes with "a link to the Special Features section which includes a 'Making of' wordamentary and deleted scenes from all four books!" and which features bad literary puns, Mrs Tiggy-Winkle as a JurisFiction operative, and an escaped minor fictional character running for Dictatator in the real world? Why have I not bought copies of these books for my literary friends? (Wait, that's all of them. The more the merrier!)

Then this morning I opened Dan Brown's Angels and Demons, one of the books my mother had left on the bedside table for me. What a god-awful style he has. I stopped after fifteen chapters, and it's so bad that I doubt I'll ever pick up The Da Vinci Code. The protagonist does nothing; he simply reacts to what events occur in the book, being sent here and there, obediently supplying expository narrative for the other characters and to provide some sort of context for the reader. He's boring. The unfolding events, while in themselves holding the potential for interesting narrative, are boring. So are the other characters. I want to like it more; the whole idea of science and religion being brought together is fascinating. However, I simply cannot read the dull prose, or swallow being told what yet another character is like rather than being allowed to discover through that character's actions. Interesting idea; poor execution. This is another book I won't finish. Go, Dan Brown; join Robert Newcomb on the sidelines, and meditate upon the error of your ways.

Our trip home today, as did the trip down, will co-star t!, who brought audio tapes, and Prospero's Daughter, who made lovely apple pies for everyone in the car. t! set the mood of the trip by playing the live version of the Tragically Hip's "Highway Girl" which I hadn't heard in well over a decade. There's nothing like realising that about forty percent of your catch-phrases come from a single song that was only played on the air for a short period of time.

Concert!

Yes, the first concert of the Lakeshore Chamber Orchestra 2004-2005 season has been announced, and posted to the Performing section of the sidebar to the right. The details right now:

November 21, 2004 at 19.00 h
Valois United Church
70 Belmont Avenue, Pointe-Claire, QC

The programme:

Beethoven's Egmont overture
Handel's Water Music suite II in D major
Stamitz' Double Clarinet Concerto in B major
Mozart's Horn Concerto No. I in D major
Beethoven's First Symphony

Mark your calendars!

Skip Wish List, Go Straight to Must Own

Yo-Yo Ma Plays Ennio Morricone, including not only "Gabriel's Oboe" and "The Falls" from The Mission, but also the "Death Theme" from The Untouchables, and suites from a slew of other cool films. (Hamlet isn't one of them, which is a shame because the theme would have sounded beautiful on the cello.)

I'll be picking this up tomorrow afternoon on my pre-Oakville shopping trip, because I want to listen to it over the weekend and my parents will enjoy it, too.

Star Wars DVD Review

It is highly ironic that the end credits of these three films still contain the THX information. You know, the info that reads, "If you experienced any condition that detracted from your enjoyment of these films, call THX at..."

I'm tempted to call and inform them of the slew of little unnecessary changes made for the Special Edition, the following new events devalued my film-watching experience over the past three nights:

1) They dubbed over Jeremy Bulloch's voice. Give me a break, you idiots.

2) They used the image of Hayden Christensen to replace Anakin Skywalker's original glowing blue ghost body.

Lucas, you fool. The audience understands that you made these films before Episodes One and Two. Reverse continuity isn't crucial. By doing stupid stuff like this, all you succeed in doing is jolting viewers out of the experience.

I didn't notice a lot of updates and little finicky changes, and I deliberately didn't go looking for lists of changes for the DVD release. (Which I will proceed to do now, with joyous abandon, to see what I noticed.)

Star Wars itself is basically the Special Edition, complete with crowded Tattooine scenes. Personally, I preferred the more barren, deserted Tattooine of the original film; it really brought home the fact that it was the Outer Rim and no one wanted to be there unless they had to. At least the bright, shiny, "look at the new Special Edition CG!" has been toned down a bit, and integrated more successfully. Jabba is much improved; there have been colour touch-ups; there's a nice Sandcrawler scene; and Han and Greedo shoot almost simultaneously. It's better than before. In my world, however, Han will always shoot first.

Apart from the "noooooo!" moment of hearing Temuera Morrison's voice issuing from Jeremy Bulloch's armoured body, ESB is still the film I prefer to watch. It was good to see Yoda as a real, tangible figure again. Unlike t!, I don't think that the windows in Bespin detract from the action (and I watched the Cloud City scenes critically just for that reason). And the SE space and ship shot are well-integrated and don't ruin things. What did startle me in ESB was seeing and hearing Ian McDiarmid in the Vader/Emperor conversation. The Emperor's script has been rewritten, as well. I'll have to watch it again, but it seemed to work; it emphasised the whole "the offspring of Anakin Skywalker must not be allowed to live" aspect. Of all the overdubs in the trilogy DVD edition, this one was the least intrusive. (Despite the menace which has always been inherent in the scene, I mean. The scene itself isn't non-intrusive. If anything, this edit has increased the malevolence. Hey, come on; in a choice between Ian McDiarmid and the voice of Clive Revill paired with the woman in a mask visual, Ian wins every time.)

ROTJ, however, is still a disaster (not that I was expecting anyone to fix it). The whole stupid Special Edition Jedi Rocks sequence is not only painful, it's ire-inducing, and completely unnecessary. I do think that the SE celebration music at the end is an improvement over the original, and I kind of liked seeing Naboo among the planets celebrating, but that's simply because I love the Naboo architectural designs. And then, yes, I was jolted out of the celebration experience by seeing Hayden Christensen appear next to Yoda and Alec Guinness.

I knew it was coming; Scott made sure of that. I was somehow hoping it was a fan hoax. When I saw it and flipped out, HRH told me that Lucas explained it thusly: apparently, the blue glowing ghost bodies revert to the last moment the Jedi in question served the Light Side of the Force. Oh yeah? Didn't Vader turn away from the Dark Side when he killed the Emperor? Luke redeemed him; that's the whole point. So he was Jedi, not Sith, at the end; that's how he got the freaking glowing blue ghost body. Now, if he'd inserted a blue glowing Ewan MacGregor as well, and argued that the blue glowing ghost body manifests as the Jedi at his prime, I almost could accept it. Almost. Because it would make some modicum of consistent sense.

[Ah. HRH misreported. Check out DigitalBits' comments here. If Anakin actually does die in Ep3 and is then resurrected as a cyborg, it might make sense that his blue glowing ghost body is a young man, i.e. when he "died." I'll wait to see how Ep3 handles it.]

The extra DVD with the bonus material hasn't been watched yet, but I saw the Empire of Dreams special on A&E a couple of weeks before the DVD release, and it's okay, but not spectacular. I also haven't yet listened to the commentary on any of the discs; I have a feeling I should have a bottle of something very alcoholic with me when I do, in order to provide the strength to listen to George blather. Irvin Kershner does a commentary on ESB, which ought to be interesting. Other than that, Carrie Fisher from the point of view as actress and now script-doctor (who apparently did uncredited emergency rewrites for at least one of the new SW films) might be interesting, as will be visual effects guy Dennis Muren. I wish they'd had more main actor commentary, and director commentary for all three films. It would have been interesting to hear Richard Marquand's thoughts too.

Ultimately, I'm glad we have the trilogy on DVD. It means I can skip over Jedi Rocks, and fast-forward over the irritating Tattoine street scenes with much more ease than I ever could with the VHS versions, as these won't wear out. And I doubt I'll watch the extra DVD more than once. The colour improvements are nice; the refinement of the SE CG animation is a relief.

HRH suggested that to make it even more worth the money, Fox could have included the original unadulterated films plus the updated SE versions on each disc. It's a good idea, which means it will never happen.

Kenneth Branagh to Make Large-Scale Movie Version of Mozart's Die Zauberflöte

The Independent [London] - 27 September 2004

After working his box-office magic with William Shakespeare, Sir Kenneth Branagh is turning his attention to opera. The actor and director, who brought the Bard to the masses with his stirring Henry V and the star-filled Much Ado About Nothing, is to direct and possibly star in a big-screen version of Mozart's The Magic Flute [Die Zauberflöte], to be made in English.

Rehearsals and casting are due to start early next year after Branagh signed up to the project, which is being bankrolled by the arts philanthropist Sir Peter Moores. "It seems to me that The Magic Flute is the ideal opera to film in English which will appeal to a broad audience outside the opera house," Sir Peter said.

With its multitude of characters and complicated plot, The Magic Flute, which Mozart wrote in 1791, may seem a daunting proposal to turn into a film. But Sir Peter is convinced that Branagh will be able to put a modern spin on its themes of power, wisdom and beauty and hopes that the fantasy setting will give the director greater freedom of interpretation.

[...]

The contemporary standard has been set by the imaginative way in which Baz Luhrmann incorporated elements of La traviata into the box-office success Moulin Rouge, according to Ms. Couling. "The Magic Flute is a good choice because you can put any interpretation on it and put it in any location," she said. "I was very impressed with Much Ado About Nothing [starring Keanu Reeves, Denzel Washington and Michael Keaton] and if he shows the same imagination I think it will be a hit."

The film will have some arias in the original German but the dialogue will be in English to make it more accessible.

(Full article here.)

The last time Branagh tried something with music it was the dismal failure called Love's Labour's Lost (and please, never try to find it). Let's hope this works out better.

Oz Update

The confirmed cast list, both Muppet and live:

Steve Whitmire - Kermit the Frog as the Scarecrow, Statler, Rizzo, Bean Bunny, Beaker

Dave Goelz - Gonzo the Great as Tin Thing, Dr. Bunsen Honeydew, Waldorf, Zoot

Eric Jacobson - Fozzie Bear as the Lion, Miss Piggy as the Wicked Witch of the East, the Wicked Witch of the West, the Good Witch of the North and Glinda, the Good Witch of the South, Animal, Sam Eagle

Bill Barretta - Pepe the Prawn as Toto, Dr. Teeth, Rowlf the Dog, Swedish Chef, Johnny Fiama, Bobo the Bear, Lew Zealand

Brian Henson - Scooter, Sal Manilla, Janice

Rickey Boyd - Scooter, Very Old Tom

Drew Massey - Sal, Clifford

Allan Trautman - Cow, Crow

John Henson - Sweetums

Tyler Bunch - Janice, Old Tom

John Kennedy - Angel Marie, Floyd

Alice Dinnean Vernon - Foo Foo, Camilla the Chicken

LIVE ACTORS

Ashanti Douglas - Dorothy Gale

Queen Latifah - Aunt Em

David Alan Grier - Uncle Henry

Jeffrey Tambor - The Wizard

C. Ernst Harth - Earl

Quentin Tarantino - Himself [Ed. note: Er?]

Edward Hibbert - Stage Manager

Dan Payne - Weatherman

PRODUCTION CREW

Kirk R. Thatcher - Director

Lisa Henson and Brian Henson - Executive Producers

Martin G. Baker and Warren Carr - Producers

Bill Barretta and Kristine Belson - Co-Producers

Veteran Muppeteer Jerry Nelson is not performing in this film as his classic Muppet characters have recently been recast. [Ed. note: Yeah, I noticed that. What's up?] Reportedly, Kevin Clash is not performing due to conflicts with his Sesame Street taping schedule. Kevin's characters will likely be looped in post-production.

[Piggy's playing all four witches? Genius! But isn't Glinda the Good Witch of the North? (Maybe they're setting it in Australia. Get it? Oz? South/North? Never mind.) Via Muppet Central.]

Indeed

To Read Is To Dream.

Indeed. And every time a book ends, it is a little death. How appropriate.

(Via Neil Gaiman, of course.)

Hey...

Think anyone would notice if I submitted pictures of Juliet Landau as my publicity shots?

An Ideas Whose Time Has Come

Next time you sit down with a book, grab a bottle of your alcoholic beverage of choice and engage in an Author Drinking Games. Seriously! This could be just the thing for your next ho-hum book club meeting.

(Don't miss the second page; there's a good Charles de Lint list.)

Undecided

Keira Knightley and Matthew Macfadyen are starring in the lead roles of a big-screen adaptaion of Austen's Pride & Prejudice to be released in 2005.

Er. Not sure about this one. Even though Donald Sutherland is playing Mr Bennett, and Judi Dench is Lady Catherine de Bourgh, there is only so far character roles can carry a film...

Catch-Up

Every once in a while I consume a flurry of books. This past week has been, apparently, one of those times.

I read Sophie Kinsella's latest paperback offering, Shopaholic Ties the Knot in one sitting last week; curiously enough, on the night I had that horrible crash-and-burn of self-doubt, in a vain attempt to stave off the lowering clouds. It was now here near as good as the first book in the series, nor the second, which, in turn, was not quite as good as the first. I picked this up for kicks, because I needed a laugh; I didn't really get one. This book never really got off the ground.

I was vaguely wandering through my library, wising that there was a Neil Gaiman book that I hadn't yet read because I was in That Sort of Mood, when I found a secondhand copy of Little, Big by John Crowley tucked away on my shelf. This is a World Fantasy Award winner, and was highly recommended by a couple of customers when I was working in the city's RIP speculative fiction bookshop; I'd picked it up years ago when I'd found it used, and never got around to reading it. It fits That Sort of Mood quite nicely. It has a wonderful dream-like quality, a charming setting, a generations-spanning story, and characters whom drift in and out of illusion and phantasm. This one will be recommended to a few people I know, particularly those who are fans of both Gaiman and Charles de Lint.

I finally became tired of waiting for Jim Butcher's Death Masks, which I've had on order for a year, so I picked it up when I was out the other day. I read the first half on Friday, and I finished the last half when I woke up at two this morning (no, not insomnia per se; I fell asleep at nine-thirty, so it served me right). Slow to start off, picked up speed towards the middle, ended well.

And then, since it was four AM and I was still quite awake, I picked up Laurell K. Hamilton's new Anita Blake paperback, Cerulean Sins and started to read it. I have no idea how Hamilton keeps track of all the bonds and debts and mystical attractions between all her characters; I certainly can't. I think I'll have to go back and re-read all the previous books in the series. I originally read them when there were only six books out, then one by one as they were released; I own the last three, but I'm looking for the others used. What once was occult thriller has now become erotic horror, with a heavy splash of politics. I like them enough to pick up the new ones as they become available, but not enough to buy the backlist new, especially at ten dollars a book.

Launch of the LCO 2004-5 Season

We had our first chamber orchestra rehearsal of the year last night, and it was terrific. I played Beethoven all night; what more could one ask for? We worked on the Egmont Overture before the break (terribly passionate but tricky rhythm), and after the break we worked the final movement of the First Symphony. We've played this before, but this time we played it at a quarter-speed and really worked it.

Argh! So slooooooow!

And yet, it was beautiful in an odd way. It was very precise, instead of brimming with wild joy. It was a different piece of music. We had the opportunity to hear how well certain lines blended with others, and how perfectly constructed the movement is.

Each summer I lose less and less technical ability. Last night I pulled off some things I'd never been able to pull off cold before, and I didn't totally embarass myself when Douglas had the celli work a nasty passage alone. There was an amusing moment where we turned a page of our photocopied music and every cello stopped playing. When Douglas looked bewildered and asked us what had happened, we showed him the music: the photocopy had cut off every note above the top staff line on the page, so any note above a B was missing. And of course, as Fortuna would have it (or would that be Eris?), every note in that staff line was above a B. He called it out, we scribbled it in, we went on.

Equally funny was my amused suggestion to our section leader that we buy her a small chalkboard, so that instead of turning around to whisper a bowing change she can simply scribble it on the board and then hold it above her head, so that we can all see it and write it into our music. It's such a mess to lean forward and try to hear the whispered changes, understand them, and then pass them back; inevitably it turns into a game of broken telephone, and the last cellist gets it wrong. She couldn't stop laughing at the idea.

So the first concert programme (no, no date as of yet) will consist of:

- Egmont overture (Beethoven)
- First Symphony (Beethoven)
- Water Music suite II in D major (Handel)
- Double Clarinet Concerto in B major (Stamitz)
and something else that we're getting next week

I was happy, and I was comfortable. I love orchestra. If I end up not dancing this fall, then at least I'm playing the cello in a group environment again.

Be Afraid

"So why are we supposed to listen to Philip Glass' score to The Secret Agent this afternoon?" I asked Ceri as she hung up the phone after a conversation with the Baron Himself.

"Because t! said to do it, and it sounded harmless, so I said yes," she said.

We laughed.

(If you know t!, you too will laugh. If you do not, then just imagine someone who never makes an idle suggestion, and you'll be on the right track.)

Rumour has Joss Whedon directing the third chapter of the X-Men film franchise. Fine by me.

And is anyone else keeping track of the Whedonverse alumni signing up to do voice work on Justice League Unlimited? Gina Torres as Vixen, Morenna Baccarin as Black Canary, Amy Acker as Huntress, and now Nathan Fillion as Vigilante...

(Via WHEDONesque, of course)

Wiccan Roots

My review of Philip Heselton's Wiccan Roots: Gerald Gardner and the Modern Witchcraft Revival is up. Be warned: it isn't pretty.

Oh, The Pain

I haven’t been this disgusted by a book in a long, long time.

I picked up a second-hand copy of Robert Newcomb’s The Fifth Sorceress a couple of months ago, and I finally began reading it last week.

It’s dreadful.

Every character is described from head to toe. Their emotions are described in detail. The environment is described in painstaking detail as well, down to the colour of the marble used in the walls of the palace. The first hundred and twenty pages are a set-up where characters talk about the past two hundred years, with phrases such as, “As you know, Tristan, blah blah blah ,” simply in order to have the last two-thirds of the book make sense. If an author has to do that, it means s/he hasn’t plotted carefully enough, or there ought to have been a prequel setting it up correctly. Newcomb should have set the first third of the novel two hundred years ago, so that the reader could have experienced it first-hand, rather than in repeatedly dull exposition as revealed to the young protagonist.

Worse, it’s the age-old wizards vs sorceresses storyline. If handled well, this plot can work just as any other plot. In Newcomb’s hands, however, it’s dumbed down to all-magic-wielding-women-are-evil, and-men-are-noble-enough-to-take-vows-to-never-do-harm. All the sorceresses have wicked and depraved sexual appetites, a by-product of working with dark magic. It wasn’t hard to figure out what gets Newcomb all excited, believe me. A woman with a whip. Every time. Oh, and you can tell the sorceresses are the Bad Guys: they all have staggering beauty with an edge of evil, he tells us over and over again, and they all have long fingernails and perfect enormous breasts. And they use men like Kleenex.

There is no character development anywhere. We are always told, we never discover for ourselves. The entire narrative is superficial. And that, Dear Readers, is unforgivable. I could take the whole evil staggeringly-beautiful-sorceresses thing if the narrative style had depth or any other sort of redeeming quality.

I threw it across the room last night. It’s rare that I don’t read a book to its end, just to give it a chance. (Come to think of it, I threw Terry Goodkind's Wizard's First Rule across the room as well for the very same reasons when I was only fifty pages in, lo these many years ago when it was first released.) Before I threw it, though, I skipped around the last two-thirds of the book looking for more interesting scenes, and found all of three (interestingly enough, between the protagonist’s abducted sister and the sorceresses). I also found a lot of the main character crying “You’ll pay for this,” and immersing himself in self-loathing for not preventing the first coup of the sorceresses’ Master Plan (which ought to have been either the beginning of the novel or the end, but instead is buried somewhere in the middle after interminable and unnecessary set-up).

As a treat and a warning, here’s a sample of the writing style:

He turned to check on Shailiha as she lay sleeping. Her impending pregnancy did little to disturb her great beauty. Her long, golden hair and her tall, exquisite form had come directly from her mother, Queen Morganna. But her hazel eyes, sensuous mouth, and happy, compassionate nature were all her own. He shook his head sadly, thinking of how little Shailiha and her twin brother Tristan knew of their ultimate potential. How much had been kept from them both, and how it had broken his heart every day to have to keep such secrets from them. He cast his eyes to the valley far below, and farther out to the capital city of Tammerland, which had been his home for over three hundred years. The view was spectacular. If this was where Tristan always came to be alone, the old one could understand why.

“Impending pregnancy?” Ye gods, that’s unforgivable. "Queen Morganna?" We know who the queen is, and that Shailiha is her daughter; why not simply say "from her mother?" And that foreshadowing about how these two characters have potential they do not (cannot! oh, the pain and sorrow!) know of? It would be fine if this was the only mention. BUT IT ISN’T – Newcomb goes out of his way to mention it EVERY FIVE PAGES.

Bad writing. Bad book. I'm going to go read some Baker's 12 to take the taste out of my mouth.

I Wasn't Going to Say Goodbye

What do you mean, the first season of Farscape ends like that?

Damn them for knowing how to do a decent cliffhanger. Damn the season sets for being so expensive.

Damn.

King Arthur Review

Not much else we could do yeaterday after four hours of sleep, so we went out to lunch (and nearly wept on the waitress' neck for the quality of food; remember, we were in the US of A for four days) and then caught a movie. We chose to see King Arthur

My four-word review:

No guts, no heart.

It's an interesting theory, and I enjoyed the presentation of the three sides to the conflict, but it felt like there should have been documentary narration over it. It was stoics, not stirring. It felt as if there were chunks missing. At least they cut out the whole stupid Lancelot/Guinevere thing. And, I am sad to say, I was so tired that I nodded off during the final battle. (The glass of white wine I had with lunch probably didn't help.) Best sequence: the ice battle. Best knight: Gawain. Fabulous costumes. Great designs for the native Britons (Woads -- honestly, what a dull name).

Excellent music, though. Zimmer's score is a nice contrast to Goldsmith's music to First Knight.

We won't own it, despite our love for all things native Briton, armour, and epic battle sequences.

Have I mentioned how sick I am of Bach's Peasant Cantata, and his Coffee Cantata? Honestly, there are other cantatas out there. Please, CBC, play them.

Bits and Pieces

Reese Witherspoon as Becky Sharp in Vanity Fair? I don't know whether to be thrilled because Vanity Fair is coming out on the big screen, or to shudder because of the casting of the central role. I'd've liked to have seen what Cate Blanchett could have done with the role, for example. For those interested, the movie is rated PG-13 for Some Sensuality, Partial Nudity, and A Brief Violent Image (which is, no doubt, the scene where Becky throws the book out of the carriage window).

B12 is back from its month-long holiday!

We leave for our annual spiritual retreat before the sun rises on Thursday morning. They appear to be having the same weather we're having: fair, cool nights, and the chance of scattered thunderstorms. At least I know what to pack: layers. We picnicked in Angrignon Park last night after the CMS Lughnassadh ritual and graduation ceremony, and I'm really glad that I wore socks and runners instead of sandals, and that I brought a sweater. People who complain about not having our usual sweltering heat should be shot as a public service to others.

Being Excellent Literary News

Good news for all the Caroline Stevermer fans out there! A sequel to Sorcery and Cecelia is finally being released after all these years, again co-authored with Patricia Wrede! (And I know there are a few Stevermer fans who read this journal, and might well be more by the time you've finished reading this entry. If you enjoy Jane Austen and Martha Wells, you'll enjoy these, too. When the first book was released, it was described as "Jane Austen and Georgette Heyer have J.R.R. Tolkien to tea--or chocolate," and "a Regency Romance, with magic." If you've read Patricia Wrede's Magician's Ward or Mairelon the Magician, these are set in the same world).

The Grand Tour: Being a Revelation of Matters of High Confidentiality and Greatest Importance, Including Extracts from the Intimate Diary of a Noblewoman and the Sworn Testimony of a Lady of Quality Kate and Cecy and their new husbands, Thomas and James, are off on a Grand Tour. Their plans? To leisurely travel about the Continent, take in a few antiquities, and--of course--purchase fabulous Parisian wardrobes.

But once they arrive in France, mysterious things start to happen. Cecy receives a package containing a lost coronation treasure, Thomas's valet is assaulted, and Kate loses a glove. Soon it becomes clear that they have stumbled upon a dastardly, magical plot to take over Europe.

Now the four newlyweds must embark on a daring chase to thwart the evil conspiracy. And there's no telling the trouble they'll get into along the way. For when you mix Kate and Cecy and magic, you never know what's going to happen next!

Cecy and Kate, loose on the Continent with their new spouses? One knows perky, sardonic banter and catatrophe simply must occur. It's being released in hardcover this September; I know I'll be reading it. I might even buy the first book in hardcover to match it. (I often graduate my favourite books to hardcover, and my mass-market paperback is pretty tattered, being originally second-hand, passed around several hands, sold by a borrower without my knowledge, and being re-discovered in another second-hand shop with my name still inside.) The title of the first book has been expanded to Sorcery and Cecelia or the Enchanted Chocolate Pot: Being the Correspondence of Two Young Ladies of Quality Regarding Various Magical Scandals in London and the Country, another delightful description.

There's a co-author web page called, appropriately enough, The Enchanted Chocolate Pot. It says The Grand Tour will be available in December, but it's a bit out of date.

Oldest Altar Unearthed

How cool is this?

Bulgaria Boasts Europe's Oldest Altar

Lifestyle: 4 August 2004, Wednesday.

Bulgarian archeologists disclosed the oldest altar in Europe.

It was found in a mound located near the Bulgarian village Kapitan Dimitrievo. The altar dates back from 6000 B.C.

The mound is as high as 13 meters and has a diameter of 140 meters. It is said to be one of the oldest historical landmarks in Bulgaria.

That's the entire article; the original can be found here. Wren's Nest over at Witchvox adds that:

ANCIENT SCRIPT UNCOVERED IN BULGARIA

Bulgarian archaeologists found a primitive scripture supposed to have been used by Thracian tribes.

The pictograms, painted on 3, 000 year-old ceramic utensils, were found in the grandiose religious centre Perperikon.

(That one's here.)

No doubt there will eventually be archaeological reports, anthropological reconstructions, and other research released. Utterly fascinating.

Yes, I'm a Music Snob...

And in this article, Norman Lebrecht has a couple of excellent points regarding what the Walkman (and its successors) has done to our musical tastes while bringing music to the mobile masses.

Sony Walkman - Music to whose ears?
By Norman Lebrecht (July 26, 2004, La Scena Musicale)

(Also via Arts & Letters Daily)

Taking the Mystery Out Of Deja Vu

The Tease of Memory, by David Glenn

Psychologists are dusting off 19th-century explanations of déjà vu. Have we been here before? (July 23, 2004, The Chronicle of Higher Education)

(Via Arts & Letters Daily)

Thank Gods It's Based on the Book (And Other Henson News)

Yes, the Muppets are about to film The Wizard of Oz.

Rumoured cast list:

Kermit the Frog will be the Scarecrow

Fozzie Bear will be the Cowardly Lion

The Great Gonzo will be the Tin Man

Miss Piggy will be pulling double duty as both the Wicked Witch of the West and Glinda the Good Witch

In a really cool bit of casting, Pepe the Prawn will take on the role of Dorothy's dog Toto.

And the role of Dorothy will played by a yet to be cast human guest star.

The Importance of Supernatural Belief

Christopher Whittle has written an interesting article on the presence of paranormal belief in modern culture, published in the March 2004 Skeptical Inquirer and available for reading here.

A sample:

We are taught about angels, witches, devils, spirits, monsters, gods, etc. virtually in the cradle. Some of these paranormal beliefs are secular, some are religious, and the most pernicious are crossover beliefs, beliefs that are at times secular and at other times religious. Santa Claus, angels and vampires, ghosts and souls, and the Easter Bunny are examples of cross-over beliefs. Crossover beliefs are attractive to children (free candy and presents), and on that basis they are readily accepted. The devils, ghosts, and monsters are reinforced through Halloween rituals and the mass media. As the child matures, some crossover beliefs, called "teaser" paranormal beliefs, are exposed as false. Traditional religious concepts are reinforced as "true and real." They give us Santa Claus and we believe in an omniscient, beneficent old elf and then they replace Santa with God, who is typically not as generous as Santa Claus and whose disapproval has more serious consequences than a lump of coal. We learn about God and Santa Claus simultaneously; only later are we told that Santa Claus is just a fairy tale and God is real.

In a synergy of cultural indoctrination and the individual's cognitive and affective development, a general belief in the paranormal and the supernatural forms. Once we have knowledge of the paranormal, we can then experience it. One cannot have Bigfoot's baby until one is aware that there is a Bigfoot, or aliens, or ghosts. In other words, you cannot see a ghost until someone has taught you about ghosts. Countervailing influences, experiential knowledge, and knowledge of realistic influence have little effect on paranormal beliefs because they are applied after the belief is established through cultural and familial authority.

Fool's Fate

I forgot to mention that I finished Fool's Fate while I was gone. I can see what Ginger means when she says that she's not quite fine with the end of Fitz's story. I was impressed at the skill (no pun) with which story elements from three trilogies were wrapped up in general, however. It's not a completely happy ending; there was loss, things weren't too easy, and Robin Hobb deliberately didn't take everything away from any of the protagonists, nor reward them completely. In the end, it just might have been the only way to end it, really.

Shrek 2 Review

Just as good, but different, and much fun. Having seen MI2 only a couple of weeks ago meant that I was the one laughing louder than anyone else in the theatre at the scene with Pinocchio descending into the dungeon from the roof of the tower. And Puss is my newest fave Antonio Banderas part. I kept hoping it was his voice. I love trying to figure out voice actors in any animated film, and although my guess was Banderas for Puss, and my mum picked out Rupert Everett as Charming right away, I missed John Cleese as well as Julie Andrews of all people. All in all, great pacing, nice new designs, and a solid story that doesn't rehash or cheapen the first.

Oh, and I saw a full-length preview for The Incredibles. What a riot. But then, superhero humour amuses me.

Caution -- Beauty Ahead

This is just gorgeous.

Or maybe I'm just a book geek.

For all you Firefly fans, Nathan Fillon posted an entry on the Firefly Blog about his first day of shooting on the film Serenity.

Speaking thereof, this is the first promotional poster for the film:

(Found via Whedonesque.)

Forthcoming

I was explaining to HRH today that my life pretty much doesn't exist after July 1. It's not that I'm booked, it's just that I'm so focused on July 1 being the deadline for the manuscript, plus my parents will be in town, and I'll be doing the final concert of the season that night (which is the only reason I will not be downtown at the Jazz Festival listening to Susie Arioli) that it's the Big Thing I'm Planning For. Only an e-mail from Debra the other day reminded me that I'm camping July 2-5 at Awakening Isis (which was fortunate). It was while I was relating this to him that I realised that I haven't yet had a birthday this year.

"Yes," said HRH. "Any idea what you want? People are starting to ask."

Know what I want? I can't even remember what day it is, let alone conceive of celebrating the joyous anniversary of my thirty-third year on the planet. And he wants gift suggestions?

So I've updated the wish list, for those who need to know. And I s'pose there ought to be a pub night. Don't ask me when until after July 1, though, okay? Please?

Found at Locus Online:

Laura Freas advises: "When you next see the newest Harry Potter movie, watch for the scene in the classroom where a picture of a werewolf is projected on a screen. They bought the rights to reproduce Kelly Freas' werewolf from his interior for [H. Warner Munn's] The Werewolf of Ponkert."

Cool.

Apparently the forty-five minutes of restored material in the director's cut of Underworld improve the movie, which couldn't have been hard to do.

*shrug*

Life in an Occult Shop

Oh My Gods! May 19 2004

Oh My Gods! March 5 2003

and of course

Oh My Gods! March 10 2004

Seriously.

Good -- I Need the Shelf Space

Is every book going to be bigger than the previous one?

No, definitely not, or book seven would be around the weight of a baby hippopotamus. According to the plan for book six, it will be quite a bit shorter than 'Order of the Phoenix'. I am not going to swear on my children's lives that that is going to be the case, but I am 99% certain of it.

J.K. Rowling has her own official web site, which I've never known, or even thought to check out until today.

Venus Transit

Things I was unaware of:

Mention Venus transit, and I'm there. The skeptic in me never adopted the pentacle as a personal religious symbol until I learned its origin: it's a two-dimensional plot of the eight-year Venus cycle. OK, I said those many years ago, now I can begin to understand why this symbol is sacred, and to source it to antiquity and not some made-up-recently, cool-and-groovy, let's-call-it-ours creative moment.

Wow. I knew it had been used by several religions (including early Christianity, where it represented the five wounds of Christ), but I never knew the Venus connection.

(Found via Goddessing. Her original source can be found here.)

Spoiler-Free Film Review

This is the first chance I've had to sit down at the computer since I saw Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, so here's my spoiler-free, four-word review:

Awesome. Best one yet.

More Costumey Goodness

This fabulous action shot was taken by our own Poison Ivy. (No shot of the legs, but it does prove that both sides of the skirt were slit all the way up to there.) Another source picture is next to it.

Gathering of Powered Persons

Many, many thanks go out to Ceri and Scott for hosting the third annual Superhero Party, and giving me an excuse to create one of my best costumes ever. Thank you, George Perez, for coming up with a more exciting costume than the original. Whee! Here's you are, complete with one of my source pictures:

More proof that I married an archetype, and not a man at all: HRH won Best Costume for his portrayal of Mike Mignola's Hellboy.

Ad finally, rumour has it that Montreal's F/SF bookshop never would have closed if the manager and the owner had dressed like this more often:

An excellent evening: fabulous and imaginative costumes all around; good conversation; lots of laughs. And now I have to start thinking of something for the fourth annual party. And, of course, there's Hallowe'en first. Drat. This is the hardest part, you know: coming up with the idea.

(A veritable Who's Who of powered persons on the guest list may be found at the Third Annual Superhero Party Gallery. Viewings of the Second and First Annual Parties are also available. All photos by Scott.)

Angel Auctions

Yes, you too can own a piece of TV history by bidding on authentic Angel cast costumes.

The first piece, Angel's black leather coat from episode 5-10, is already at US $1,080.00, and there's still 26 hours to go. It started at US $55.

Egad. There are so many other things that can be done with that money.

Angel Viewer's Choice Marathon

Yesterday was the Angel Victoria Day Viewers' Choice Marathon on the Space channel: twelve solid hours of the best Angel episodes ever.

(Marathon #, Ep. #, Episode Name)

Intro to marathon: 1-01, City Of...
#10, 4-06, Spin the Bottle
#09, 1-18, Five by Five
#08, 3-13, Waiting in the Wings
#07, 5-15, A Hole in the World
0#6, 4-15, Orpheus
#05, 5-11, Damage
#04, 1-09, Hero
#03, 5-12, You're Welcome (100th Episode)
#02, 1-08, I Will Remember You
#01, 5-14, Smile Time
Series Finale: 5-22, Not Fade Away

I was pleasantly surprised at the calibre of shows chosen. There were several from season 5 (so someone explain to me why it was cancelled again?), a handful from season 1, one from season 3, and only one from the horrible Connor/Cordy season which was redeemed by having not only Angelus but Faith and Willow in it, too. I'd forgotten how much I loved "Waiting in the Wings" (who'd've ever guessed that Angel was a ballet fan?). I accepted the voluntary heart-wrenchingness of watching both Fred's and Wes' final episodes in the same day, not to mention the "I Will Remember You" episode from season 1 with Sarah Michelle Gellar. My sofa was Kleenex-box Central. And I managed to hit the record button to immortalise "Smile Time," which is being sent home with t! tomorrow because he simply has to see evil puppets at work in LA.

My TV was on for eleven solid hours, which I think was a personal record. I'm glad it was rainy outside, otherwise I would have felt horribly guilty about being inside all day. Anyway, I still managed to get 1.5K written during the whole thing, plus some formatting and editing. How's that for multi-tasking? Not that I'd do it again soon; I just couldn't choose one over the other, so I did both.

Summer Films

Whoever designed Halle Berry's costume for Catwoman should be shot. It's absolutely dreadful. The acting looks pretty horrendous, too. This is one movie I certainly won't be seeing this summer.

And oh, look at that: only two weeks until Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban comes out. When did that happen?

Van Helsing review

You know, I'd really been looking forward to this film, mostly for the shlock factor. I walked out of the theatre completely neutral towards it. Story threads were clumsily handled; I never reached a point where I sympathised with any of the characters, heroic or villainous; and the pacing seemed off somehow. I didn't care about anyone during the final fight scene, but then, CG beating the tar out of CG usually doesn't grab me.

Two hours of Kate Beckinsale's costumes, and Hugh Jackman in a long coat and hat with flowing hair did a lot to offset my lack of involvement, though. Mmm.

I've heard a friend described the film as everyone being in a campy B movie except for Hugh Jackman who was in an action flick, but I disagree. Van Helsing seemed bemused by pretty much everything, and relied on his skills as a mercenary for the Church to get him through every situation. He was as one-dimensional as Dracula was, sticking to what he knew without exploring any alternatives.

It wasn't as good as Sommer's The Mummy Returns, and that's what I was really hoping for. The banter just wasn't there, nor were the charming characters. The awkward set-up for further exploration of the story was just that - an awkward set-up, as opposed to a mystery. And where the heck do they go from here? They're already eliminated Hyde, Dracula, Dr Frankenstein, and the Wolfman. Van Helsing versus Lestat, now there's an interesting pairing. Especially Lestat after all his theological evolution. It will never happen, of course.

Overall, it was a diversion on a rainy Tuesday, but I've forgotten most of it already. With Van Helsing out of the way, though, I can focus on getting excited about Troy.

Beautiful Music

A glorious concert last night! I had a wonderful time, which is just as important as the audience enjoying themselves. The church had beautiful acoustics. One never knows what to expect when one plays in a new venue; and it stuns me how so many similarly-structured churches can have such wildly varying acoustic qualities. This one is one of the best I've played in so far. The sound was full, well-rounded and rich. The orchestra really pulled together to create two wonderfully moody and ambient pieces, Grieg's "Evening in the Mountains" and Delius' impressionistic "On Hearing the First Cuckoo in Spring." I'd been worried about them, mainly because our conductor was disappointed with how we'd played the Grieg in dress rehearsal, and because the Delius was so very different froma nything we'd played before that everyone was having trouble wrapping their minds around the rhythm and melody. The two Mozart pieces which opened and closed the programme were tight and snappy. Overall I was remarkably pleased with how well I played, too. It's always rewarding to appreciate one's own performance as well as the overall product. Apart from a slightly sharp first violin, and the shaky fugue in the final movement of the Mozart symphony, it was one of the most technically sound concerts we've ever presented.

While waiting for our call to go in, I had the opportunity to chat with two other cellists about the programme and our dwindling audience base. I'm of the opinion that our first conductor and founder did a lot of networking on a personal level and pulled people in that way, as since his death our audiences have slowly ebbed. My fellow celli think that it also has something to do with the oddness of the programmes we offer: the music is either too hard, and our performance is less than stellar, which doesn't encourage people to come back; or the selections are not well-known. I'm all for a balanced programme of familiar favourites and new pieces -- while the Mozart symphony was probably the piece that drew audience members, the Delius, for example, was something the orchestra had never heard, which pretty much confirmed that 99.9% of the audience hadn't either; but it was beautiful, I'm glad to have learned it, and I hope the audience appreciated hearing a new piece as well.

I know that I resist gearing up and heading out to orchestra quite a bit, and having played three times in the past five days I wish we could rehearse twice a week. It's easier to stay in the swing of things that way. The more I play, the more I want to play. And hey, we'd be even better with twice as much practice. After all, I'm fairly certain that most of the orchestra doesn't practice at home either. Damn it all, if I'm this good playing only once a week, if I practiced, I'd be spectacular.

It occured to me as we stood for our applause after the Strauss last night that as of mid-July, I will have been playing cello for nine years. That's between a quarter and a third of my life.

Many, many thanks to my four guests who came out to hear us play, and to poor Ceri as well, who showed up with her classical music guidebook but had to go home with an evil migraine. I'll lend you my rehearsal CD, Ceri, and you can pretend you're there. I'd play you my parts but without everything else they sound rather odd.

Rick and Evy Go To Sleepy Hollow

Oh look - it's HRH and Autumn's next Hallowe'en costumes:

"Are you kidding?" said t!, who brought over the soundtrack today (and who called it "Rick and Evy go to Sleepy Hollow"). "You guys dress like that every day. Where's the fun in that?"

(Hey, wow - it's rated PG-13 for "non-stop creature action violence and frightening images, and for sensuality." How's that for a night out?)

Lord of the Rings CD

Lord of the Rings CD Specials
Howard Shore, the composer for the Lord of the Rings trilogy, has announced that the soundtrack from the films will be released on a nine-CD set. The first eight will include the soundtrack from the films with the ninth CD containing previously unreleased music.

That means approximately two and a third CDs of music per film. Just think of all that delicious music we heard in the theatre that wasn't on the albums, and of the new music scored for the extended release DVD sets! And an extra CD of music that didn't end up being used, too? Oh, it's too much happiness...

Howard Shore was interviewed back in 2001 and mentioned that the album releases were condensed from the longer musical cues in the films. Those of us who listen to music closely in films know this. To be able to hear the entire musical story from start to finish, with all its developments and revisitations of motifs and themes, is going to be an incredible gift.

(via the SF Site News. Anyone have a release date?)

UPDATE: Here's the original exclusive interview Shore did with Empire. A snip: “The plan is that we would feature all of the music in the theatrical cuts of the films," said Shore, talking exclusively to Empire. "Currently, two discs for [the first], three each for [the second and third films] and a ninth disc of rarities with host of rare, unreleased music from the films with commentary from me.” Looks like there's also to be a two-disc release of the symphonic version of the LOTR music Shore's been touring about the globe. As for a release date, all we know is "next year."

Music by Which to Write

I'm better today, thanks to my selfless husband leaving during Smallville last night to pick up DayQuil/NyQuil for me.

Since I didn't get out yesterday, I made sure I went out this morning. It felt so good to be outside in warm weather instead of grey overcast damp world in which I usually end up travelling. I went downtown to deposit a cheque and pay the next three months on the post box I rent with a friend. At the bank I discovered that my money has apparently thawed, since I was able to transfer a chunk to my other account and then access it via debit. Huzzah! Bills to pay! Costume elements to pick up! Groceries to buy!

Tonight Skippy's coming over to do the final modem switch between my current computer and my brand-new-used-to-be-Scott's computer. So if all goes well, tomorrow I'll be using a new system. (It's never that easy; I know this well. Let me be optimistic, okay?)

During today's writing jam, t! and I listened to various 80s rock and 70s punk albums. No one will ever believe that the first half of Chapter 7 was written to "Holiday in Cambodia" -- either of the versions we heard. (1.5K today. Not great, but not bad.)

I mentioned to t! today that I feel like a traitor spelling words like "color" and "emphasize" a la American in this text, as opposed to good solid UK/Canadian spelling. He assured me that I was traitorous. Such love and support.

And I've somehow missed this Memphis Slim song up till now, but thanks to the new Susie Ariloli album it's firmly entrenched in my brain:

MOTHER EARTH
(words and music by Memphis Slim)

You may play the race horses
You may own the whole race track
You may have all the money to buy anything you lack
I don't care how big you are
I don't care what you think you're worth
When it all comes down we got to go back to mother earth

You may own half the city wear diamonds and pearls
You may have a jet plane and fly it all around the world
I don't care how big you are
I don't care what you think you're worth
When it all comes down we got to go back to mother earth

You may have a great army at your command
You may have some politician eating out of your hand
You may have some servant who'll do anything you say
But mother earth is waiting, it's a debt you gotta pay
I don't care how big you are
I don't care what you think you're worth
When it all comes down we got to go back to mother earth

Books I've Read

Found via Muse:

Literacy Test: Highlight in bold those books you've read.

(Ed. note: Hunh? Since when has literacy been indicated by the number or calibre of the books you've read? Those books might have had an influence on your literacy, but it certainly isn't directly correlational. Whatever. My comments are scattered throughout in italics.)

Author - Title

-- Beowulf
Achebe, Chinua - Things Fall Apart
Agee, James - A Death in the Family
Austen, Jane - Pride and Prejudice and everything else
Baldwin, James - Go Tell It on the Mountain
Beckett, Samuel - Waiting for Godot
Bellow, Saul - The Adventures of Augie March
Brontë, Charlotte - Jane Eyre and everything else
Brontë, Emily - Wuthering Heights
Camus, Albert - The Stranger
Cather, Willa - Death Comes for the Archbishop
Chaucer, Geoffrey - The Canterbury Tales
Chekhov, Anton - The Cherry Orchard
Chopin, Kate - The Awakening
Conrad, Joseph - Heart of Darkness
Cooper, James Fenimore - The Last of the Mohicans
Crane, Stephen - The Red Badge of Courage
Dante - Inferno and the two smash sequels!
de Cervantes, Miguel - Don Quixote
Defoe, Daniel - Robinson Crusoe
Dickens, Charles - A Tale of Two Cities and just about everything else
Dostoyevsky, Fyodor - Crime and Punishment
Douglass, Frederick - Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass
Dreiser, Theodore - An American Tragedy
Dumas, Alexandre - The Three Musketeers
Eliot, George - The Mill on the Floss but not Middlemarch? Wha? Who developed this list?
Ellison, Ralph - Invisible Man
Emerson, Ralph Waldo - Selected Essays
Faulkner, William - As I Lay Dying
Faulkner, William - The Sound and the Fury
Fielding, Henry - Tom Jones
Fitzgerald, F. Scott - The Great Gatsby
Flaubert, Gustave - Madame Bovary
Ford, Ford Madox - The Good Soldier
Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von - Faust in two languages!
Golding, William - Lord of the Flies
Hardy, Thomas - Tess of the d'Urbervilles
Hawthorne, Nathaniel - The Scarlet Letter
Heller, Joseph - Catch 22
Hemingway, Ernest - A Farewell to Arms
Homer - The Iliad
Homer - The Odyssey
Hugo, Victor - The Hunchback of Notre Dame but not Les Miserables?
Hurston, Zora Neale - Their Eyes Were Watching God
Huxley, Aldous - Brave New World
Ibsen, Henrik - A Doll's House
James, Henry - The Portrait of a Lady
James, Henry - The Turn of the Screw
Joyce, James - A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man thank you for not listing Ulysses
Kafka, Franz - The Metamorphosis
Kingston, Maxine Hong - The Woman Warrior
Lee, Harper - To Kill a Mockingbird
Lewis, Sinclair - Babbitt
London, Jack - The Call of the Wild
Mann, Thomas - The Magic Mountain
Marquez, Gabriel García - One Hundred Years of Solitude
Herman - Bartleby the Scrivener
Melville, Herman - Moby Dick
Miller, Arthur - The Crucible
Morrison, Toni - Beloved
O'Connor, Flannery - A Good Man is Hard to Find
O'Neill, Eugene - Long Day's Journey into Night
Orwell, George - Animal Farm
Pasternak, Boris - Doctor Zhivago
Plath, Sylvia - The Bell Jar
Poe, Edgar Allan - Selected Tales
Proust, Marcel - Swann's Way
Pynchon, Thomas - The Crying of Lot 49
Remarque, Erich Maria - All Quiet on the Western Front
Rostand, Edmond - Cyrano de Bergerac
Roth, Henry - Call It Sleep
Salinger, J.D. - The Catcher in the Rye
Shakespeare, William - Hamlet
Shakespeare, William - Macbeth
Shakespeare, William - A Midsummer Night's Dream
Shakespeare, William - Romeo and Juliet and just about everything else
Shaw, George Bernard - Pygmalion
Shelley, Mary - Frankenstein
Silko, Leslie Marmon - Ceremony
Solzhenitsyn, Alexander - One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich
Sophocles - Antigone in two languages!
Sophocles - Oedipus Rex
Steinbeck, John - The Grapes of Wrath
Stevenson, Robert Louis - Treasure Island
Stowe, Harriet Beecher - Uncle Tom's Cabin
Swift, Jonathan - Gulliver's Travels
Thackeray, William - Vanity Fair
Thoreau, Henry David - Walden
Tolstoy, Leo - War and Peace
Turgenev, Ivan - Fathers and Sons
Twain, Mark - The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
Voltaire - Candide
Vonnegut, Kurt Jr. - Slaughterhouse-Five
Walker, Alice - The Color Purple
Wharton, Edith - The House of Mirth
Welty, Eudora - Collected Stories
Whitman, Walt - Leaves of Grass
Wilde, Oscar - The Picture of Dorian Gray
Williams, Tennessee - The Glass Menagerie
Woolf, Virginia - To the Lighthouse and plusieres autres titres
Wright, Richard - Native Son you know, I honestly can't remember

This list is obviously American, because it doesn't ask if you've read Two Solitudes or Kamouraska. And where's Fahrenheit 451? I find it interesting that the list is fiction and poetry, with Emerson and Thoreau thrown in, but doesn't include important philosophical works. Apparently philosophy (Aristotle, Hegel, Kant, whoever) improves the mind but not the literacy rate. I think literacy evaluators ought to sit down with Kant and try to follow the a priori theory. They'd understand just how much philosophy rests on the ability to read and comprehend.

I took a couple of American Literature courses at university, which is how I came to read things like Theodore Dreiser and Henry James. Most of the rest of my score here is attributed to the double BA in Liberal Arts and English Lit. (That and a decidedly anti-social streak since late elementary school.) And yet I've managed to reach the age I am without reading the high school classics Catch-22 and Catcher in the Rye. Go figure.

Have fun.

Farewell, Angel

MSN has a good article mourning the loss of Angel.

It’s easy to appreciate fans’ inability to let Joss Whedon’s “Angel” go quietly into rerun heaven. Some of the sting of last season’s “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” finale was lessened by knowing that the characters would continue to fight the good fight on “Angel.” But now that the “Charmed”-gets-renewed-and-“Angel”-doesn’t network went all Mister Pointy on the lovable vampire and his team, audiences are about to be completely Jossless for the first time in seven years.

Aye, there's the rub, folks. We're Jossless. Charmed gets renewed; Angel doesn't. Perky girls with funky witchy powers in a soap opera versus a darker good-vs-evil-and-which-is-which-anyway show with better writing. Of course it got axed.

Don't mind me. I'm just bitter. Bitter about Angel and this wretched manuscript.

International Creativity

April 21 is International Creativity Day, which gives you complete and total license to doodle when you ought to be working. The creative collective I belong to (tentatively named the Penslingers, pending any veto) has planned an evening meeting at HRH's studio to do art stuff, try out new techniques, and generally celebrate how creativity is cool.

I, of course, will be at orchestra, celebrating in a different way.

So enjoy a round of gardening, dancing across intersections, random poetry, web design, cooking, calligraphy on an address label, sewing, or rearranging your furniture. Everything is creative. Think outside the box, and congratulate yourself for doing it. The creative force fuels our lives, initiates evolution and progress, and besides, it's fun.

Grudgingly Strauss

It appears that I only hate Strauss when I can't play it. Once I'm comfortable with a Strauss piece, and I can settle into the rhythm of it, it's actually fun to play. The only problem with it now is holding the celli back - we keep wanting to spin the waltz faster to keep it moving!

I'm also guilty of being very pleased that the incredibly disturbing twit who sits behind me hasn't been to rehearsal in two weeks. It upsets me that he affects my enjoyment of playing with the orchestra so much. He's a bit hyper, and he can't stop talking; he also plays too loud. Three rehearsals ago he drove me right to the edge, forcing me to grit my teeth through the first half. I couldn't hear anything but his voice and his mishandling of the rhythm and dynamics. When Douglas called break, his cello was down and he was out like a shot for his cigarette. My old stand partner turned around and smiled at me, asked me how I was, and I did something I rarely do with acquaintances: I said, "If he doesn't stop talking, I'm going to kill him. I'm going to turn around and plunge my bow right into his chest."

"Qu'est-ce-qu'elle a dit?" our principal cellist asked. My stand partner relayed the information, laughing, and the principal turned around to look at me and say with all sincerity, "And I will sharpen your bow."

It wasn't nice, but it felt good to know that others were just as fed up as I was.

Now, I know that words have power. They hurt, or they heal. Sometimes, though, words have to come out so that they stop hurting you. And yes, he hasn't been at rehearsal for the past two weeks now. No one has said anything, but I know that we're all relieved. And the dynamics are better, both musically and otherwise.

Just Because

You can't tell me that Dan Radcliffe as Harry Potter doesn't look like Tim Hunter.

Please, please, someone do a Books of Magic film just so I can see Radcliffe play Tim...

Insomniac

Here I am at three minutes to one AM, doing what I do when I can't sleep: I go through LOTR costume pictures obssessively on the Internet.

A life? Why, no, now that you ask...

Hellboy

The four-word review:

They got it right.

Yeah, sure, they took a few liberties with the stories in order to make a unified two-hour plot, but they got it right.

The characterisation, the art direction, the cinematography, the music (who the heck is Marco Beltrami anyway?), the pacing, the editing...

I find myself flipping through the calendar to figure out how many days I have to wait before the film premieres in general release so I can see it again.

A colleague sitting next to me at the advance screening said at the end that it wasn't as good as X-Men, but I disagree. This is the most realistic superhero-type-genre film I've seen, with a better script. But they're apples and oranges, really. This is, well, dark comedy/occult/action. I'm a fan of dark comedy and the occult, and hey, well-done action's all right too, if it has a purpose.

It was a geek reunion at the advance screening too, with a significant portion of old clientele from the four-years-defunct F/SF bookshop at which I used to work in attendance.

All in all, it was a wonderful day, what with speaking with my author of the Pacific coast and confirming a major amount of the revisions in the first half of the manuscript, beautiful weather, seeing my goddaughter, taking my husband out to dinner, seeing a fantastic film, and having coffee with friends afterwards. I haven't felt so good in ages. And of course, none of this would have been possible without Debra, who gave us the movie pass! You made my day, and quite possibly my week. Maybe even my month.

So Where's the Ground-Breaking Part?

Any time Philip Heselton's Wiccan Roots wants to stop quoting and re-hashing Jack Bracelin's 1960 bio of Gerald Gardner, it can go right ahead. I'd rather read something original than a secondary text. Heselton acknowledges in his foreword that Bracelin's book is a key text and that he quotes frequently, but really, the first two chapters do nothing to advance the scholarship of the field. So far the analysis is weak and pointless, and it's just a string of quotes from other books.

This book is supposed to be ground-breaking. I keep waiting for the ground-breaking part. I may only have finished two chapters, but readers are gained are lost through a first chapter alone.

Gives New Meaning to "Pocket Book"

NOVELS DELIVERED TO YOUR PHONE: E-mail Opens New Possibilities for Old Medium.

Nowadays the sight of people passing time on the train by sending e-mail with their mobile phones is an everyday occurrence in Japan. This technology has now led to the emergence of a new and unexpected phenomenon: people reading entire novels on their mobile phones.

How... novel.

From an author's website: This

From an author's website:

This book focuses on 25 artists from the Untied States and 25 artists from 12 other countries.

Ah, the irony.

Finally, a review from someone

Finally, a review from someone who has actually seen Mad Mad House.

Yes, I'm relieved. If the word "hokey" is used and the show compared to Abbot & Costello, then I can relax and laugh. My fears have apparently not been realised. Sure, they're making fun of alternate lifestyles, but the show has evidently been produced with an Addams Family sort of humour.

I'll see for myself when I settle down to watch the tape.

Wanted

Everyone seen the first Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban trailer? Yes?

The Wanted poster with a maniacal Sirius Black is pretty disturbing (ergo cool). I downloaded a still of it the other day for my desktop, and when I enlarged it I discovered something very interesting:

Yep. Those are Elder Futhark runes at the beginning of his serial number. Specifically Pertho (which means secrecy, hidden ancestral knowledge, and the mystery of fate), followed by Algiz (associated with protection and sanctuary).

I love my life. Possessing the knowledge that I do means that I can make the coolest connections.

NAGANO TO LEAD MONTREAL SYMPHONY

NAGANO TO LEAD MONTREAL SYMPHONY -- Kent Nagano will succeed Charles Dutoit at the orchestra

American conductor Kent Nagano has been named the next music director of the Montreal Symphony Orchestra.

The announcement of Nagano's appointment ends a nearly two-year search that began with the controversial resignation of his successor, Charles Dutoit. Nagano made a splash with the orchestra during guest appearances last season.

Nagano will step down from his post at Berlin's Deutsches Symphonie-Orchester, where he has become a popular part of the city's musical establishment. He is also music director of the Los Angeles Opera and will take over from Zubin Mehta as music director of the Bavarian State Opera in Munich in 2006.

The OSM has been without a conductor for a couple of years now, and Nagano won't be taking over until 2006. For the National Post article, click here.

And The Award Goes To...

I rarely watch the Academy Awards; I find them overblown, boring, and a waste of time. This year, however, I watched it all, simply because I wanted to see what would happen with Return of the King nominated for so many categories.

And lo and behold, it won every single category in which it had been nominated, prompting a documentary winner to open her remarks with, "I'm glad Lord of the Rings wasn't nominated in my category."

For those who didn't watch because they too consider the awards overblown, boring, and a waste of time, those eleven categories are: Makeup, Music (Score), Music (Song), Art Direction, Costume Design (yay Ngila!), Sound Mixing, Visual Effects, Film Editing, Writing (Adapted Screenplay), Best Directing, and Best Picture. That's a total of eleven, tied for the most awards ever won for a single picture with Ben Hur and Titanic. I don?t believe that this single picture deserved all these awards, not for a moment; I believe a lot of them were retroactive in a way, and signified an achievement for the entire trilogy.

Other awards I was happy with included Best Animated Feature going to Pixar (formerly of Disney, as Billy Crystal put it) for Finding Nemo. I wish Best Actress could have gone to Keisha Castle-Hughes for Whalerider, but it went to Charlize Theron for Monster. And since I hadn't seen a single other film in which a nominated Best Actress had performed, I wasn't in a position to argue.

Bits I was not happy with included one particular red carpet host, Chris Connolly, who is a perfect example of why they ought to test IQ before they let people on the air. Not only did he comment on the "epical performances" in Cold Mountain, he also later asked Jude Law what made the film "so Oscar-nominatable."

Gods help me.

Overall, though, the production was much more tasteful than I had anticipated. The clothes were certainly better than I remember them being in past shows. The humour was there: it was a stroke of genius on the part of the producers to have Adrien Brody present the award for Best Actress, and Billy Crystal looked out over the sea of faces early in the evening to say, "Everyone in Hollywood is here tonight -- it's like the Canadian Oscars."

For a complete listing of who won what, check out the official Oscar site.

Concert Post-Mortem

When did it get to be two in the afternoon? Ten to two, to be perfectly specific?

I woke up at six this morning and decided that it was evidently fate. So I got up, appreciated the nice warm sun pouring in the front window for a few minutes, and began editing/writing this damn chapter right away. I think I'm finished. I want to walk away from it for a while, then go back and read it objectively as possible, to see if I can tell what I wrote from what he wrote. (I tried to imitate his style of writing. No point in showing him up, right?)

So I'm now going to go huddle under the afghan and a pile of cats with more hot herbal tea. I've been drinking bouillon and elderflower tea since I woke up, fighting this dratted cold. I've had the shivers even though I turned all the heaters on as high as they'll go, have two sweaters on, socks and slippers, with the space heater pointed right at me. I did acknowledge before I fell asleep last night that playing the cello whilst in the throes of Early Cold is easier than singing, which I've done before as well. It's less stressful on the throat.

Thanks to everyone for your support regarding yesterday's concert. Ceri even gave me a generic-string-instrument-shaped box of delicious Mozartkugeln marzipan and hazelnut chocolates as a congratulatory gift, with apologies for not being able to find a Beethoven-themed one. (t! and Paze suggested drawing a scowl and messy hair on the picture of Mozart to make it more Beethoven-y.) Gifts always surprise me. I don't mean to sound like HRH, but really, people coming to enjoy my concerts are more than enough of a gift for me. I didn't even get to see my in-laws; I thought they'd rushed off because I'd been grumpy after last week's concert, but HRH assured me that they just didn't want to be in the way. Over three hundred people were at this concert; that's a lot of folks milling about afterwards, so I can understand.

I had a terrific time with my parents afterwards as well. They took us back to their hotel room where they had a bottle of both red wine and white wine, Camembert, mushroom pate, and crackers. (My parents always travel in style.) Then we went out to an Italian restaurant that my family's been going to as long as I can remember. It's grown from a tiny one-room little house to a huge multi-room establishment, and they're in the process of expanding yet again. The house wine, which I remember being nice, just wasn't as good as my dad's pinot noir. Apparently my taste is ruined, now, and I've been hopelessly spoiled.

The new strings on the cello performed wonderfully. One always forgets how good new strings sound: fresh, rich, and mellow. I think it was one of the reasons I enjoyed playing the symphony so much in performance (apart from the fact that a live audience always boosts the quality); the sound issuing from the instrument was so much better than the dull sounds I'd been making up to that point.

Right. Hot tisane and cats, ho.

Beethoven Won

Beethoven won.

The Ninth is going to sound fantastic. I don't think I'm going back for the Bruckner Mass in F minor in May, though. I just can't keep up; I'm not good enough. It's been a terrific challenge, but I don't have the time to devote to Cantabile as well as chamber orchestra. Besides, they've scheduled the four Bruckner rehearsals on Sunday afternoons yet again, and I'm tired of having to miss or skip out halfway through classes I'm supposed to be teaching.

I know I have a bad habit of underestimating my talents and skills, but last night was embarrassing and depressing. The technical expertise required in the fourth and first movements are just beyond my current abilities. The entire section agrees that the technical challenge is above what they're usually called on to do (and I can just imagine what Beethoven's musicians must have said to him), but they still manage to pull off a significant percentage of the required work. I feel clumsy and klutzy, and I wonder what I'm actually contributing to the orchestra. Too often I lose my hold on what I'm doing and end up sitting there helplessly, trying to figure out where the heck we are, and where I can next come in with some sort of confidence.

There's a difference between undervaluing yourself, and knowing that you're just not quite good enough. If I had the luxury of time to really focus on working the music, I might stay on. With my schedule the way it is, however, I think it's better all around if I focus my energies on chamber orchestra, teaching, and the slew of editing work.

I gave this a really good shot, and I'm proud of the fact that I did it. I adored the Puccini, and the Elgar was a bear but I mostly pulled that off too. I think back to how I felt when I joined chamber orchestra, and I stuck through that because my awkward playing was due to nerves and being tremendously shy. The technical challenges are different there (chamber vs symphonic!), and I do really well. I passed the nerves and new-girl shyness quite a while ago in Cantabile. I know I'm not where I ought to be in order to perform adequately.

It's been fun, though. And the actual performance of the Ninth will be phenomenal, despite my fumblings.

Musical Architecture 101

On the structure of a Haydn symphony:

I love being with people when they figure something like this out. The excitement is catching. It was just what I needed on the drive home.

Edited to reflect a different emphasis Feb 9, 9:42 am. And that pesky word "not" was shifted as well.

Is It Over?

I feel like I've been run over by a truck.

When I look back over the weekend, I wonder how I survived it. (The likely answer? Sugar. But I digress.)

Chamber orchestra rehearsal Saturday morning and early afternoon: brilliant. Teaching our first level 2 class of the session: fantastic. An unexpected evening off, when I'd been looking forward to some thought-provoking discussion with friends, but HRH's cold got the better of him and there was no way I was trying to park out in narrow snow-covered streets. I prepped for the first lecture of the level 3 session instead: wonderful. The actual delivery of the level 3 lecture this afternoon: excellent. Yes, everything seemed fine until I got to the Beethoven rehearsal this afternoon, where I started to fumble and my energy began to flag.

All I wanted to do was sit back and play lovely, liquidy Andantes or Largos. Instead I was plunged directly into the fourth movement, where I rattled around in the Masteosos and Prestissimos, trying to settle into the rhythm. I was given a slight respite at the end for twenty minutes or so when we worked a bit of the third movement, but then it was rushing home, not being able to find parking nearby, lugging the cello home through snowbanks, a quick bath, an even quicker bowl of spaghetti with homemade sauce (thank you, my love), lugging the cello back to the car, and off to the chamber orchestra concert.

Where, yet again, turnout was disappointing. Not personally, mind you; I had four people there. If, as our conductor pointed out, we all had four people come to hear us play, we'd have an audience of almost two hundred.

I think the lack of audience affected our performance. I personally think that our Saturday morning dress rehearsal had more life and energy to it than did tonight's performance. Anyone who's ever performed knows that a good audience has a significant impact on the morale and output of the artists involved. The small audience we had was enthusiastic and appreciative, but there's something about glancing up at the conductor and noticing a sea of empty space dotted by a few people behind him.

Ah well. There's always July. The July concert is always packed. And rumour has it we'll be playing our May concert in Hudson, so we'll have a new location from which to draw attendees.

Speaking of audiences, my parents will be in town for the Beethoven next weekend. I'm looking forward to it immensely, as I haven't seen them since Christmas morning. So I'll have both sets of parents in the audience next weekend - that's a treat!

I thought I had tomorrow off, but on the way home I remembered that I'd promised to have those final two chapters edited and back by tomorrow morning. That was terribly optimistic of me. I intend to feel dreadfully sorry for myself for the rest of the evening, and perhaps some of tomorrow mornign as well. By noon, it wil be gone, and I can get some more research done.

Speaking of research: anyone know Bruckner's Mass in F Minor? What's it like? It's the main programme for the May 1 Cantabile concert, and I don't want to commit to four Sunday rehearsals in April, dividing my time between teaching and rehearsing, unless I absolutely love the piece we're to play. And there's rumours of the orchestra doing Strauss' Death and Transfiguration before the mass.

I can't think that far ahead at the moment. I can't even think past Monday at noon.

Dress Rehearsal

Just got back from our chamber orchestra dress rehearsal, and damn, we're good!

The music we're playing this time around is so pretty and bright (except for the Adagio by Albinoni, but it's dramatic, so it provides a good contrast to the rest!), and it's just what people need in February, after yet another dump of snow. The church we're playing in -- St Paul's Anglican on 44th Ave in Lachine -- is an arched church done in warm panelled wood, and stone, with beautiful windows and lighting. And -- get this -- it has a carpet. It's a good thing I wore a t-shirt and a cardigan today, because when I arrived I realised it was too warm for a sweater. Such a nice change from the cold, echoey church we usually play in during the winter! The sound is phenomenal, too -- nice and rich. All in all, it's the ideal setting for a winter night of chamber music.

I brought tea along with me this morning in my shiny thermal mug, and I picked up a granola bar on the way. "Can you eat and play cello at the same time?" my stand partner asked. "Sure," I said perkily. "I can multi-task. Got my tea, got my breakfast, got my Haydn. What more could I want?" I adore Haydn, and today's rendition of the London Symphony no. 104 made me smile the whole way through. In fact, most of the pieces we're playing make me smile. I have to curtail my foot-tapping and bouncing to the music, I think; it's just that I'm enjoying myself so much that I can't help it. It's nice to see other musicians reacting the same way as well. A performance is always enhanced indescribably when the performers have a good time. I'd love to play regularly on a Saturday morning. The people are so much more relaxed. Mind you, I think the wonderful place we played in had something to do with that as well. The school auditorium we rehearse in is grey and cold, and we're all tired after a day of work. Today had a very different vibe. I really think the environment has a lot to do with it. Warm colors, warm air, cheerful decor; such a nice change from the auditorium, and the concrete of the Valois church.

I love chamber orchestra because we actually play Baroque and early classical music, two of my favourite periods. This time, we have two stellar oboeists (not one, but two!) who are playing the Albinoni Double Oboe Concerto. I adore this concerto -- mind you, I love most Baroque concetos, but you so rarely hear oboes! However, to my disappointment, our conductor regretfully cut three-quarters of the orchestra out of it this morning. The church is so wonderful acoustically that the enriches sound, and as a result the orchestra -- even when playing pianissimo -- was drowing out the oboes. So we reluctantly turned to concertino style, and only the first two musicians of each section are playing accompaniment. As disappointed as I am, I have to admit it sounds phenomenal.

It's going to be a fantastic evening! And it's closer and much easier to get to than the other church in Valois. The 191 bus from Lionel-Groulx stops right on the corner of Broadway and 44th, and the church is a block and a half up on the west side. I used to take the 191 all the time, and the bus ride to this venue is less than half an hour. (Yes, that link takes you to the schedules. On Sunday night, the 191 leaves Lionel-Groulx at 7 pm exactly, and you'll get to the church for about 7:20.) Or, you could always wheedle a lift out of someone with a vehicle. The more people you fit in a car, the more people could split the cost of a ticket for the driver as a thank-you.

For an evening of excellent music in a beautiful setting, the travel time and only ten dollars are a small price to pay. If you missed the last one, don't miss this one! If you've never experienced the Lakeshore Chamber Orchestra in performance, this is the concert to catch as a brilliant introduction. Check the Performing section of the righthand sidebar for address and programme details.

Pixar to Disney: Buh-bye!

Pixar to Disney: Buh-bye! - Steve Jobs says so long to the House of Mouse

And I'm behind them 100%.

Return of the King Sweeps Academy Awards

Lord of the Rings: Return of the King picked up eleven Academy Award nominations, including the really important ones like Art Direction, Music: Original Score, and, of course, Costume Design (go Ngila!).

And Mum, Johnny Depp was nominated for Best Actor for his performance in Pirates of the Caribbean. Woo-hoo!

Today is Mozart's birthday, as well. Just thought you all should know.

Costume Geek

Oh, gods, I'm a geek. Have I mentioned recently how much of a geek I am?

No reason, really; this is just a random geek-out moment. Actually, yes, there is a reason; I've just spent way too much time poring through costume photos from The Return of the King, specifically the gorgeous selection of Arwen gowns. I am a sad, sad, costume geek.

A geek, I tell you.

My vices could be worse.

B12

I love Baker's 12. I really, really do.

Case in point:

meanwhile...
"I told you so."
"Shut up."

meanwhile...

It takes a talented and gutsy author to attempt a section of narrative like that. It takes an even rarer author to make it work. (Did I say gutsy? Maybe I mean arrogant. Gutsy just doesn't describe t! very well. Neither does daring. If I use the word arrogant, I mean it with all respect, of course. And he has every right to be arrogant. He's good.)

t! is one of those authors who pushes boundaries, limits, and envelopes. I'm using this particular example of his work because Ceri and I were in the room when he created it, and I loved it. (I'd link him here, but I know his site address is about to change, so why increase my update work? Look for the Teddybear Sawdust Show in the links bar to the right.)

How to describe Baker's 12?

Well, the first thing I'd tell a potential reader is that it's an exciting, challenging, experimental narrative. It involves the concepts of time travel, and situational ethics, two of my favourites. It's character-driven as well as plot-driven, and it assumes that you have intelligence. That means it doesn't cater to the lowest common denominator; I used the word challenging on purpose. It employs elements such as humour, gritty action, historical settings, assumptions, group politics, and red herrings, handling them all with aplomb.

What keeps me reading it? The fact that I can see a pattern emerging. Why did I keep plugging away at it, even though it wasn't a linear story? The storytelling style, and the characters. I love that I can tell what character is in a particular situation just by the style of dialogue. The older I get, the more impatient I become with description-laden narrative. B12 takes the opposite tack, allowing you, the reader, to co-create the world with the author.

As I hate reading large amounts of text on-line, I recently printed all of B12 out and put it in a binder. I sat up until two in the morning in bed reading by candlelight while my husband slept, because I couldn't put the damned thing down. What I discovered is that as much fun as reading the weekly installment is, the true patterns don't emerge until you can read the whole thing in one shot. That's another part of the author's genius: accomplishing small entertaining bite-size bits, while simultaneously creating something larger.

So yes. Baker's 12. Read it. Challenge your preconceived expectations of linear narrative, and discover that you're actually smarter than you thought you were. And enjoy some darned fine fiction while you're at it.

Update January 27 2004: t! has now officially moved his site. Click through to read the Teddybear Sawdust Show! and Baker's 12. What are you waiting for?

Cello Strings

This has never happened to me - usually I break a new A string by tuning it too quickly - but I have so much sympathy for him.

I have two concerts coming up within two weeks, and I've just realised that I need to replace my strings - all of them. I put a full set of Eudoxa gut strings on my cello in September of 2002 as an experiment, because I love the deep mellow sound gut produces. The D string broke first, followed shortly by the A. My emergency replacement A string is now unravelling (no surprise there; it's a Thomastik Dominant, and the wrapping on Dominant A strings is coarse and dreadful); my replacement D string was salvaged from my original overstretched Aricore set that was put on six years ago; and the G and D strings are still the gut strings that have now stretched beyond proper sonority. I hadn't realised all of this until lately, now that I've been really digging into the lower strings (love that Beethoven!).

I guess I know where the student payments that are beginning to trickle in for the new semester are going.

Beethoven's Ninth, Round One

Yesterday was the first rehearsal for Beethoven's Ninth. Walked in, sat down, smiled at the bassist, said hello to the cellists I played with last November, and set up. The conductor (who's a riot) announced that just for kicks, we'd start off with the fourth movement.

Yes. The movement. It's what the Ninth Symphony is all about, really.

Autumn: Erk! Gulp!

(You see, the cellos figure prominently in the forth movement. Erk, indeed.)

And then the conductor lifts his head from his score and says, "Is that good for you, Brad? Can you do half a rehearsal here, then half off wherever else you need to be?"

Naturally, not knowing everyone in this symphony orchestra, I turn my head to follow his line of sight. As I do, a voice says, "No, I'm all yours today. It's good."

I blink. I know Brad. Last time I saw him was, oh, seven years ago.

So we play (and what a ride, to sight-read the fourth movement of Beethoven's Ninth - I mean, really), the cellos get lots of compliments, and eventually we break. I put away my cello and get my water bottle, then pick a path through the chaos of instruments and people wandering around playing random bits of music to themselves all the way to the back where Brad sits with his trumpet on his lap, talking with someone else who is, oh my gods, the music teacher from my old high school.

I wait politely until they've finished their current topic of conversation, and when Brad turns to me, I say, "Last time I saw you, you were standing in the doorway to my apartment, holding out a bottle of IBC root beer and telling me that you couldn't stay for my housewarming."

We exclaim and laugh a bit and catch up on the past seven years. He's married too. He compliments me on having reached a level of ability equivalent to playing with this symphony (and ooh, didn't my ego need that bit of bolstering). Then he turns to introduce me to his friend Murray. I smile and say, "Yes, Murray Rosenhek. You taught music at Mac High while I was there."

He charmingly admitted that he didn't remember me, which was highly amusing since, as I quickly assured him, I never took one of his classes. All my friends took music, but as our school didn't teach strings, I took drama instead. When he asked with whom, and I told him Elaine Evans, he said, "Oh, that was twenty years ago!" as if that explained his memory lapse. Brad got a good laugh out of it.

It was good to share memories with someone who had been instrumental (if you'll pardon the pun) in getting me into orchestral playing. It all began rather oddly. Brad, having access to Concordia's database of students, contacted me via e-mail with compliments after he'd seen me sing in LLO's production of The Pirates of Penzance. We started messaging, got to know one another, hung out a bit, and then one day he proposed an interesting gig: his wind orchestra was performing a really modern symphony by Johan de Meij called Lord of the Rings, and they had the idea of writing a dramatic narrative to introduce the symphony as a whole, as well as the individual movements. Would I be interested in performing something like that? And did I know someone with a good deep voice who could co-narrate with me?

Heck, yes!

Thus it was that Tal and I were guest performers with the Lakeshore Concert Band in May of 1998. (Okay, so Brad and I haven't seen one another in six years. Feels like longer.) One of the last times I saw Brad was when he invited me along with some of the concert band to attend a Canada Day chamber orchestra concert in Pointe-Claire village. They all urged me to talk to the conductor and ask about joining. As secure as I was in my dramatic abilities, I was just as insecure about my cellistic talents, and as much as I wanted to play with an ensemble the level of technique displayed in the concert scared the hell out of me.

Has anyone made the connection yet?

Yes. I eventually managed to screw up the courage to call that conductor and inquire about a place for a cellist in the Lakeshore Chamber Orchestra. It's now my third season with them.

And now Brad and I are playing together in Cantabile. Small world, indeed.

What Life?

No, really. I could play with this for days. Tune my cello, mess up the pegs, tune it again...

Life? What life?

Shelf to Shelf

I moved a whack of books around last week, putting my music and art books up front in the bay window alcove (you know, where I actually play the cello) and bringing my Craft books into the office (you know, where I write/edit Craft-related stuff and have an altar). It makes a heck of a lot more sense. I also somehow ended up with an empty shelf and a half left over when all was said and done. I'm not questioning that particular miracle, because I might wake up and discover that it was all a dream. When HRH came home that day he looked at it and remarked that I'd better buy more more books to fill them, because they look awful. I have a wonderful husband. He may mock me, but he mocks me with words I can twist to my own ends.

Anywhats. Point is, I moved the books. I evidently still haven't updated the shortcut in my mind, however, because when I need a Craft reference I'm still getting up from the computer and walking through the living room, all the way into the front alcove, only to stand and blink at the case of music texts. Then I kick myself and walk all the way back into the office. I moved things to make life easier and more efficient. So far, I've succeeded only in confusing myself and making myself feel stupid.

Things will improve.

I'm currently twisting my husband's mind by playing the Matrix Revolutions score, Tori Amos' Tales of a Librarian, Radio Sunnydale, the Metallica-playing cellos of Apocalyptica, and the Return of the King score on random. I can hear the radical shifting of gears his brain makes when the shuffle function engages. For some reason, though, the player is inordinately fond of RotK, which is partly disappointing, and partly amusing, because it really lulls HRH into a sense of complacency subsequently exploded by something antithetical.

I Could Grow To Like This

Words that are still odd to hear from my husband:

"I finished my book and I want to read the next one. Can we go to the bookstore?"

I weep with joy. Bernard Cornwell, you and Sharpe are my new heroes.

Hanging With Dave

Ah, yes, working in the book world is so taxing, you know. Rubbing shoulders with the talented and famous... it's a task that someone must perform, and I have nobly dedicated myself to the path. For example, here is a shot of me hanging out with Dave Duncan.

Yes, that Dave Duncan.

To see more, you can go check out the Nebula/Melange Magique Con*Cept'03 photo gallery.

Bittersweet Nostalgia

This was a particularly bittersweet weekend, now that I look back on it.

Saturday was Montreal's F/SF convention, and it was glorious to be back in the midst of adult geekdom. I saw people I hadn't seen in years, talked SF talk I hadn't heard from my own lips in ages. The main difference between working with the occult community is that people come into a store asking you to save their lives and solve their problems. In the SF book community, the worst thing that happens is they bore you with all the details of a story.

I met two wonderful authors whom I'd never met before, and spent time with two others I had met way back when I was still working at the F/SF bookshop. I met famous artists and other funky retailers (let's face it, a convention is for networking as well as enjoying). And I counted at least six NaNo participants who ought to have been at home writing. Okay, three of us were working, but still. And there were probably more that I didn't recognise on sight.

I had to field repeated eager queries regarding our defunct F/SF bookstore, which was the bitter part. It closed three and a half years ago due to loss of customer base to the big box stores like Indigo and Chapters. We resurrected the store sign to hang next to the author signing table for the duration of the convention, and while it was a terrific idea, it dredged up all sorts of cry-in-your-beer feelings among ex-staff and customers alike.

I've been struggling with that cold for about five days now, and medication made me foolishly think that my vivacious rosy-cheeked healthy appearance at the convention was a reflection of reality. To my deep disappointment I awoke on Sunday feeling like someone had pummeled me all night and poured sand into my mouth. I was stiff all over, and the sinus congestion, hoarse voice and runny nose were present once again.

If I'd been able to stay home on Sunday it would have been ideal. I had a rehearsal for one orchestra and a concert for the other, however, so off I went. We've lost yet another cello in my new orchestra, so they put me in the second chair next to the principal, which scared the hell out of me. I've had the music for two weeks and frankly, I suck. I was feeling dreadful as I packed up after rehearsal when one of the other cellists stopped me and said that if our mythical replacement cellist didn't arrive for the dress rehearsal and concert, she'd sit in the second chair. I fell over myself thanking her. She proceeded to give me a lovely pep talk, telling me that I was doing just fine, that it was difficult to come into any group a couple of weeks before performance, and to do so when the piece was the Elgar was even more difficult. She was absolutely darling, and so genuine that I walked away feeling much better. On top of that, they've asked me if I'd be interested in playing Beethoven's Ninth Symphony with them in February, and of course I said yes.

My husband had baked peanut butter cookies and prepared a roast beef dinner for me, so I was fed and warmed for a bit before we dashed off to my LCO concert. I have to say that this was the unexpected highlight of the day, and definitely among the top three performances the orchestra has pulled off in the last couple of years. It was thrilling, absolutely thrilling, and it's unfortunate that we had only a half house. My stand partner turned to me and said, "Seems like this will be one of those nights where the peformers outnumber the audience." "They call this intimate," I told him with a grin. We blew them away, and it's a pity that more people couldn't be there for it. Heck, even I didn't want to be there: I wanted a warm bath, candles, bed, and cats. I felt completely energised when we left, though, a complete switch from the dragging reluctance I'd experienced on the way in. Kudos to Ceri and my husband for making it out to support us. At least we have proof that the night was stunningly succesful on the artistic front, if not the financial front.

So yes, my overall weekend was quite bittersweet. Good things; painful things. I haven't added to my NaNo word count since last Tuesday. Ceri's coming over for another round of dueling laptops today, and I'm hoping to double my current total. I've lost five days due to work and illness, although I've been writing in my notebook at bus stops and so forth. I have major catching up to do. It will be nice to sit and create as opposed to running about like a mad thing. Lots of tea, more peanutbutter cookies, and a hot tasty supper will go a long way towards kicking this cold, too.

Fall Concert Reminder!

This reminder deserves a post of its own.

It's time for the Lakeshore Chamber Orchestra fall 2003 concert!

Over three decades old, this orchestra continues its strong presence within the Montreal community under new conductor Douglas Knight. The fall concert features Schubert's Third Symphony, a La Traviata prelude, Mozart's Andante for Flute and Orchestra, Rossini's Italian in Algiers overture, the second movement of J.C. Bach's Cello Concerto, and Mozart's Paris Symphony.

The concert takes place on Sunday November 9th at 7:30 PM in the St. Joh Fisher Church, corner of Summerhill and Valois Bay Avenue in Valois, Pointe-Claire. Admission is $10 for adults; students and children 18 and under are admitted free of charge.

Take an evening off and enjoy some spectacular music!

Inopportune and SF (Not Related)

I have a cold.

This would be a yucky thing at any time, but I am currently in the middle of a ton of Real-Life work that is pushing aside regualrly scheduled stuff like orchestra, practicing (yes, it does happen), teaching, prep work for teaching, and writing.

Not only that, I'm working a convention this weekend. What convention, you ask? Why, ConCept 2003!

Do you like fantasy or science fiction and live in Montreal or nearby?

Do you know someone who likes science fiction or fantasy?

This Saturday is the 2003 edition of ConCept, Montreal's annual non-profit, volunteer-run science fiction and fantasy convention. This year's guest lineup is very impressive. There will be guest of honour speeches, discussion panels, gaming, author signings, a dealers' room, screenings, a charity auction, an art show, and more.

Check out the website for information: www.monsffa.com/concept2003.html

What the website won't tell you:

Robert J. Sawyer, 2003 Hugo award winner, will be there.
Karl Schroeder, 2003 Aurora award winner, will be there.

Admission info etc is on the site. Things kick off at 9:00 AM.

So yeah. I'm currently experiencing severe withdrawal from my NaNo work, as well as crushing guilt over the fact that I wanted to have a ton of exam and homework correction done this week. And on top of it all, I'm fighting this rotten sinus/throat/chest thing.

I'm grumpy.

I wrote 1,035 words before

I wrote 1,035 words before bed last night. Not bad for forty-five minutes of work. Of course, everyone's word counts leapfrogged past me today while I was teaching and rehearsing. My revenge is to write while they're all off at a Hallowe'en party tonight. Muah-hah-hah-hah.

The Elgar Variations are dizzyingly difficult. The Puccini seems to be intuitive, but Elgar constantly changes tempo and rhythm, and thinks accidentals are integral, which sort of defeats the purpose of an accidental. And he obviously wasn't a cellist - or, if he was, he was a virtuoso who thinks all celli ought to be able to play treble clef at high speed.

Emily, my noble foe, already it begins. Your 3,072 words mock me. Fear my psychic ferret.

Current word count of Balsamic Moon: 1,035

Not Wholly Embarrassing

The first rehearsal went rather well for someone sight-reading dramatic tempo changes and key changes all over the map.

We played the Puccini Credo, which always gives me weak knees. To play it was an incredible experience. I'm going to have to put in a lot of focused rehearsal time over the next two and a half weeks in order to catch up. It will be wonderfully worth it, though.

Orchestra No. 2

It's official - I'm playing in Cantabile's November 15 concert. Details are below on the left in the Autumn Is Performing box. If you're a fan of vocals or choral music, this is the one to go to; Puccini's Messa di Gloria is something else again.

And look what I found: photos from the LCO Canada Day concert! This is a beautiful shot of my back:

Yes, that's the lovely black linen dress I found for summer concerts. Too bad you can't see the shoes I found to go with it...

More Orchestra?

I was offered a place in a second orchestra last night. Nothing says "You're more talented than you think you are" like someone else asking you to come in to support a weak cello section, let me tell you. Autumn to the rescue!

Interestingly enough, Cantabile was founded by my current LCO conductor, Douglas Knight, though it's been led by Peter Willsher for a few years now. Go figure.

Cantabile is a choral group with a full orchestra. On November 15 in a Lachine they're performing Puccini's Messa di Gloria and Elgar's Enigma Variations. Since this is rescue operation, I don't know whether I'll stay on full-time, especially as rehearsals overlap a bit with the class I teach on Sundays. However, for the three weeks until the concert, I can be flexible.

The odd part is that the choir is peppered with people I used to sing with about ten years ago. It's going to be a bit awkward, I think. I'm a very different person, I use a different name, and, well, I'm not as mousy and tremblingly polite as I used to be. I probably still be polite, of course. It won't be the same, though. Am I making sense? I'm a whole decade older; I like to think I'll be comfortable enough to walk away and enjoy being by myself as opposed to empowering others by being a patronised audience.

In all likelihood l'm being very uncharitable, and they'll all probably be delighted to see me. Besides, I'm focusing more on the fact that this is going to be an excellent test of my sight-reading; there are only three regular rehearsals before the concert, after all.

Author Event

I just received news that the annual Hallowe'en party for which I create my costume has been cancelled this year. On one hand, this is bad news; I love this party. On the other hand, it's just fine, because the only investment I've made in my costume this year so far is make-up. It also means I can tuck this idea away and use it next year. Voila! I am so prepared for 2004!

I had a wonderul weekend with Trish Telesco, our most recent visiting author. It's always a good sign when the first thing an author says after she's introduced to you is, "She's wonderful! Can I take her home?" Turns out she's done work under a pen name in the past for the US publisher I've signed on with, so we ended up talking business about potential titles over dinner on Saturday night. (Further proof that it is, indeed, a Very Small World.) There was a moment over dessert that made me freeze up under a coolness wave, when I realised that if she writes a title for this new series, I'll be writing a two-page preface for it.

Having worked in the book business for twelve years means that I've met more than my share of authors, and have discovered that they're Just People. More than that, being a writer myself, I know that creating books is Work, Hard Work. So when I hang out with authors, they're just people who do the same thing I do. Of course, there's a tiny part of my brain screaming that they're Famous People Who Do What I Do, but that's the fangirl part of me which is kept firmly under control. (At least, gods, I hope so! I don't remember ever gushing to any of the authors I've hosted...)

Caution: Rant

I have to rant.

If you work in a bookstore, and a book has in its title, oh, I don't know, "Wicca", and you have a section called "Wicca", don't you think the book should go in that section instead of a completely unrelated section? (Substitute "Christianity", or "Buddhism", or whatever floats your boat. It goes in that section, not a section marked "Islam" or "VoDoun".)

And if you're shelving a book, shouldn't it go next to the other copies of that book already on the shelf, rather than two shelves below it next to a completely different book? (If you try to use the shelving by title excuse, you automatically die.)

If someone wants to pay me for reshelving books that are already put out, I'll do it. But otherwise, there's no excuse. If you're a bookstore employee and have been for any period of time over one month, you should understand the sections of that bookstore (clearly marked) and the methods of operation utilised within that bookstore (clearly outlined in the handbook and reiterated several times at staff meetings).

On the other hand, the graffitti in high school washrooms amuses me. They call each other "hoes". I wonder if they understand that by misspelling the insult, they're comparing themselves to gardening implements.

TV Date!

Okay, so I was wrong about the vanishing thing. I worked late on the publishing stuff last night, and I needed to be online for it, so I posted a few times.

The cool part is that I finished around eleven, when my husband arrived home to switch on the TV and discovered, completely by accident, the very first episode of Angel, season five. Swoon! I have a new TV date!

Hug Your Librarian

Since no one else is going to say it:

Today is the feast-day of Saint Jerome, patron saint of librarians.

Here's to those brave souls who deal with people who don't know their alphabets or can't read signs that plainly indicate that books are not to be reshelved, and who are the keepers of worlds of wonder.

Here's to those men and women who seek to add to their collections in order to offer the greatest range of knowledge to seekers.

And here's to those moms and dads who read to their kids, encouraging a life-long love for literature and a thirst for story.

Hip hip hurrah!

Underworld Review

Out of the goodness of my heart I now provide you with a review of Underworld, the new Gothic action film about to open in theatres everywhere.

My take on it:

Some guys got together and said, "Hey, let's make a vampire action movie!" And then, someone said, "Hey, let's add werewolves!" Cool action scenes were carefully storyboarded, an art director was hired and reduced the story team to gooey messes of tears and envy, a costumer clothed the characters in utter coolness.

Then they said, "Oh, yeah. We should probably have a story to link the action scenes together."

So they dragged out the old patriarch-perpetuates-lie-to-maintain-control thing, plus the heroine-must-discover-truth-of-her-past trope, and even threw in the sons-plotting-against-the-father bit. Too bad none of the characters had chemistry, there was no true emotion found anywhere except in a flashback sequence, and the story didn't show up until the last twenty minutes in an expository info-dump. (And no, I don't mean the explanation of an aggregate of clues; I mean the entire story.)

In general, we agreed that the art direction was terrific, the effects were well-done, and that the music was great. As the credits rolled, t! was heard to ask plaintively (but very audibly), "Where were the vampires?" This is a gaping absence in the film. There are werewolves a-plenty, but their antagonists appear to be people in long coats with guns (and poor night vision, but that's another issue entirely). If a vampire character was threatened, their first line of defence was to open their mouths and hiss for a long time. If I were the werewolf attacking, I'd just rip their throat out and terminate the posturing, end of encounter.

Actually, as an editor-type, those over-used long pauses pained me. I'd have cut most of the long lingering shots where nothing happened and no emotion was expressed, and used the time instead to focus on character development or establishment of plot in an interactive fashion. But that's just me. Hollywood's average offerings and I aren't best buddies.

The upshot of it all? Do not under any circumstances pay full price. See it on a pass or on a cheap night, and only if you are completely obsessed with dystopic Gothic dark-and-pained situations. We got exactly what we expected: a B-movie with beaucoup de fromage, and cool clothes.

The best part of the night, however, was that my husband and I Went Out. We dressed up, had dinner, went to the theatre for the premiere, where friends and co-workers were happy to see us. It was good. When we returned home we did, however, have to watch an episode of Angel from the season two box set to take the dry taste of badly-portrayed vampires out of our mouths.

It's My Sandbox

I know I haven't been terribly communicative, but it's my sandbox, and I'll play when I want to. Expect me to be very absent over the weekends, because I simply have no time or inclination to fire up BiFrost, Computer of the Gods after three solid days of teaching.

It's been a pretty exhausting weekend. Apart from the teaching of four three-hour classes, there was a birthday gathering, and three seperate stressful situations that I was involved in or peripheral to. The highly ironic aspect of the weekend was courtesy of the stress-management lecture I gave, and the subsequent lecture I taught on how to function as an effective counsellor.

(See, Tal? Those ten-plus years of offering you tea after a break-up gave me training! Thanks!)

I will not go into details, because all of it's confidential. As a priestess and a teacher I function as a counsellor, and I stick to a counsellor's rules of engagement. I can, however, offer you my basic conclusions:

A) People in general have to smarten up and become aware that there are other individuals in the world around them who matter too. Grow out of the six-year-old I'm-the-centre-of-the-universe identity thing, and join the adult perception of cause and effect. Please.

B) Common sense is all too uncommon. I think it's connected to (A) somehow.

C) Taking advantage of others just sucks, okay?

D) While it's acceptable to feel tear-limb-from-limb anger, acting on it is a no-no.

Today is dreary and I have candles lit to help cheer things up while I read an excellent book for review. If anyone wants to take a look at how and why a Wiccan ritual is set up the way it is, read Deborah Lipp's Elements of Ritual.

I'm also reading Sarah Water's Fingersmith, a stunningly well-plotted and -written work about a Victorian underworld scheme to liberate an heiress from her fortune. I'm taking Jacqueline Carey's Kushiel's Avatar in small mouthfuls to savour it, unlike my consumption of the previous two books in the series when they were released. And I'm still going at Hermione Lee's Virginia Woolf and Lucasta Miller's The Bronte Myth. The latter isn't so much a biography as an examination of the whole marketing/legend that has grown about the Bronte family. Fascinating stuff, if you're a literature addict or a Victorian pop culture nut (score two for me!).

I think I'll go for a walk. Fresh air, some rain, exercise, maybe the used book store.

Oh. My. God.

Neil Gaiman sent me my next story assignment.

No, I don't mean I've been inspired by something he wrote or a quote on his blog. Nothing so abstract.

There was a postcard in my mailbox this afternoon from Neil Gaiman. And he used green ink in his fountain pen.

The address part was, of course, filled in with Ceri's neat printing. I expect that this is her delicious secret. I thought that it had something to do with Scott's birthday, but apparently not.

I'm rather stunned.

Oh, the topic?

A line of people that never ends...

Which, when you think about it, really sums up the moment in which it was written.

Mailbox Love

I got free books in the mail today!

Okay, I have to write reviews on them, but they're free books! I love this job! (Freelance writing, that is.)

Friends are at the Toronto WorldCon this weekend (affectionately known as TorCon), revelling in the total immersion of things speculative. The irony of the situation is that I, too, will be in Toronto this weekend. Just not at TorCon. Alas.

(I should get Ceri back for being In The Presence of Neil Gaiman Without Me by writing a single story for her which contains all four assigned story points I haven't yet addressed. Ha.)

CD Recall

Who has our Merlin soundtrack CD?

I ask because I'm currently listening to a King Arthur opus on Saturday Afternoon At The Opera, and I don't want words while I write, but now I'm on an Arthurian music kick. And, stunningly enough, we don't own any Arthurian-related music. Except - that's right - the Merlin soundtrack.

Only it's not here. And I vaguely remember lending it to someone over a year ago.

Was it you?

(Note to self: Update ye olde Wishe Liste...)

Personal

The Alan Moore Fan Site quotes Kevin O'Neill on LXG (no, I haven't seen it yet, and likely won't until I come across it in a Video Rental Emporium someday):

Also, O'Neill gave his thoughts on the film, currently in theaters, based upon the series he and Moore created. He "actually liked" it. "We knew for a year that they weren't adapting the comic," says O'Neill. "They just bought the premise."

Meanwhile, rumours that Moore's ABC line will fold all lament the loss of Top Ten and hope that League will indeed continue, but no mention is made anywhere of Promethea, one of the best books I've read in a long, long time, and currently the only serial I still purchase on an issue-by-issue basis as opposed to in collected graphic novel format.

It's personal, isn't it.

I thought so.

Azkaban!

For all of you who have been asking me (and why me?), the third Potter film is being released next May (yes, a Harry Potter film and the Hellboy film within the same month - it's too much happiness).

Nifty photos:

Hermione threatening Malfoy

Sirius Black and Remus Lupin

Michael Gambon as the new Dumbledore

I was struck by how much older the kids look (yeah, yeah, I know, a year between films) until it was all put into persective for me. Someone at pointed out that if you calculate by the year in the first book (which is 1991), Harry (and Neville, come to think of it) turned 23 last week. Gulp.

The Club Dumas

I'm currently reading The Club Dumas and enjoying every moment. I do wish I had a copy of The Three Musketeers on hand, though, for easy access. The illustrations referred to in the other pertinent title in the story (the mythical "Book of the Nine Doors") are actually included in the text, and believe me, there's lots of reference and flipping of pages going on. I highly recommend it if you have any interest in the occult, the antiquarian book trade, or French history. And serial stories, of course.

I've been having trouble catching my breath all day. I wonder if it's the humidity.

And about the Vatican issuing an official document opposing the legalisation of same-sex marriages: anyone else remember the phrase "seperation of church and state?"

Shivers

I just experienced the most delicious shiver down my spine.

While I've been looking forward to The Return of the King this winter, I somehow completely overlooked the fact that the third installment in Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings film epic means a Return of the King soundtrack from Howard Shore.

I'd better start making room on my CD shelves now.

Tori Amos Tour

Tori Amos will be in Toronto this August 13th on her LottaPianos tour. I, however, will be in Pennsylvania.

Sigh.

Neil Gaiman on seeing Tori at some point during this North American tour: And no, I don't yet know which ones I'll be going to. Given that this is going to be the last time she'll be on the road until at least 2005, I want to make as many as I can. ("Look, I'll just ride in the bus and write a book. You'll hardly even notice me. Promise.")

As if Neil Gaiman could ever not be noticed.

Growl

Joy. Remember I was growling about how the power was supposed to be turned off last week, and it never was, so I wasted a whole day of work? Guess what happened this morning with no warning at all.

Blogger had a hiccup yesterday and ate not only the penultimate post on the Hogwarts quiz, but the ultimate post I did on Frida Kahlo as well.

So, to recap:

Apparently Defence Against the Dark Arts would be my best class if I attended Hogwarts. Hmm. I thought for sure it would be History of Magic.

July 6, 1907 was Frida Kahlo's birthday, although she popularised her birthdate as July 7, 1910 to identify herself with the new Mexico born with the outbreak of the Mexican revolution.

Currently, my favourite work of Kahlo's is her Self-Portrait, 1926; I find it quite Mona Lisa-like: mysterious, solemn, quirky, and each time that I see it I come to a different decision regarding what lies behind those eyes. Here she is.

(The original post was longer, and more articulate. Really.)

t! on the Muppets

Some of my regular readers might not click randomly on links, so I want to draw your attention to t!, a man I've known for thirteen years. Long ago, we bonded over Shakespeare, Star Wars, pasta, and the Muppets.

[...] The real magic was on The Muppet Show.

It wasn't aimed at kids. At least one third of it was musical numbers. It was vaudeville, on the medium that killed vaudeville. For those who could still appreciate vaudeville. Adults. But their children knew the Muppets, so we watched Kermit in his night job, when he wasn't reporting for Muppet News.

And we got show tunes. Stand up comedy. And awful, awful puns. Plus just about every other entertainment staple you can think of: Stuntmen, jugglers, science fiction, hospital drama, sportscasting, westerns, educational science films (?!), Grand Guignol, a piano man, a full orchestra, a modern rock band, even heckling for crying out loud, and all of it aimed over our heads like a boomerang fish.

So what happened? We raised our heads.

He's perfected the art of debating, pushing his limits and yours to force growth, and he also happens to be one of the most intelligent people I know. And, like the Muppets, his writing refuses to make it easier; you have to raise your head. What are you waiting for? Go read Baker's 12.

How to Screen Dates With Books

How to Screen Dates With Books by Jessa Crispin.

Featuring the following all-too-recognisable warning:

Also, reading comic books in public is a good way to attract boys. However, you may also have to put up with sexist geek boys saying things like, "You're a girl! And you're reading a comic!" Luckily their heads will probably explode after a minute or so, leaving the area clear for a real catch.

If only that were true. Alas.

Have I mentioned recently that I worked four years in this city's only F/SF book and comic shop?

Birthday and Rehearsals

At last - cooler temperatures. Hurrah! I slept the night through and I'm extremely pleased.

We had a three-hour orchestra rehearsal yesterday afternoon, and wow, what a workout. By the end I was making clumsy mistakes in passages that I know I've flawlessly played through before. I also know there are a couple of spots that I really ought to practice today until my fingers bleed. Well, maybe not that far, but at least until muscle memory ensures that I can play them without tripping up tomorrow night.

And on the birthday front, I not only have chocolate liquer (mmm) and a new cyclamen plant, but thanks to a united effort from MLG, Annika and Tara, I am now the proud owner of a Tara Bisset original! It's a mirror with a wide frame, which features painted owls something like those at the Dance on the Sidewalk! web site, but with colours chosen especially for me. Owlies! Yay! They now hang by my front door, reminding me to smile and dance every time I leave to go out into world, and when I come home, too.

Concert Prep

Hot.

Okay, give me a break; I'm not exactly working at full power, here. Sure, Montrealers are used to 35 degree Celsius temperatures that feel like 45 degrees thanks to the humidex factor (for those of you who still work on the Farenheit system, that's something like 95 degrees and 113 degrees), but we usually work up to it slowly over a month. This week it was bang, suddenly hot and humid, with temperatures ten degrees over the average seasonal. Looks like things will cool off nicely over the next few days, though, with a beautiful clear Canada Day of about 25 degrees.

Speaking of Canada Day, yes, it's concert-plugging time! Please note that the concert actually begins at 8 PM, and yes, it's free. It's being held at St Joachim Church in Pointe-Claire Village, below the Lakeshore, right on the waterfront; you can take the 211 bus from Lionel-Groulx metro. Free classical music! Culture! And as a bonus, the fireworks are scheduled for ten PM, right after we finish, and the church steps are a glorious spot from which to watch them.

I found a lovely black linen sleeveless dress for summer concerts on sale yesterday. I might have confused the salesgirl by scouting around for a small stool while I had it on. What's the point of buying a concert dress if you're not certain it will allow you to hold the cello between your legs? The one I really liked, with a woven linen design along the v-neck and the hem, I had to put back because I couldn't set my feet far enough apart. The one I ended up with runs aclose second, though, and is elegant and understated. Now, of course, since I have a new black linen dress, I need dressy black sandals to go with it. I sense a trip to Angrignon Mall tomorrow...

HP:OotP Countdown

In honour of today being the last day before Order of the Phoenix Day (come on, you know that most of the world thinks of it that way instead of as the Summer Solstice!), here are a couple of intelligent Harry Potter links that I’ve been keeping my eye on:

The Leaky Cauldron

The Hogwarts Wire

From The Hogwarts Wire today:

Rowling: Occult accusations are 'utter garbage'
JK Rowling hates accusations that Harry Potter turns kids onto occult. "I think that's utter garbage," Rowling tells Katie Couric in an upcoming TV interview. "I absolutely do not believe in the occult, practice the occult. I've never ... I've met literally thousands of children now. Not one of them has said you've really turned me on to the occult. Now, I'm convinced that if that's what my books were doing, I would by now have met one child who would have come up to me, covered in pentagrams and said, 'Can we go and sacrifice a goat later together?'"

So there. Honestly.

Classics scholars will get a kick out of this one, posted on April 17, 2003:

Here comes Harrius Potter et Philosophi Lapis
Bloomsbury recently announced they will be publishing a Latin edition of The Philosopher's Stone. Harrius Potter et Philosophi Lapis comes out in hardcover this June along with a Welsh version. Harry Potter has been published in 40 languages already and Gaelic and Ancient Greek versions of the first edition should come out in 2004.

Both sites are great; they report a lot of the same articles, but with different spins. Despite the fact that both the above quotes come from the Wire, I actually prefer the Leaky Cauldron.

And is it just me, or does Harry look an awful lot like Tim Hunter on the US cover of Order of the Phoenix?

Grieg Is Benched

We were stuffed into the little music room last night, as the school auditorium where we usually rehearse was being used for graduation exercises. The heat was awful; there's little ventilation, and about forty musicians playing lively stuff.

A decent rehearsal overall; we got some bad news, though. The Grieg is being cut from the program. A wind player exclaimed in relief when it was announced, and my stand partner seemed approving. I was apparently the only one who was disappointed, and I was sitting right in front of the conductor. "We could do it if we had just two more weeks," I said. He smiled and shrugged at me, spreading his hands in a "no choice" sort of gesture. I love the Grieg, and I've worked really hard on it. Ah, well. We've been promised that it will be rescheduled, perhaps for our next concert in the fall.

I notice that it's raining. That might be my fault. I decided yesterday afternoon that it would be nice to have my husband home today. He hasn't come back yet, though; it probably won't be much longer, since it's hard to mow in the rain. Think of it this way: if it's raining now, maybe it will actually be sunny on the weekend for a change.

Bookstores

So naturally now that I have a lovely big pile of books of and about Norse mythology, I've decided I'd rather be reading fiction.

This necessitated a spontaneous trip downtown to second-hand bookstores, where I found four (yes four) out-of-print fantasy titles, plus a Terry Pratchett book (who sells off their Pratchett?), and a nearly-new copy of a recently published book. Then as I wandered through Chapters with my notebook, taking down more titles to look for in second-hand shops, I came across a discounted hardcover edition of a title I'd noted down almost a year ago. Yay me.

What a gorgeous day; it was so nice to be strolling city streets. Everyone's in a much better mood come the beginning of summer. It won't last long, of course; soon everyone will moan about the humidity and the heat. Until then, however, I'll enjoy the sun and the smiles.

Diana Krall

I'm always impressed and approve of the courage it takes when someone admits that they were wrong, so I thought I'd extend the same courtesy to you all by taking this opportunity to tell you about today's discovery of my own error in judgement.

It's about Diana Krall.

I'm a jazz fan, particularly of big band and swing, Porter and Gershwin; I especially enjoy vocalists like Sarah Vaughn and Ella Fitzgerald. I heard a clip from a very early Diana Krall album a few years ago and hated it. The steadily increasing Krall-appreciation in Canada left a bad taste in my mouth.

Enter Chrysler. Yes, the car company.

Classy car commercials impress me as much as beer ads do not. The use of black and white film and jazz in the soundtrack grab me every time. I got sick of "The Look of Love" when these commercials first debuted on TV, but for the past month I've been clicking the mute function off when the new Pacifica ad runs, because I love the clip they use of "Charmed Life". ("Does she come with the car?" my father wanted to know when the first Krall Chrysler ads came out. Be glad you live in Canada, Dad; south of the border they use Celine Dion for a soundtrack.)

If I'm turning up the volume to listen to thirty seconds of car commercial soundtrack, I might as well admit to myself that I want to hear the whole song.

I turned to the Wide World of Web to find out which album contained "Charmed Life", and discovered that to my dismay it exists solely as a Canadian bonus track on the live album or Look of Love, which means that both are collectibles and priced accordingly, between forty and fifty dollars, even on Canadian sites.

I stopped by Future Shop to buy a non-moving part today, and on a whim I checked the CD section.

Look at that. Diana Krall, Live in Paris. With the Canadian bonus track "Charmed Life". And a pleasant price sticker that tells me it's priced at fifteen ninety-nine.

Score one for Autumn and Diana Krall.

I love this album. "Charmed Life" is even more fabulous in its full 2:48 minutes of glory. And she does a terrific cover of Joni Mitchell's "Case of You".

So, I freely admit that I was wrong. Diana Krall's great. I love her voice. I love her style. (Well, her current style; I might not be as enamoured of her earlier albums.) She's not Ella Fitzgerald, but she isn't trying to be. Plus, she's Canadian. Yay her.

I may not have bought a car as a result of those Chrysler ads, but I've discovered a new jazz pianist and vocalist. If anyone wants to surprise me with a PT Cruiser, however, I still won't say no. It has to have a DVD player in it, though, so I can play my new Diana Krall CD and pretend I'm in my own commercial.

Finding Nemo

By the end of the afternoon I was in a full-out Mood: irritable, on the verge of angry tears for no reason, and the attention span of a cat I won’t mention out of respect to Catdom. So when my husband got home I told him that I wanted to go out, right now. I could see him try to sort through our options: it was five-thirty on a Monday night. Then I made an executive decision and told him that we were going to see Finding Nemo. And off we went.

Before we did, though, I stopped by the bank, put in the thirty-dollar cheque Champlain College had sent me for my guest lecturing services, and bought highlighters and a new blank notebook for research, because I’m two pages away from finishing the one I’ve got. That plus the definitely suspicious lack of highlighters in this house had certainly contributed to my Mood. So – a little bit of disposable income, plus new toys. Much better already.

Finding Nemo is a brilliant film. It’s a laugh-out-loud sort of movie, and laugh is what the adults in the audience – who outnumbered the kids – did with great frequency. I loved the designs, and I loved all the characters, although my favourites were the turtles (which should come as no surprise to those who have known me forever; I adore turtles. They just make me laugh, for some reason. These turtles in particular were designed to make people laugh, so I laughed twice as hard.). And I have come to a conclusion: Roman is a seagull with fur.

We also saw trailers for the next three upcoming animated films: Sinbad (which, of course, my husband is already swooning about), Brother Bear (which had our interest right away for its use of totems and shamanism – Disney, who’d’ve thunk it?); and, of course, The Incredibles. Pixar does superheroes. Can it get any better?

In the Cello Zone

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.

Jasper Fforde

Ginger reminded me of how much I love Jasper Fforde, so I thought I'd share his particularly quirky sense of humour with you:

If you prefer words, and haven't read The Eyre Affair yet (and why haven't you?), you can read an excerpt here. Caution: this is addictive for anyone who has a sense of humour and multiple degrees, or even a single Eng.Lit. degree. You've been warned.

COncidence? You Decide

Last night we were flipping through TV channels, and we came across My Stepmother Is An Alien, which I've never seen before and which I probably could have continued living quite serenely without, but for one interesting little fact.

"Hold on," I said before my husband could change the channel. "That's Alyson Hannigan."

"Willow?" he said. "No, it's not."

"Sure it is," I said. "Listen to her. Look at her eyes and her chin."

"Good gods, it is Alyson Hannigan," he said.

And a moment later, we had another shock.

"That's Seth Green playing her first date," my husband said in disbelief.

"No, it's not - yes, it is," I said. "This is unreal. They're so young!"

"I wonder what it was like on the Buffy set when they said, Hey Alyson, this is Seth, he's going to play Oz, your first boyfriend," he chortled.

Completely random, or a casting director with a sense of humour? You decide.

Matrix Reloaded, Redux

When my husband got home last night he was restless, so when he suggested going over to the Angrignon mall I was all for it. When we got there, we walked past the Famous Players marquee and lo and behold, Matrix Reloaded was playing in five theatres.

"I suppose this wasn't planned," I said.

"No!" he said. (And I believe him, because he's not very good at spontaneously checking out movie listings just for kicks.) "But look, there's one starting in half an hour. And since we're here..."

So we saw Matrix Reloaded again last night. All but the first ten minutes, that is, because the theatre where we were supposed to see it was all dark, and they'd relocated the viewing to another theatre without putting up a sign or a note or anything. What is customer service coming to these days?

Happy Friday to those whose work week ends today!

On Sight-Reading and Language

Orchestra last night was like a train wreck. We all should have just stayed home; I mean, for goodness' sake, we played the Grieg better the very first time when we were sight-reading it. Collectively, we appear to be at the stage where we know a bit, but not enough, so it's falling apart. The only thing more dangerous than not knowing anything about a subject is knowing a bit about it.

And, on a completely different topic, here's an example of why I love the English language:

Verse feet in the romances are predominantly iambic, but anapests and trochees that appear should often be taken as welcome prosodic variations.

And this morning I found this in the writing diary of Virginia Woolf:

Writing is not in the least an easy art. Thinking what to write, it seems easy; but the thought evaporates, runs hither and thither.

And that's it, really; when you think about it, and conceive of the finished product, it seems a piece of cake. Actually doing it, though; wrestling the language into some semblance of gawky order... now, that's anything but cake. More like cement and traffic-light brownies or something. Or whatever you can think of that describes hard and heavy and not what you were expecting when you put it in the oven at all.

Oh, and I saw the four Animatrix shorts plus Final Flight of the Osiris last night; a colleague of my husband's recorded them for us. I enjoyed them all for different reasons. I already had every intention to pick up the compilation DVD next week, but now I have even more motivation to do so.

PotPourri

"Want to watch The Fellowship of the Ring tonight?" I ask my husband as we finish unpacking groceries and washing dishes. I'm antsy, waiting for the theatrical release of The Two Towers to come out on DVD in a month.

He checks the clock; evaluates his mood; thinks about bedtime, and where to work dinner in.

"Sure," he says.

It's not just like tossing in a Disney movie, after all. You're talking about a four-hour commitment, for which you'll probably have to pack a lunch, or at least a snack.

To my astonishment, I discovered today that Emily has linked me on her writing blog! You all remember my references to Emily Horner and her word count acting as my stick and/or carrot from last November, I'm sure? I stop by her writing log every week or so. I tend to read entries as opposed to scanning links on the blogs that I read (although for kicks sometimes I click on a random link on someone's page), so I have no clue when this happened, but I'm terribly tickled. I'm always tickled when I find that somone who isn't a personal friend, who only knows me from my blog or on-line presence, has linked me.

And finally, from Caitlin R Kiernan:

"Where do you get your ideas?" Strike that. Reverse it.

"Where do they get me?"

Quantity *and* Quality, Please...

Well, when I said last week that the cello section was getting smaller but better, I didn't mean to suggest that even less was more. Tonight we only had two celli present - myself, and one other. And of course, we sight-read completely new music: Bizet, Sibelius, and that odd Overture for an Unwritten Comedy which was written by a Canadian in the 1950s, and sounds like it. (No value judgement implied; I quite like some of the Canadian compositions from the latter half of the last century. It's just that this piece is going to contrast sharply with the others on the program.) None of us had heard it before, so we had no clue what we were aiming for.

On the other hand, the Sibelius was divine: slightly melancholy, slight macabre (even more so when Douglas gave us the story in a nutshell: a dying old woman, mistaking Death standing in the doorway for her longdead husband, rises and dances with him), and of course, in waltz time, my favourite. The Bizet was, well, Bizet. I have a love-hate relationship with Bizet. I like him sometimes; I hate him sometimes, usually when I'm playing his music. The rest of the time I'm terribly neutral about him.

A couple of people stopped by as we were packing up our instruments, and said that the celli had sounded quite good tonight. My fellow cellist looked at me after one such comment and said wryly, "Why do these compliments sound like condolences?" Okay, so we two aren't necessarily the strongest among the section, but we were sight-reading new music, after all, and apart from losing our place for a bit here and there, we didn't make any horrible mistakes.

In fact, I felt so good about what I did tonight that, as I did last week, I left rehearsal wanting to race home and play some more. The drive took all the wind out of my sails, though, and now I just want to soak in a bath and read, except that I've finished Lincoln's Dreams and I don't want to read the non-fiction I have on the go. I've recently re-read all the other Connie Willis in the house, so I suppose I'll wander around my shelves and pull something off at random.

Before I left tonight, my husband asked to read the two bonus chapters I wrote earlier this year to tie up loose ends in my NaNoWriMo novel. As I printed them out for him, I re-read bits and pieces of it. Damn, it's good. When I feel uninspired, I really ought to read my own work more often to get myself back in the mood. I've been dragging my feet about getting back to work on the Great Canadian Novel because I don't know enough about my protagonist's choice of action. I discovered the skeleton of a fantasy novel on my laptop last week that I'd forgotten I transcribed a year ago, so I could work on that as well. I also have a non-fiction book drafted out, so I can't even try to dodge writing by claiming that I have nothing different to work on. A young adult novel, a romantic comedy, a fantasy, and a non-fiction book; no matter how I feel when I get up in the mornings, I ought to be able to work on at least one of my projects. My reluctance to plunge into the GCN is colouring my whole writing approach, though, I think. I don't want to keep going until I know more, otherwise it just won't ring true. Sending a protagonist overseas when you don't know the city she's headed to is dicey.

Of course, this means I have to travel to France. Just for research, you understand.

Refined

The cello section of my chamber orchestra has rather shrunk. Or perhaps the proper term to use would be "refined", which suggests a reduction with a positive result. There's four or five of us now, as opposed to the ten we had at the beginning of January. Our sound is now more focused, and certainly more dynamically accurate.

I've written polite rants before on how I feel regarding the devaluation of certain over-played pieces of classical music, so I won't repeat myself now. To my dismay, I found several of these "pops" on our Canada Day playlist: Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, Grieg's Peer Gynt Suite no. 1 featuring "Morning" and "The Hall of the Mountain King", and Bizet's Carmen Suite no. 1. When I hear these on the radio, I cringe, and they leave me cold. Desensitisation will do that.

Playing them, however, is a different matter, I have discovered. When I played Strauss' Also Spracht Zarathrustra two years ago, I was blown away by the power and the building chords as they wove back and forth between the sections. As we've worked on Peer Gynt, I've discovered the uniquely Nordic harmonies and beautiful phrasing. Besides, it's just plain fun to be sawing furiously a haute volume by the final crashing chord of "Hall of the Mountain King"; everyone's grinning at the end. When you're actively engaged in the production of music, you hear it in a completely different way: from the inside out, as opposed to hearing a smooth unified product. The complexities and the various musical lines all become clearer, and I appreciate them more. Playing "pops" is redeeming them for me, somehow.

The only drawback is that we play Grieg over and over, faster and faster, and when I sat down this morning to practice, I couldn't because my fingers were too tender. Looks like I'll have to work on my calluses.

Teutonic Reading List

Found completely by accident while researching ISBNs on Amazon.com: a recommended reading list for Teutonic mythology and religion entitled So You'd Like to be a Heathen Lore Whore.

This list includes the classic phrase, "A lot of people have called Heathenry "Paganism with Homework".

(If you're into Norse/Teutonic lore, this reading list kicks some serious ass, by the way.)

It just caught my eye and appealed to my whimsical love of language and the study of world religion - a Heathen Lore Whore. Not necessarily the words I would have chosen, but apt in my case nonetheless...

Films and Anniversaries

We saw X2.

One word: Kewl.

Okay, no, two words: Damned kewl.

Now I get to bounce up and down waiting for Matrix Reloaded and Finding Nemo.

Bounce bounce bounce.

Oh, and four years ago this weekend, my husband proposed to me. Needless to say, we consumed the rest of the Taylor Fladgate in celebration. I'm looking forward to many, many years of celebrating this weekend over and over again.

And for anyone who was concerned about my health, I'm back up to my regular summer weight. If I don't look like I am, it's due to my exuberant fashion choice to no longer disguise my body with clothes that are too big for me. Hail summer!

Defending My Stand

Thanks to my circle of friends who bought me the Uber-Music-Stand last summer for my birthday, I am happily equipped for home practice and concerts. No one, I thought, would ever have a stand like mine. (Mainly because no one else would be enough of a loon to cart the six-ton thing around. But I digress.) Solid and sturdy, with a beautiful shiny black desk that folds out to both sides, creating space enough to lay out an entire string quartet if I so desired. Adieu, page turning! Of course, adieu to page turning at home, not at concerts; we're usually packed in like little musical sardines, so there's no room for my Uber-Stand to achieve its full wingspan in public.

Well, at our last concert, I set up my Uber-Stand and went downstairs to stash my coat. When I came back, a second violinist was walking away with it.

"Hey! Hey!" I said. "That's my stand!"

We argued about it for a moment, then I convinced her that it was mine and off she went in a bad mood to locate hers, which she had just bought. (Someone had put it behind the door. Go figure.) So, with my beloved Uber-Stand back in my possession, I then and there resolved to find some way to identify it as mine forever and ever.

As of yesterday, I now have sparkly Harry Potter Hedwig owly stickers to put on it in a relatively inconspicuous place. Heck, I've had one on my laptop since I got it; why shouldn't I put some on my music stand too?

No one will try to claim it as theirs now. No, sir.

Midnight Cello

See, it's times like this, when it's quarter to one in the morning (oh, lord), when I wish that I had one of those silent Yamaha electric cellos, so I could plug in a set of earphones and practice without waking anyone up.

Carrying an amp around with me might be problematic, though. I already have enough trouble with the full-size classic acoustic cello and a music stand.

Cotton Candy and Sunny Days

Yes, folks, another cheerful novel from Margaret Atwood, Canada's doyenne of sunshine and lollipops....

(It's just a trend I've noticed in Atwood's themes. No offence intended towards people who wrote their Masters theses on Atwood novels, of course.)

Restless

The past couple of days have been odd. I've been restless, moody, terribly social, terribly anti-social... I'm not quite sure what's going on, but I'd like it to settle down. I slept a grand total of two and a half hours last night, then had a staff meeting this morning, managed to completely forget my god-daughter's birthday family gathering this afternoon, arrived at said gathering with the hatchings of a migraine, left quietly two hours later, came home and hid under the covers for two hours of solid, blissful sleep. It got rid of the headache, but now I'm awake and my sleep schedule is even further off-kilter.

I'm now reading Virginia Woolf's diaries, and I'm incredibly gratified to learn that if she wrote between fifty and two hundred fifty words per day, she considered herself successful (well, as successful as someone that self-critical can feel; perhaps 'on-schedule' would be a better term to use). If I pull off a minimum of two thousand per day, then, I'm doing just fine. Mind you, I entertain absolutely no notions that I'm any sort of a Virginia Woolf. None whatsoever. So no one needs to get nervous when I'm around water.

Cellohenge!

Look! Cellohenge!

Evidently I need more sleep. Or perhaps I slept too much.

New Music

So, orchestra last night, and we got new music (a necessity, since we handed back all the old stuff after that smashing concert). We're doing the Peer Gynt suite, Haydn's Military symphony, and Beethoven's Prometheus overture. Not bad - at least, nothing I looked at and went "eep!" at tenor clef or evil sixteenth note passages by an idealistic pianist. (Okay, the Mendelssohn might have gone well at the concert, but that doesn't mean I'm not bitter about the months of failure before that.)

Walter and I were the only two cellists there last night, which meant that (a) we occupied the first and second chairs, and (b) we got to be stand partners again, which I've really missed. It was slightly harrowing, because we were sight-reading things we'd never seen before, but we pulled it off really well, expect for one place in the Haydn where we had a three-bar compressed rest whose numeral looked like an eight.

All in all, a spectacular night, and we were pretty damn proud of ourselves. Two celli holding their own against twenty violins, a wind section and some violas. There were places where we were supposed to play divisi, too, which is where half the celli play onepart and the other half play the second part. With only two instruments, of course, that means one of you is carrying an entire line on your own. We pulled it off, and were heard. Go us.

And I wrote 2,693 words of the Great Canadian Novel yesterday afternoon when Ceri came over to work. I am wonderful. Yay me!

Now I must scurry to work through the - snow? Argh!

Concert Post-Mortem etc

I had an absolutely smashing concert last night, attended by friends whom I hadn’t known were going to be there. Apart from not being thrilled about half the selection of music, I enjoyed myself immensely. It was decided that rather than using the traditional concert seating, the viola section and the cello section should switch, putting the violas on the outside and the cello players between them and the wind players in the centre. I think it worked quite well, and I hope we stick with it.

I know I’ve complained about the Mendelssohn for months, but it came off beautifully. Pretty much everything did; there were no major or minor disasters, although the music was technically challenging. The pieces were mostly crowd-pleasers, and the audience certainly seemed pleased. I’m pleased to say that the only place I lost my focus was in the Brahms Hungarian Dances.

During a concert, I’m living in the moment to such an extent that it’s always a surprise when it’s over. Now I’m stuck humming the last piece on the program (Strauss, who’s not my favourite composer by a long shot, damn it all), defiantly pleased that I can pack away most of the music, sad to leave other pieces (such as the overture to Mozart’s Don Giovanni, which I have always adored; playing it in concert fulfilled one of my life-long dreams). It was an enjoyable evening, followed by coffee and doughnuts at our place and a darned good sleep.

I wonder what we’ll be playing next, for the Canada Day concert.

My private seminar on Friday night was lots of fun, too. Whenever I teach a basic class, I wonder if I'm just rehashing stuff they already know, but I'm always told that no, I'm filling in blanks and connecting dots for them and they're terribly grateful for being shown the whole picture. I suppose I lose perspective a bit, having studied all this for eight years or so. Anyway, lots of fun, yummy food and wine, and we'll definitely do it again. Also on the class-subject, some of my current Saturday morning students have asked me to put together a meditation class for them. I feel a fuzzy inside when things like this happen - you know, sort of, "You like me! You really like me! And you evidently think that I'm a good teacher!" I also appear to be inspiring students to create their own one-session workshops to share with other students, which flatters me beyond belief. I never, ever thought that I'd be An Example someday. Never. Now I feel like I have to live up to it, somehow. Okay, yes, evidently I believe that I'm a passable teacher, or I wouldn't keep on doing it; but a compliment like this always surprises me, for some reason.

On the Mutability of HMV's Layout

My posts have become infrequent because, well, there just hasn't been much going on in my head, really. Most of my time is spent sleeping or reading or rearranging that last pile of boxes to look smaller, somehow. I appear to have developed a need for a mid-afternoon nap, which is slightly embarrassing although not surprising after three weeks of sick and insomnia and moving. I think my body has taken the bit between the teeth and is now setting its own sleep-rules, denying my conscious mind of any input. I can't seem to focus on work for any long period of time, and I think I'm undergoing an enforced vacation imposed by psyche and physical body alike.

It's kind of a relief, actually.

I went downtown today to HMV to pick up a couple of recordings to help me out as I practice for orchestra, because I'm getting really frustrated. When I got there, I spent time upstairs in the relaxing classical section, bought the required CDs (three for $20, I feel so smug) then went downstairs to the basement to cast a quick eye over the soundtracks.

They've moved everything around. Again.

It made me grumpy, although the terrible, awful, horrible music they were playing might have had something to do with that as well. Then, I thought I'd check on the new DVDs releases, since it's been forever since I've been in HMV, but the massive DVD section had somehow shrunk to a measly two displays and that little room once devoted to film is now acid. I walked around it in disbelief - what, had they decided to stop selling DVDs or something? - and finally went back upstairs to the main level, where I discovered that they had moved the DVD section there, so unsuspecting clients walk right smack into the stuff (unless, of course, you avoid the main floor like the plague, as I do, and head right upstairs for jazz and classical.). I walked through it to get my bearings and saw way, way too many movies I wanted to own in among the 2-for-$30 stickers. I was trying to decide which two to whittle my vast list down to when I realised my folly and made my escape into the clear cold morning. If I trip across a couple of hundred dollars, I know where I'm going.

I'll just have to bring a guide with me, because they no doubt will have hidden what I want from me between now and then.

24

Every time I break my own rule of Never-Compose-A-Blog-Entry-Online, my computer crashes. Thus, you are deprived of a deep, intelligent examination of the television phenomenon 24, which my husband and I began watching this weekend. The highlights were basically as follows:

- Who says the first episode absolutely must be immediately followed by the second? It was a forty-five minute meet-the-characters, these-are-the-environments bite with no cliffhanger.

- We watched six straight hours of 24 on Saturday night, until we hit the end of the two DVDs we had borrowed. Needless to say, as of Monday night, we had the rest of the set in our possession. Damn, this is addictive.

- We’re starting to see how the first eight episodes are nice and tight, operating on the potential reality of ratings not meriting the second half of the season. By episode eight, it is completely possible that all ends can be tied up in two more episodes. Then, things change and become even more complex, presumably because ratings secured the last twelve episodes.

- The only thing better than seeing huge billboards with Keifer Sutherland on them along highways last season is actually sitting in the comfort of my own living room and watching Keifer Sutherland do cool stuff, and being able to select the next episode from the DVD menu to watch him some more.

More good job news: I have been contacted by a woman who took a handful of my courses last fall, who has booked me to do a private seminar for seven women at her home in early April. I’m thrilled that she asked me, and I’m really looking forward to doing it. The only problem? She asked me how much I would charge for such an evening, and I had to admit that I had no idea, and that I’d get back to her. I shouldn’t have been so proud about being able to quote my rate for writing services last weekend; evidently that gets filed under “Hubris”, and the universe feels obliged to present me with a situation such as this one to return me to my properly humble state. Normally I’d charge $25 per head for this particular seminar if I taught it in association with the business I usually teach through, but it doesn’t seem fair to apply the same rate, somehow. I want to charge less, but still not sell myself short. (Look, Mum, I can be taught!) I can’t apply the obvious solution -- namely, using my writing services hourly rate -- because that pretty much equals the average of the per-head fee of my regular seminars, which would mean that I’d be teaching seven people for the price of one.

Grr. My time is money. This was my mantra for a while in January while I worked out that hourly rate, and it looks like I’m going to have to chant it again for a while until I figure this out. Anyone have any ideas? What do companies pay outside specialists to come in and present seminars for their staff – say a three-hour seminar? There’s a huge range of potential fees according to a variety of factors, I know, but anything would help at this point.

Gives a Whole New Meaning to the phrase "the NDG Time Warp"

Just remembered something nifty that tilted my world a bit this weekend.

NDG is currently the playground of a film crew shooting a movie called Wicker Park, as you well know if you're an NDG resident and have been rerouted, or have been forced to find somewhere else to park because your street has been taken up by Star Suites and generators and eighteen-wheeler rigs stuffed full of equipment. On Friday around five PM, my husband drove me over to the Royal Bank on the corner of Sherbrooke and Hingston so I could cash a cheque and put gas in the car.

Except it wasn't the corner of Sherbrooke and Hingston when we got there. It was the corner of two other streets. There was a US Postal box on the corner, and a City of Chicago trash bin, and a bunch of US newspaper boxes strewn about. That little triangular park had a new "Keep Chicago's Parks Clean" sign up. And my bank wasn't my bank. It had a huge green sign both out front and over the door, and it certainly didn't say Royal Bank; it had a series of initials instead in gold lettering.

It certainly felt odd to walk up those steps and go inside. It was as if I had crossed some odd teleportation line, or passed through a twist in earth energy between my new apartment and the bank, and landed in Chicago. (Except Chicago is currently experiencing much nicer weather at nine degrees Celcius, as opposed to our minus ten. It's March tenth; it's more than time for spring. Damn groundhogs.) Anyways, it makes you wonder if there's something odd about Sherbrooke Street - if you drive east along it from Cavendish to Hingston, you get Montreal; but if you drive west along it from Decarie at just the precise time on a Friday afternoon, you inexplicably end up in Chicago.

Fanciful, perhaps. Do remember that I worked in a F/SF bookstore for four years, though.

Bits and Pieces

One of the things we have to get used to now in this new kitchen is the electric stove. After using gas for two years, it's quite the adjustment. This is a brand-new stove, too, so it makes little pops and groans as we break it in, so to speak. It's fiercely hot, although it takes a while to get there, unlike our previous gas stove, which was poof! hot as soon as you turned it on. Some day I will learn to only bake a single sheet of cookies when I'm trying out a new oven, so I don't ruin two whole sheets of cookie dough.

The rest were just peachy, though. Mmm.

I've been reading up a storm this past week - it's one way to escape the semi-chaos that still exists around here. (Mind you, 'chaos' to us means that we don't have things up on the walls yet.) I've read Robin Hobb's Golden Fool, which was even better than The Tawny Man; Jenna Starborn by Sharon Shinn, which is billed as a space opera and gothic romance retelling of Jane Eyre; Shatterglass, the final book in a YA fantasy tetrology by Tamora Pierce; and I've just reread Silver RavenWolf's Beneath a Mountain Moon as well. None of them even made it to the "Currently Reading" table at the right. It might have had something to do with my reluctance to sit down at my computer, as overwhelmed as the desk was with piles of stuff as we sorted through boxes.

Speaking of which - all my books are now unpacked! Huzzah! I've had to double up all the bottom shelves, which means that a third of my books are hidden behind another row, but tha's what you get for giving away a bookshelf just before the move. I'm fairly certain that I know where everything is now. (Fairly certain. Not positive, but fairly certain.)

The antibiotics proceed to drag me back from the brink of heart-rending, dramatic death. All hail Pfizer and their 7$-a-tablet pills!

On the work front, it looks like I might have a freelance editing contract for a privately published history, which will be nice; I have to sit down and think about how long it will take me to smooth out, copyedit and generally proofread a 100 page document in order to have a final figure to submit for the proposed budget. If there's something I hate almost as much as deciding on how much my time is worth, it's gauging how long it's going to take me. At least after all that soul-searching a month or so ago, I had a ready answer when I was asked what my rates were.

We're headed over to the South Shore tonight to my in-laws' place for dinner, and then the Brier final on a glorious big screen TV. This is good, because the only channel we receive on our TV right now is CBC, and it's really grainy. I'd rather not have to try to figure out who's who during a bonspiel like this!

So, slowly but surely, things are getting back on track. I'm feeling more human than I have felt in quite some time now, which is a good thing, no?

Read More!

One thing that insomnia and being so sick for the past week has given me is lots of time to read. I finally finished The Winter King by Bernard Cornwell; I also finally finished Perdido Street Station by China Miéville. Both are excellent books, they just took me a lot longer to read than I expected. Both were loans from other people, too, so I really felt bad. Both were really densely written, which contributed to the long read. Perdido Street Station was nasty and dark and so damn well written that I will willingly plunge into The Scar once winter is officially over and I no longer feel like brooding, moping, or otherwise indulging in winter-connected depression. (There should be a warning label on Miéville's books that reads, 'Caution - Do Not Read During SAD Season If You Are Prone To Moodiness'.) As for Cornwell, I really, really have to be in a particular mood to read his work: namely, in a mood to appreciate logic and war maneuvers while simultaneously being actively interested in Arthurian characters. That's a rather rare mood for me.

I also read an advance copy of Kiss of Shadows by Laurell K Hamilton that's been sitting on my shelf since, um, mid 2000 or something. Anyway, it's highly ironic that it was an advance copy, because not only has the book itself been released in hardcover in the meantime, but also in paperback, and the sequel was released in hardcover with its paperback publication imminent, as well. (March 4, as a matter of fact, so if nothing in my collection appeals to me when I start hunting for something new to read, I know what I'll be buying.)

I picked up Dianne Day's Strange Files of Fremont Jones Wednesday night when I was wide awake, and it was good. So's the sequel, Fire and Fog, which I finished today while taking a break from packing. Nice little historical crime books, with your standard independent female protagonist. I have a third in my possession, but like other crime series that my mother sends to me once she's read them, it appears to be missing a few books in-between. Mum picks some up at the shop and reads others through the library, so when I get the series they often look a bit like Swiss cheese - you know, volume 1, 2, 4, 7 and 8. Insisting on reading books in sequence is one of those delightful character traits that make me so lovable, so I'll be hunting through second-hand shops for these ones. (A day's read contained within a light crime novel is not worth the $10 purchased new, in my not-so-humble opinion. And it's my blog, after all, so my opinion doesn't have to be concerned about humilty, now, does it.)

I have an entire box devoted to Books Which I Have Not Yet Read, so I don't have to go hunting once we're in the new apartment. So very clever of me. Probably pointless, though, since as I unpack I look through my books, and I will likely find dozens I suddenly must re-read immediately.

Apparently it's gearing up to be a lovely day tomorrow, with a high of +2 degrees. That's reassuring.

Applause

Apparently New York City has passed a law that bans the use of cell phones in public places like museums, librairies, movie theatres and concert halls. If you're caught, there's a $50 fine to pay.

Okay. It might seem a bit silly, but maybe, just maybe, it might teach people some manners.

New Conductor

8,900 visitors! Goodness. We're about a week away from a year of the Owlyblog. That's a lot of people. (Can't fool me, I know that it's a couple of you at work, checking several times throughout the day in desperation, seeking something, anything to fill the void...)

Last night was our first rehearsal with our new conductor, Douglas Knight. Our principal cellist was away on a business trip, so last night of all nights Walter made me fulfill my promise to him and join him at the first stand. For those of you who don't know, the principal chair of a section sits (a) closest to the conductor, and (b) closest to the audience. Theoretically it's because they're so talented and experienced, and they lead the rest of the section.

So there I was last night, sitting right next to the new conductor. "This will be much better," Walter told him. "She's good."

Now, as much as that boosted the ego and probably had a positive effect on how I played, it didn't change the fact that I hadn't been at rehearsal in two weeks, and had played only once at home (shame, shame!). And what I played in my living room had nothing to do with what we're preparing at orchestra, and everything to do with Bach solo cello suites.

I didn't embarass myself, which is good. I proved to myself that I can play musically even with wrong notes. I also proved to myself that two weeks of not looking at Mendelssohn is suicide, especially in that dratted second movement with those wretched sixteenth notes and the celli solo in tenor clef. Grr.

All in all, it was a good night. We're all feeling each other out, finding new footing, new ways to communicate, learning each other's style. He really put us through our paces, working most of the Mendelssohn: the minuet and trio movement (which was quite beautiful once we found our rhythm as a unit), the final Allegro Con Fuoco movement (also known as the Movement That Never Ends), then back to the evil second movement. And then, joy of joys, the nice, dramatic, Don Giovanni overture. My fingers were swollen and throbbing when I got home, but that's what you get when you don't practice for two weeks, right?

Can't practice today, though; I'm off to the store, then home this afernoon to work on the newsletter, then back to teach at the store tonight. (Yes, astonishing, I know; the first workshop this year that has enough students to merit not cancelling it!) So, tomorrow I will attack the looming threat of the Stretto section of the final Mendelssohn movement (actually, the entire last page), and rework the second movement yet again.

It's a good thing that I want to practice, I think. It's nice to feel positive about my cellistic abilities once again.

The Hours

I saw The Hours yesterday. As I expected, when I walked into my apartment afterwards, my husband looked up at me and said, "Good movie?"

Now, that's such a misleading question. Usually it means, "Did you enjoy the film?", but the phrasing also implies, "Was it a well-made film?", or, "Is it a bad movie?"

So I kind of shrugged and said, "It was thought-provoking."

"But did you have fun?" he persisted.

What kind of a question is that? The movie is about death, questioning the right to define acceptable quality of life, and who has the right to limit any individual's choice to end his/her life at any time. No, the film was not "fun". I didn't exactly "enjoy" it. But it was excellently directed, edited, and acted, and I could appreciate that, and appreciate the feelings it evoked from me, and the ensuing self-examination that began as the credits rolled.

I gave up. It was a quarter to midnight, and my husband was almost asleep, anyway.

"Yeah. It was a good movie," I said.

An End to the Suspense

I know you were all on tenterhooks, so I’ll end your agony: the Toronto Symphony Orchestra has announced their new conductor. It’s Peter Oundjian, the retired first violinist of the Tokyo Quartet who was forced to give up playing a few years ago because of hand problems. (Okay, I don’t know about you, but that’s a nightmare for a musician. Kind of like me worrying about losing my sight, being that I love reading and writing so much. When Oundjian announced his retirement from the Tokyo Quartet I was devastated.) The TSO has been operating under guest conductors for a couple of years ever since Jukka-Pekka Saraste left, so this announcement means that they have an artistic director again who can guide the orchestra under a single vision.

If this sounds vaguely familiar, it’s because our own Orchestre Symphonique de Montreal is in the same position. Charles Dutoit resigned last year and the OSM has sort of stumbled a bit without a leader. However, hope springs eternal, and rumours are flying that Kent Nagano is at the top of the search committee’s list. At the moment Nagano is the music director of Berlin's Deutsches Symphony-Orchester Berlin as well as the principal conductor of the Los Angeles Opera. (Not that he’ll have to give those up; heck, Dutoit was the principal conductor of a handful of international orchestras. Racks up the air miles, but hey.)

Someone had a lot of fun with this.

Much of it is alarmingly visually accurate, which scares me for some reason...

Time Off

I took this weekend off: no weblogs, no e-mail. It was remarkably refreshing after a week of driving, goal-oriented work at the computer, writing articles and revising text and sending things off all over the place. I used my laptop instead of my desktop this weekend, and only sent one message out (a submission, naturally). I didn’t even sit down and read a book to relax, but you know, I don't feel as if I spent my weekend racing about and not taking it easy.

I lie. I did read a book. Two, in fact. Both NaNo novels of other local authors. It’s not quite the same kind of relaxing reading that I meant, though; I read these two books with awareness and a critical eye. Drat the writer in me!

Saturday evening I went out with one of my oldest friends for dinner and a movie. We saw Chicago, which was just as good the second time around. I haven’t seen the original All That Jazz, but this version was spectacular. Richard Gere is one of my least favourite actors in Hollywood, but in this film he manages to not only entertain me, but surprise me. Anything that has current stars singing their own songs and dancing their own numbers has my admiration (assuming they’re more than passable at it). We now have a standing date to see any musical that’s released on the big screen; having worked on musicals on and off together for six years or so means we appreciate them in a very particular fashion together.

It was a terrific evening. I forget sometimes why certain friendships persist even if we don’t spend a lot of time with one another, and a night out like this one renews my faith in something. I just can’t put words to it.

(Speaking of stars singing makes me think of Once More With Feeling, a.k.a. the Buffy musical, which reminds me that Alyson Hannigan and Alexis Denisoff are getting married. If you have to ask who they are, then you won’t care. Really.)

Book Lassitude

My luck with books has been so-so for the past few months. Last week I finished the pile of books I got for Christmas, so I sorted through my many shelves of books to see if I could find something that (a) I hadn't read, (b) I had abandoned, or (c) really wanted to re-read. I pulled out Shadows Over Lyra and said, Woo, a whole three books I haven't read! I had picked up this three-in-one omnibus edition of some Lyra novels by Patricia C Wrede six years ago and couldn't get past the second chapter, so I put it away. Perfect, I thought!

Well, I got further than the second chapter, but wow, is it ever boring, and I think it's about to be re-shelved. I think I might need to find another home for it. Before I do, I might try skipping to the second book in the omnibus, and then the third. Maybe it's just the first novel that's bland and derivative and has boring characters. (I can hope, can't I?) I'm a bit confused, because I love Wrede's Enchanted Forest Chronicles, all her short stories that I've read, and her epistolary novel co-written with Caroline Stevermer.

Other books I've given up on: Carole Nelson Douglas' Chapel Noir, which is a novel about two women investigating a series of grisly Parisian murders that echo the little Ripper affair in Britain the previous year. When my favourite character (who has narrated the previous four novels in this series) was kidnapped, and I realised that she wasn't coming back in this book, I really lost interest. Another book to put back on the shelf. It's been sitting on my bedside table, where books I'm getting tired of sometimes go so that I can fall asleep (I won't get caught up in the action and read 'till two, you see), but being a grisly murder investigation, it's really not the type of thing that's conducive to relaxing, you know?

I've been valiantly trying to read Bernard Cornwell's The Winter King for t!, but the writing style really leaves me so completely neutral. It's a retelling of the Arthurian story in a style that imagines what actual Celtic history might have been like at the time - none of this flowery knights in plate armour stuff. It's about war chiefs and mud and politics, and while it's a nice change from the usual, I'm just not interested in reading yet another Matter of Britain right now. Nor have I been for the past five or six months, which is how long I've taken to read half the book.

I've have a bunch of books on order since the beginning of December - for example, the new Robin Hobb, the Charles de Lint Newford collection that came out in November, and the new Robert Jordan (which claims to be an end, but my sources indicate that the claim is ludicrous). (My view on reading Jordan at this point: I am in blood / Stepped in so far that, should I wade no more, / Returning were as tedious as go o'er. (Macbeth III.v.) I'm also re-reading Ceri's novel. And I did another scan through my bookshelves and found Broken Blade, the third book of an Ann Marston trilogy that I put down half-read four years ago, having lost my reading momentum when she decided to change from third-person to first-person narration after the first two novels, which jarred me at the time. And my mother sent me home with a set of mystery novels by Dianne Day which look good, so maybe I'll tackle those next.

Reading's just been sort of fnyeh lately. You know?

Cellists are sexy, too!

Cellists are sexy, too!

And here I was, thinking that all fantasy artists were obsessed with the scantily-clad Amazonian warrior stereotype...

Auditioning From the Other Side of the Desk

In complete contrast to my last post:

It was orchestra last night, and we've begun auditioning new conductors. There are two finalists for the position: the temporary conductor who led the orchestra for our last concert (who is one of our violists, and who has guest-conducted with us before); and another prominent West Island musician who has led various choirs, concerts, bands, Savoy productions, etcetera.

The formula? Each auditionee conducts the second movement of the Mendelssohn symphony that we played at the last concert; another movement of the same symphony, which we've played through but not worked on; and introduces a new piece of music for the orchestra to sight-read.

Last night, the surprise music our applicant conductor brought in was the overture to Mozart's Don Giovanni, which just happens to be one of my favourite pieces of music ever.

I was bouncing off walls when I got in the car at the end of the evening. I had played Don Giovanni. And it had sounded pretty darned spectacular for sight-reading and a half-hour of working on it. It's an energetic overture with plenty of drama, challenging in its precision but not overly discouraging in the technical aspect.

I enjoyed the evening immensely. The conductor had charm, great musical sense, and had us sounding terrific by the end of the evening. I wonder how much of that was an unconscious desire on our part to impress him, though, and more focus being given to a new face, familiarity breeding contempt, and all that. From experience, I know that our temporary conductor is just as talented, but in a different way. The entire orchestra grades these applicants and submits recommendations, and it's going to be a tough choice.

We'll see what transpires next week, when our temporary conductor officially auditions.

Aha!

Something I enjoy doing, if a film puzzles me, is reading about the production team's reasoning behind their decisions. So, when I found Scott's link to an interview with Peter Jackson and Phillippa Boyens about the changes they chose to make in The Two Towers, I was rather pleased. Almost as pleased as I was with their reasons for moving things about and re-interpreting characters slightly for the storytelling style that film as a medium requires. Their choices made sense. And it's not like one could just film LOTR word for word, after all - what a gods-awful bore that would be, if it were even possible.

So yes, there's mention of Faramir and his apparent contradictions (which seems to be one of the major issues people are having, if they've read the book), and Gollum, and other interesting issues that people have decided are just plain wrong. Speaking of which, folks, Aragon and Arwen have their own little love story in the appendices of RotK - go read it and stop complaining that Jackson's making things up. Inserting flashback sequences isn't a crime, for heaven's sake; by creating the appendix, Tolkien sort of employed a similar technique. How Jackson chooses to integrate it into the main tale is what should be focused on, and so far it's not as horrendous as it could have been. Quit griping.

The Two Towers, Take Two

The Two Towers was definitely better the second time around. I really, really think it had a lot to do with the bimbo who sat in front of us in Toronto and waved her arms whenever Legolas did something cool, cooed whenever he had a close-up, and squealed through every fight scene. Knowing that the film is made up of three-quarters battle sequences, you can imagine how irritating this became.

Yes, this viewing was definitely better. I even noticed this time when Saruman said the title of the movie, earning a golf clap. The pacing seemed a little more even, although I still think Merry and Pippin got short shrift in this film, not even getting to enter Isengard let alone welcome the rest of the fellowship as the doorkeepers when they arrive.

As the credits rolled, my husband said hopefully, “Do you think they’ll do a trailer at the end, for Return of the King?” “Not a chance, yet,” I said. “We’ll just have to come back and see it again in May or June, like we did last year.” Which is hardly a sacrifice, is it.

We watched the cast commentary of the Fellowship special edition DVD the other day, and wow; they really did just put all four hobbits in a room and let them talk, didn’t they? With comments from half a dozen other actors here and there, it made for great fun.

You're Fired, and Goldsmiths

Okay, who let a seventies-throwback design the new Palais des congrès de Montrèal? It looks like a kid built a house with a pile of Jolly Rancher candies.

Honestly. Does no one have taste any more?

Humph.

To reassure yourself than the mind of man is actually capable of creating beauty, go see the Varna: World's First Gold, Ancient Secrets exhibit at the Pointe-a-Callières Museum of Archaeology and History in Old Montreal. Wonderful collection of goldwork and art from the area of Varna, a.k.a. Odessos, on the western shore of the Black Sea. Submerged by rising sea levels due to global warming not once, but twice - then struck by drought. Can you imagine? One of the most fertile areas in Europe, rendered uninhabitable for a good chunk of time until the Thracians came along and said, "Hey, this looks good for a headquarters while we try to unite the clans," never knowing that there were huge necropoli under the hills, or what amounted to a graveyard under the waves. The Greeks liked it too, and the Romans thought it a funky vacation spot as well. Like the rest of Europe. (Love those Romans, conquering without raising a harsh word. "No, no, we wouldn't dream of attacking you. Mind if we put a temple here and a garrison over there - since we're friends and all?")

Anywhats. If you're in the area, and need a quiet stroll through some lovely samples of hostorical art and craftwork, do stop by. The exhibit isn't overwhelmingly huge, and will only take you perhaps an hour to go through it. In fact, it's terribly relaxing, what with the constant sound of gentle waves, and a lovely soft light created by the masses of translucent blue fabric flowing through the middle of the exhibit room. Worth the money.

And the Role Goes To...

Whoa! This is a surprise!

Harry Potter's getting a brand new headmaster--and his name isn't Ian McKellen.

May I say, "I told you so?"

Except... it seems that the headmaster will not be played by any of the gents whose names were bandied about:

Following Harris' death from cancer in October, there had been much speculation over who would take over the role, with leading candidates supposedly including McKellen and even Harris' stand-in. But McKellen never seriously considered the role (he's already done the franchise thing with The Lord of the Rings and X-Men) and producers ultimately went with [Michael] Gambon, a classically trained actor who studied with Laurence Olivier and whose credits include Gosford Park, The Insider and the lead in the British miniseries The Singing Detective.

Well, well, well. Michael Gambon. This will be very, very interesting...

(Thanks, Ginger Girl!)

The Two Towers Redux

I've been thinking about it for the past couple of days, and The Two Towers is growing on me. Listening to the magnificent soundtrack helps a lot. Shore has scored some wonderfully evocative themes for the new races and environments we see in the film. It's sinking in slowly.

In thinking about the film, I've temporarily concluded that it felt too fast somehow, with not very much accomplished. Don't get me wrong - it was a good film... but I just don't yet know how to explain my vague feelings properly. Did it have less of a direction? In the book, there is plot - in the first half they have to convince both Rohan and Gondor that they're not going to get out alive, and in the second there's that whole Gollum-hobbit relationship and its evolution. There were what seemed like those plots in the film, but they felt - flat? I felt the terror and drive to save the world in the first installment, but the second film, where we should feel more desperate, I felt numb. Now, maybe I was feeling what the protagonists were feeling - rushed about by the end of the world rapidly approaching, driven by the Bad Guys determined to destroy the race of Men (in which case, woo-hoo, point made!) - but I'm not certain. I know we're following several protagonist P.O.V. as well as a couple of antagonist P.O.V., but I wasn't drawn into their personal anguish and drive to accomplish their various tasks. Drat. Well, I'm looking forward to seeing it again in order to further pin things down, and to experience the finer points which I might have missed.

And I'd like to take this opportunity to say that Gollum's Song is just plain creepy. Coming from someone who likes the use of minor keys, that's something. I know it's the deliberate use of accidentals that creates the effect, but brrr!

The Two Towers Review

So I saw The Two Towers yesterday.

Maybe it was the crowded theatre with the bimbo in front of us; maybe it was the killer headache that slowly crept up on me throughout the three and a half hours of total viewing time; maybe it was any combination of things.

I didn't enjoy it very much.

Wonderful cinema, oh yes; spectacular battle sequences; epic; stunning design work, too. Smeagol was a triumph; the Ents were perfect. And yet... and yet. There was something missing. And I'm not talking about the first chapter of the book version, covered in the first film, or the last few chapters, which Jackson appears to be delegating to the third film.

I know it's all about war; I know it's about the Fellowship divided; I know it's all about despair and loss of hope and the darkest before dawn, etcetera. I found the pacing irregular, and the editing extremely choppy. I thought I went in with decent expectations. I mean, I don't aggrandize much any more; I'm very good at remaining immune to hype, and not working something up on my own, however much I might play at doing so.

I readily admit that I intend to give it another chance, mainly because I can't believe I didn't enjoy myself. It must have been a fluke, a freak alignment of stars or something.

Amusing side note: my parents saved the last full-page ad for The Two Towers in the Toronto Star for me, a lovely full-front shot of Miranda Otto as Eowyn. At least, I think it was for me. I'm not sure; my husband thought she was rather attractive.

My disappointment in holiday spectacle did not carry through to the incredibly hilarious pantomime version of Robin Hood that we saw today in Toronto, thank goodness. Live comic theatre is in short supply, and live comic theatre done by theatrical professionals from the Shaw and Stratford Festivals is a real treat. Any show where the audience consists of fifty percent children, who are encouraged to cheer the hero and boo the villain, is a fun show in my books. My parents used to take me to see such shows when I was a child, and this year my mother gave my husband and I tickets to see the latest in Ross Petty's annual fractured fairy tales.

Damn, I miss performing. I miss attending quality live theatre, but having been on both sides of the curtain, I can say that this show, out of all the live shows I've seen in the past couple of years, induced vivid pangs of envy that I didn't think I could feel. I wanted to be up there. I wanted to be singing, dancing, and making people laugh. Having spent the last three days reading one of my Stratford fiftieth anniversary books from cover to cover, I was ripe for the homesick feeling; I set myself up, really.

After dinner tonight I'll settle down with the soundtrack to The Two Towers (which is brilliant, and which stood out even through my vague feelings of disappointment) and a nice lavender bath. It's time to relax again. Which means, of course, that I can't pick up yet another Stratford book, or I'll just mope some more.

Jazz and Christmas

So explain to me why I hate the Charlie Brown Christmas album so much, but love the debut album by the Vince Guaraldi Trio.

No, I didn't think you could, either.

It probably has something to do with the destructive over-playing of the same half-dozen Christmas albums every December. I like jazz. I like jazz Christmas songs. And yet, I do not like Vince Guaraldi's Charlie Brown Christmas album.

Eh. Whatever.

My personal vote for the best Christmas album (meaning something different, with original takes on classics, as well as some rarely-heard seasonal stuff) is, in fact, Holly Cole's Baby, It's Cold Outside. I got all excited a day or so ago when I discovered a listing for another Holly Cole Christmas album, a Japanese release entitled Santa Baby: Live in Toronto, but it's no longer available, and I have all the songs on other albums anyway.

My love for Baby, It's Cold Outside is sourced not only by Holly's incredible vocal treatment of the music, but particularly by the stellar recording of the title track, Frank Loesser's Baby, It's Cold Outside, performed as a duet with Ed Robertson from The Barenaked Ladies. For those of you who were at the Stuart McLean show last Friday, Lisa Lindo and Chris Whiteley did a decent job of it, although I still prefer Holly's version. I could leave it on a repeat loop for hours. Not that I have; no, I'd be afraid of over-playing it and desensitizing myself to it! Christmas music rapidly becomes tiresome; I'd rather not have that happen to my favourite Christmas album, thanks.

Actually, there is another album that I love at Christmas, but it vanished from my collection over two years ago (and I hope whoever has it now is enjoying it, muttergrumblegrr). It's A Waverly Consort Christmas. I finally broke down and special-ordered another copy, since I can't seem to find it on the racks anywhere (which surprises me not at all, since it isn't a pop or country singer's rehash of seasonal chestnuts). It will be four to six weeks before it arrives, naturally. At least I'll have it for next December.

You Want to Read What?

There are snickers coming from the bedroom. My husband is reading my NaNo novel.

"I finished The Philosopher's Stone," he said, walking into the living room just past twelve o'clock. "Can I... would you mind if I read your novel?"

"Ah..." I said. "No?"

He looked at me anxiously.

"If you want to edit it or rewrite it first -"

"That's not what I meant," I said. "I meant, no, I don't mind. I think."

He's been reading it all afternoon. Every once in a while I hear a chuckle.

Me. The author of choice in my household right after J.K. Rowling. Before, possibly, since he had the choice between picking up the next book in her series, or my book.

It bodes well.

Memorial Concert

Well, wasn’t I wrong about last night’s concert.

At the NaNo meet yesterday afternoon, a friend told me that he regretfully wouldn’t be able to make it to that evening’s memorial concert for my orchestra’s conductor Andres Gutmanis, who died in an accident three months ago. “That’s okay,” I said, “no one else is going.” My words had a visible effect; he looked chagrined. I attempted a casual explanation including the weather, the travel time to the West Island (which is usually an issue I am ruthlessly unsympathetic to; I lived there for years, and it is, in fact, ridiculously easy to get there, and not as time-consuming as people seem to think), and the fact that I myself wasn’t very hyped for it. So, if there were a concert of mine to miss, this would be the one.

I was very, very wrong.

Two of my friends showed up after all, one who I had known was going to try to make it, another who was a very pleasant surprise. (You have my heartfelt thanks, Nika and MLG, and coffeeing afterwards was lovely too!) They were treated to an absolutely phenomenal evening of music, an evening which surprised even me.

We opened with the Albinoni Adagio, which I usually find maudlin in any recording and unmoving when we play it, but which was so perfect in last night’s performance that it moved me to tears. (It takes two hands to play the cello; wiping tears away is difficult.) There was a guest trio which played selections from Stravinsky’s Pulcinella suite, and they were incredibly talented. Then we played the Mendelssohn, and glory be, we sounded good; I almost enjoyed it. There were more guests performing single songs, vocalists and violinists and George Doxas, Andres’ fellow music teacher from LPHS. To draw the first half to a close we then played the terribly, terribly dramatic Handel Prelude and Fugue, and again, we were impressed ourselves by the precision and the sweeping drama of it all.

After the intermission – oh, this was part of the treat. George Doxas had brought along his twenty-five piece big band, and they proceeded to play swing and jazz for half an hour. It changed the mood and galvanized the orchestra, sitting in the first couple of rows of the audience, into a very correct, dead-on rendition of the old-world folk song The Lonely Maiden, played in Andres’ own arrangement. It’s a slightly creepy traditional Eastern European melody, and utilises a particularly odd technique called col legno, which means hitting your string with the stick of your bow instead of drawing the rosined hair across it to produce vibration. The result is a muted, clipped, percussive sound that most people have never heard. The problem with it is that it’s practically impossible to get thirty people to hit the string simultaneously, to achieve a clear unified note. Last night, we did it.

And the finale was an encore presentation of the first movement of Beethoven’s Symphony no. 1, which was our most successful piece performed at the Canada Day concert last July. Under Nancy’s direction, we had refined it to a precise yet wild machine that couldn’t be stopped once it had begun. Again, it was the best performance we had given of the work to date.

So we began with a show-stopping number, and we ended with one as well, which, as I have been taught in essay-writing and speech-giving, is the best way to ensure that your audience will remember you. My husband tells me that it has been the best show we’ve done so far, and he’s been to all four I’ve played with this group. So evidently I was wrong when I said that this would be the concert to miss. It was, in fact, one of the best presentations of musicians from all over the island of Montreal.

I don't know what our conductor-status is at the moment, but if Nancy were to remain as our leader, I would be more than happy. She's fantastic in rehearsals, and she was clear and focused during performance. It would be a shame to pull her out of the viola section - the gods know violists are in short supply - and good violists are even harder to find! - but she's terrific up there on the podium. I won't know for another two weeks; I have the next two Wednesdays nights off. That's nice, but after such a successful concert I'm even more enthusiastic about orchestra than usual, and almost three weeks is an awfully long time to wait to get back into the swing of things. And even then, it's only for one night before we break for Christmas. Ah well. I shall go to Archambault to purchase new music to keep me busy during the time off.

Better Music

Normally I love CBC Radio Two.

But I really, really hate Peter and the Wolf.

I'm going to go put on MLG's RSW: Jedi Prophecy soundtrack (Volume One). That will erase every tiny bit of the horrible story and the irritating repeated musical motifs from my mind.

Speaking of Volume One, there was talk of a Volume Two a while ago....

It Never Rains...

Ouch.

Typically, as soon as I solve one health problem, another crops up. Now that I have new glasses and have miraculously solved my mysterious low-grade perpetual headache, my back has begun acting up once more. It’s becoming more and more difficult to move around; lying on the floor is pretty much the only way to ease it. Good thing I have those new glasses so I can get a clear view of the ceiling.

I don’t know what it is – I’m doing a lot of computer work and cello playing, sure, but that’s no different from my activities of the past two years. Is it the weather, the cold-to-warm-to-really-cold spells we’ve been having? Am I developing arthritic symptoms in my spine that respond to seasonal change?

The osteopath hasn’t done much for it the past two times I’ve seen her; evidently I shall have to really stress the pain and the precise location for her next time I see her in late December. I thought I had done so during the past couple of visits, and for the rest of the day things seem all right, but a day or so later the pain creeps back. I’d go back to her sooner, but that financial thing’s in the way again. I’m just trying to take it really easy and watch how I sit, how I carry things, and so forth.

Speaking in passing of my cello, in case I missed you in my e-mail announcement (or if you have no clue who I am and are in the Montreal area next Sunday!), here’s the concert announcement:

I know, it seems like only yesterday that I did a concert, but it's that time once again...

This Sunday, December 1 at 7.30 PM, the Lakeshore Chamber Orchestra and guests will be presenting a program called "Tributes to Andres" in honour of our conductor who died in an accident almost three months ago. Included in the program are a dramatic Prelude and Fugue by Handel, Albinoni's Adagio, and selections from Mendelssohn's first symphony and the Beethoven symphony we played at the Canada Day concert that Andres enjoyed conducting so much. We will also be playing an intriguing arrangement of a Latvian folk song, arranged by our late conductor himself.

The concert will take place on the West Island once again, at St. John Fisher church in Valois (which was the venue we performed at last January). The church is located at 120 Summerhill, corner Valois Bay Avenue, in Pointe-Claire.

Tickets are $10 per person, children 18 and under are admitted free.

Both the 204 bus and the 203 bus from the Dorval station pass nearby (for the 204, get off at the corner of Belmont and Broadview; for the 203, get off at the corner of Valois Bay and Belmont); a map is always useful too.

This concert is going to be packed with people paying their last respects, so if you're planning on coming I advise getting there early so you'll have a seat!

Chamber of Secrets Review

Quickie review of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets:

1. Geez, I'm glad I don't go to Hogwarts. Big snakes. Screaming roots. Willow trees that think playing Whack the Student is a jolly time.

2. I so wish I went to Hogwarts! Or at least lived in that world.

Good film - well-paced, good acting, good dialogue, fabulous new set designs. If asked to compare it to the first in the series, I'd say apples and oranges. The first one established the world and characters. This one plunged right in and didn't really explain anything, expecting you to have read the books, or at least have seen the first film. I like that. Why waste time re-introducing places and people?

I will see it again. Not, however, at the Paramount, although since the copy of the film we were watching snapped (right before the exciting bits) we got vouchers for a complimentary movie ticket, so it's sort of like we saw it for free; thirteen-fifty is just too pricey. I did it for The Chamber of Secrets on opening night, and I'll do it for The Two Towers premiere, but that's all. Any subsequent viewings will be done elsewhere.

Tomorrow, we paint the bedroom. Updates as events warrant.

Take That, Handel

Bad, bad sleep last night. On the other hand, there's only one more sleep until we see The Chamber of Secrets on Friday night.

Good rehearsal, though. Take that, Handel. And the conductor finally suggested that the celli play every second note of those pesky sixteenth-note legato runs in the Mendelssohn.

Got an e-mail from Ceri this morning talking about her NaNo project, which alas, like me, is on hold til tomorrow, since both of us work today. She said that tomorrow she would "write like the dickens", which I found highly amusing in the NaNo context. I can just imagine a Victorian editor saying, "Quantity, Charles, not quality! Accidental quality is acceptable."

Orchestra

I avoided my novel yesterday and sat down to do some serious book research, which consisted of going through two novels with an orange highlighter, a pencil, and a pad of sticky notes. Now I can press onwards, confident, using these texts to inspire my protagonist as she makes connections between these novels and the world around her.

That's why my word count hasn't budged. That, and practicing, and orchestra.

I've had better nights, but I've had worse nights, too. Two of our best cellists were missing, so Walter and I were struggling to fill in sound-wise and technique-wise, with our last two cellists alternately playing the bass part (which really threw me off a lot) and attempting the cello line. For some reason I didn't move up to sit with Walter in the first chair (actually I know exactly what the reason was, it was avoidance of being close to the conductor for the Handel and the Mendelssohn disasters I foresaw looming), so both he and I sat alone, one behind the other, which meant we both felt unsupported because we couldn't hear anyone else's line to lend us psychological support. Next week I've promised to sit up front with him.

There were good parts (namely the bits I really, really practiced) and bad parts (the bits I practiced but became severely thrown off by the presence of the rest of the orchestra as we passed around the fugue theme of the Handel at breakneck speed). I'm really going to have to buckle down and do some serious work on these pieces in the next week or so. I don't feel tremendously defeated, however, because there are some bits I can play that no one else can. So you see, I'm not a complete failure, which is a blessed relief, trust me. I still can't get into the music, though; I'm finding it very difficult to create any sort of positive emotional attachment to it. I'm rather neutral about it all, which bothers me. Music is a very emotional art for me, and if a piece doesn't make me feel something, I'm going to have difficulty playing it. Technical difficulty is a seperate negative stumbling block for these pieces.

This afternoon I'm going to do a couple of hours of freelance work, then I'll novelise for a while. Can't have my fingers losing flexibility, or my creative juices drying up, now, can I? (I believe I used the phrase 'drooling language all over the page' in encouragement to a fellow NaNoWriMo, and you know, it's quite the apt metaphor...)

NaNo Research

A public congrats to Ceri for not only hitting her goal of 8,900 words, but surpassing it for a running total of 9,115.

Yay, Ceri!

I was out last night and I picked up a couple of books that my protagonist examines closely over the course of my novel. I already own copies of these particular books, but there was no way I was going to use them as reference. So, new copies were purchased (I did try to find them second-hand, but five second-hand stores later, I knew I was out of luck) and I brought them home to break them in.

My mother (this is related, honest) trained as a documentation technologist, which is to a librarian as a dental hygenist is to a dentist: they do all the work, and the university graduate gets the credit and the plumper paycheque. One of the things she learned was how to prepare new books for the shelf, and for library binding. She taught me how they do it, and it simultaneously fascinated me and horrified me.

Here's what you do: you hold your book spine down, find approximately the middle, and crack it open. Yep. Bend that virgin spine to the book lies completely flat. Then choose one side or the other and divide that section in half, and snap it open again, then do the other side. You keep diving the sections in half and snapping them open so finally, the book will flex smoothly and you'll have no trouble turning pages. As a rule of thumb, there should be a snap every fifty pages or so.

I'm obsessive about my personal library, and in my world, to snap a spine is to break the book. It's interesting to note that of all the people I used to lend books out to (it doesn't happen often any more, trust me), those who handed them back with broken spines are no longer in my circle of friends. Hmm. Coincidence? Maybe.

So to sit down last night and snap these spines ruthlessly so I could mark them up with pens and markers and sticky notes was a big step on my part. I mean, I didn't even do this to my university texts, although I did finally concede defeat and begin making light pencil marks in them. You can see why I had to have second copies, though.

Then I went to bed at about midnight. I woke up at around five (we think) to my husband sitting bolt upright in bed to say, "The power's out." Sure enough, I could hear the slow beep of the fire alarm battery in the front hall, which, when you're still partially asleep, really sounds like a delivery truck backing up. Then he said, "Wow, it's snowing." So I pulled the curtain aside, and it was a winter wonderland out there - at least three inches of snow was piling up. "Pretty," I said, and lay back down.

And then, the realisation that if the power was out for long, there would be no NaNoing today, despite the fact that I had a new adapter for my notebook computer.

Was the power outage city-wide? Would NaNos all over Montreal shake their fists at Hydro-Quebec and wail? Was the problem local, i.e. a snow-laden tree leaning against a power line, or distant, i.e. James Bay has been snowed in? And then, as I fell asleep, a most heartfelt feeling of gratitude for not being caught at the computer when the power failed welled up in my heart.

Although when I woke up at eight the snow had stopped, it's begun again. My husband the Weather Channel addict tells me that by Saturday it's supposed to be 13° C again, which means rain and mucky messes for a few days. Ah, November. Changeable, fickle, and you don't even have the redeeming factor of a holiday in there somewhere....

True Story of Dracula

(Ssssh… don’t look now… but it’s snowing.)

It’s November. Start your engines! Let's see... 50,000 words divided by thirty days is 1,667 words per day, or approximately 6 double-spaced pages, or 3 1/2 single-spaced pages. Ha! My problem as I lay awake last night was that I couldn't remember of it was six single-spaced pages, or double-spaced. I'm fine. Three to four single-spaced pages daily? That's a slow day for me. I am feeling much more confident about this project now.

I forgot to say “white rabbits” this morning, so heaven only knows what I’ve done to myself. Good thing I’m not a superstitious person.

Last night’s live TV studio performance of The True Story of Dracula on COGECO 13 in Kingston by the Midnight Players went brilliantly, if I may say so myself. I saw the opening prologue, which is just me doing a trance-like monologue with our eerie violinist and smoke from the smoke machine, and it was fantastic. In fact, I have been informed that if we ever do a Buffy thing for fun, I get to play Drusilla. Yep, spooky and trance-like; I've got it down pat. We have all been promised copies of this tape within the next two weeks, and I can’t wait to see the rest of it. I did have the fortune to catch a bit of JDH’s interview in his folklorist persona, which comes right after my trance prologue, and he looks slightly crazed and very intense as he talks about Vlad. His use of his hands in the clip was fantastic, and those shadows created by the lighting from beneath… brr! I saw it live, but seeing it on tape is a completely different cauldron of apples.

It was an odd experience, actually. I’ve done live theatre; I’ve done film work; I’ve live done radio work. This was a strange amalgamation of the three, and at times it was hard to figure out where to aim: Am I acting? Am I reading a script? How much am I allowed to move? Where do I look? Evidently I did just fine. I looked fantastic, I sounded fantastic, and if they ask us back for a Christmas special, I’m there! (With a few differences – like times get confirmed with us, and we know weeks in advance that we need to come up with our own costumes, and so forth...)

Orchestra

I hate it when I'm caught between two choices and both make me feel awful.

It's orchestra night, and I'm still having so much trouble with the Handel and those fricking legato sixteenth note passages in the Mendelssohn. I'd have slunk in and played air cello for those particular bits, except that last week our second cellist made note of the fact that he wanted a cello sectional rehearsal sometime tonight. That means the five of us sit in a room alone and battle out passages.

Sure, sounds like a terrific idea if you're having trouble. Except that I've been having trouble for weeks, and I'm no better. And I'm so upset about it that playing it badly all by myself over and over, with two or three people telling me how to do it and getting impatient because I can't, is the very last thing I need tonight.

So I lied.

I called the secretary and told him I was working late on a project and couldn't get away. He was completely understanding, and I feel dreadful. A different kind of dreadful than I'd feel if I went to orchestra, though. There I'd be fighting back tears, and the urge to throw my bow across the room.

I'm so upset about this music that I absolutely cannot get, no matter what I try, that I'm tempted to back out of the December concert. Yes, it's that bad. I don't enjoy this music in the least; I get no thrill out of it; I can't settle into it musically, let alone technically. If I can't offer even a passable product, why am I wasting everyone's time? Oh, I'd rejoin afterwards, when new music is introduced, of course. I don't want to drop orchestra completely. No, I'm not chickening out. I'm not scuttling away from challenge. There's big difference. If I was scuttling away from challenge, I'd have quit last September after three rehearsals. The phrase "It will be all right on the night; how? It's a mystery", while it appears to apply to most theatre, doesn't apply in the same way to orchestral performance, I have discovered after three concerts. I haven't decided yet, anyway; it's a possibility I'm turning over and over in my mind. For now I'll just grit my teeth and practice those gods-damned passages till I hate them even more - I'll be able to play them, but I'll hate them.

When my husband walked in I asked him not to talk to me for a while, and he hovered for a bit before asking what was wrong. I blew up at him - with some reason, I think, since I had already indicated politely that I was not in the mood to talk and when I was, I would. We've always been straightforward about this sort of thing, and have respected such requests, so why he broke the rule this time completely escapes me: it just made it worse. Terrific; now we're both scowly and anti-social. Evidently we're in for a wonderful night.

String Quartet Joy

Someone has created a string quartet tribute to Sarah McLachlan.

Two of my favourite things, like chocolate and peanut butter. Who'd have ever thought?

Oh look - there's one for Tori Amos, too...

And The Royal Philharmonic Orchestra has recorded a disc of REM tunes. I absolutely have to hear "What's the Frequency Kenneth?" done by full orchestra. And "The One I Love". And an expansion of the string work in "Nightswimming".

Argh!

Mendelssohn Was an Unsympathetic Pianist, Damn Him

So Wednesday night at orchestra, we were working through the second movement of Mendelssohn's first symphony, and the entire orchestra was having trouble (in different places ) with the sixteenth note legato passages. These things are evil, particularly for cellos (and clarinets, apparently, although for different reasons). Your fingers have to stretch in really bizarre patterns, and no matter how we try to work out alternate fingerings, the pattern remains bizarre (in different permutations, but bizarre nonetheless). Bizarre fingerings while attempting to sound light and smooth and soft and sort of like gentle wind on a sunny day is nigh-impossible. The third or fourth go-round of this passage left our stand-in conductor attempting to reach for encouraging words while still sounding disappointed. From the very back of the cello section came the very dry comment, barely audible, of, "Mendelssohn played the piano."

It's true. He was a pianist. And he was evidently thinking pianistically when he wrote these long sixteenth note passages and scattered them liberally through the Andante of his first symphony.

Wretched pianists. Check out the physics of four strings sometime, and understand why we can't play stuff that's a cinch on the piano, with its nice shiny black and white keys all in a line with only an inch shift forward or back to hit an accidental, in nasty key signatures with three flats.

Bitter. I know. But…

Today, it doesn’t matter any more. I take comfort knowing that this morning, our family grows.

Oh, come on. You didn’t honestly believe that after nursing kittens, especially the tiniest one who wasn’t gaining weight and worried us all for a while and required extra-special love and attention, I’d manage to get away kittenless?

I hardened my heart. I did. We argued for and against. My husband was no help at all. My parents’ acquisition of their new kitten didn’t help, either.

Nix on any more cats, indeed. You all saw this coming.

Rehearsal Photo

Aha! A photo from the recording! (Thanks, JD!)

That's Anthony on the left as Vlad himself, me in the middle as the damsel in distress, and Taras as Bram Stoker in the background scowling at his script...

Radio As You've Never Seen It Before

Yawn. I need a weekend after my weekend. Not that I was rushed… I just went from appointment to appointment to appointment from Friday night all the way to this morning.

I saw my osteopath for the first time in a couple of months today. When I emerged from my warm flat to walk over to the sports clinic, the world was quite dark, and a few cars even had dustings of snow caught in the crevices between windows and frames (that dreaded S-word!). When I left again over an hour later, I could just see a line of pink through the clouds to the south-east, but wow, was I relaxed. We truly don’t understand how our bio-mechanic operating system gets off-kilter and requires more energy to run efficiently until we’ve been tuned up.

I spent Sunday in Kingston at the local COGECO cable TV station, in production meetings and rehearsals for the live True Story of Dracula broadcast the Midnight Players are doing on October 31st. I love the slogan our producer came up with: Radio As You’ve Never Seen It Before! The whole premise of the show is that we’re doing a 1930s broadcast in front of a studio audience. If you’ve ever seen the film Radioland Murders, then you know exactly what we’re trying to reproduce. Radio features used to be performed live in front of an audience: performance theatre with scripts, nominal costuming and sets. For The True Story of Dracula we’re doing the same sort of thing. I’ve done radio shows in studios, radio shows at a mike for recordings, and radio shows with no broadcast at all in front of an audience, but working with cameras and a standing mike is new for me. Watching the rehearsal rushes yesterday, I can see that there’s a whole different dynamic required; a TV camera asks that the actor make eye contact, or at least not have their eyes glued to a script, for visual interest’s sake. This means, of course, that the script has to be pretty much memorised, so you can interact. Which leads me to wonder why we’re even using scripts at all, since if you’re holding a piece of paper with words on it, even if you know those words backwards and forwards, your eyes will instinctively glance downwards and try to capture the phrase, get tangled up in all the lines, and as a result you stumble. Mankind doesn’t trust itself very much; we tend to second-guess ourselves and create more problems than we’d have had if we’d stuck with our first instincts.

It’s going to be a blast, I know. While I’ve worked with cameras before, on films and interviews and such, I’ve never been involved with live broadcasts. I’ve done eighteen years of live theatre, though, so to see the two blended will be fascinating. JDH took some digital photos of the first rehearsal, so when we get those up I’ll link them so you can get an idea of what was happening (now that I’ve figured out my Sympatico storage space!). You’ll just have to imagine the set and costumes that will be there on the 31st. (JDH, by the way, filmed a fantastic mocumentary section on the life and times of our ol' pal Vlad, looking slightly scruffy and professor-like as he told creepy stories in the basement of a chilly old deserted school. Complete with rather large millipedes and slamming doors, none of which were faked.)

And before the 31st, I have that Hallowe’en party that I need to finish my costume for. Ceri is coming over on Tuesday to help me hem metres and metres of fabric (bless her), and I have an hour of quick stitching for my husband’s costume (which he developed all on his own, and he’s doing the bulk of the work; I swore I’d not do anyone else’s costume again for years, but an hour of donated time on my part is fair, I think); then ‘tis done! I’m going to get even more wear out of it than I expected – I have another party to attend at the beginning of November, which is just fine with me… the more mileage, the better!

Cello Frustration

The only mishap I discovered that had occurred in our absence this weekend was cello-related. My D string had snapped.

This is incredibly frustrating for several reasons. These strings are brand-new, and I love the feel and the sound of them (even though the constant re-tuning is getting to me, as is the fact that I can't use my fine-tuners; no, it's stand up and crank that peg at the top of the neck, every twenty minutes); whenever anything new breaks, I feel a perfectly justifiable flare of anger. New stuff should be good for a few years. Of course, the temperature dropped to zero-ish celsius this weekend, and the heat went on for the first time this season; as these are gut strings and are peculiarly sensitive to temperature and humidity they reacted badly, and I ought to be thankful I didn't lose more than one, I suppose.

No, it comes down to an even baser reason: I can't afford to replace it at the moment. I kept my old strings as back-ups in case of disaster, so I'll restring it today, but the balance will be off harmonically. (Old strings, new strings; mixing two sets... well, it's a string player thing, I guess.)

Next week, then, I'll be off to the luthier, and now I come back to the same old problem I had before, only slightly different: what brand do I get to replace it? I love the sound of the Eudoxas, but tuning constantly is wearing on me, and if they're going to break that easily, I might want to try the Piranito synthetic equivalent to the gut strings, the Obligatos. (For those who have misplaced the information I supplied a month or so ago: gut gives a warm, dark, mellow sound; synthetic cores are a gut alternative that produce a slightly more focused, brighter sound; and metal cores give the most brilliant projected sound you can get.) The Obligatos are comparable to my Eudoxas in price, they'll be more stable, and they won't need to be tuned so much. Knowing that my A string is the one that's really touchy on my cello, I might stay with the gut A, since the sound is so lovely and mellow, and turn to the synthetics for the others as they need replacing. It might be worth it if I only have to tune one string constantly, even if it is the one with the peg that slips badly.

Why is my life fraught with such difficulty? I feel the need to go lie down again in the face of such a deep and consequence-laden decision...

Spirited Away

We saw Spirited Away with Ceri and Scott last night, and it was gratifying to see one of the large theatres at the AMC with that many people in it. Wonderful movie - I don't know if I enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed Princess Mononoke, but it was excellent: well-paced, with every character memorable without over-developing the supporting cast or pulling focus from the main storyline. And a wonderful soundtrack by Hisaishi, of course.

I looked around the theatre at the crowd - mostly thirty-somethings like myself - and I thought that each and every one of them was there because this was a new Miyazaki movie, which was pretty impressive. With movie tickets on a Friday night costing thirteen dollars (*koff* *koff* - shows how long it's been since I saw a movie on a weekend, and it will be a long, long time before I do it again; if I'd known the price I'd probably have rescheduled my viewing, regretfully missing that opening night show but very aware of the reality my finances operate within these days), I knew that from now on I'd really be paying attention to what kind of movies I choose to see, and where I choose to see them. I've already sworn off the Paramount (except for films like Lord of the Rings) for price and atmosphere; I'd hate to have to swear off the AMC as well.

It really made me think, though, about what kind of movies for which I wish to demonstrate support. I've never been the kind of person who goes to see a movie for the sake of seeing a movie; I'm already rather discriminating, which solves a lot of my problem right off the bat. Thirteen dollars for a film, though... last night's movie was almost two and a half hours, which breaks down to $5.20 per hour, which is a pretty good deal for Miyazaki. I don't see films in the theatre very often, and I don't understand people who say, "Oh, it's Tuesday/Friday night, let's catch a film." It's a product and a service, as well as being entertainment, and frankly I don't think most films are worth the money.

This one was, thank goodness. But then, it was a Miyazaki product. Sometimes you know it's safe to spend the money.

Yes, I Vaguely Remember Seeing Films on a Big Screen

Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets: November 15

Treasure Planet: November 27

The Two Towers: December 18

Yes, finally, more movies that I want to see in the theatre!

The official Harry Potter web site has released images of the upcoming theatre banners, which has cheered me immensely, because I don't like the Dobby teaser poster at all.

Treasure Planet is a movie I will see with my husband, who sat a-quiver with excitement when we saw the trailer in theatres a few months ago. It's as if they reached into his head and pulled out all the things he loves: pirates, science fiction, animation. It also features the voice talents of Emma Thompson and David Hyde-Pierce, which intrigues me. Tamu just contacted me with the stunning news that her brother Emru was unexpectedly happy with the press screening, so my standards have just been raised.

And, well, The Two Towers... what can I say that I haven't said already? Except, of course, for seventy-seven days, and counting. And forty-one days until the extended version of The Fellowship of the Ring is released on DVD. (Must... wait... till Christmas... argh!)

Glenn Gould!

Glenn Gould! Glenn Gould! Glenn Gould!

Yes, it’s his seventieth anniversary. Most of you probably don’t know that I am a massive Gould fan. Those who do are probably scratching their heads and saying, “I thought she got over that. Isn’t this her third wedding anniversary? Shouldn’t she be blogging about marital bliss?”

My marital bliss today involves being thrilled that my significant other enjoys Gould as well, thanks to me. Our first official outing was to a Gouldian book launch at the NAC in Ottawa and a film festival on Gould’s work (duly reported to the F-Minor group!). And, of course, a couple of years later, completely by coincidence, we were married on September 25th: Glenn Gould’s birthday. (It meant that I had to miss the bi-annual international Gould conference that I had been planning on attending, but well, after weighing priorities, I think everything came out all right, don’t you?)

No, actually, my husband woke me up an hour before I had to be up and brought me breakfast in bed this morning, and a rose, and tea. Very sweet. I couldn’t eat it, mind you (I can’t eat until I’ve been awake for a good hour or so), but it was a lovely thought.

He left, I turned on the radio, and lo and behold, it’s all Glenn Gould, all day on CBC Radio Two!

The agonising and unfair reality of things, however, means that I am working at the store today and I can’t listen to it. Argh! They’re interviewing people he worked with, playing clips of interviews done with him, asking Canadian and international musicians and producers for their opinions of his work, and playing Gould, Gould, Gould… fourteen whole hours of broadcast. I’ll hear a couple of hours tonight, but I wish I could hear it all!

I discovered Glenn Gould by buying a copy of his 1955 Goldberg Variations in ye old Sam the Record Man downtown. The playing was rough, spilling over with emotion and drive, and I was hooked. I did research, bought academic analyses, acquired as many recordings by Gould as possible that wasn’t the work of twentieth century composers (Bach, Bach, Bach!), and ended up outlining and writing a third of a thesis on Gould’s dual use of performance/recording and the written word as communication about music, for he wrote many articles and many of his own liner notes as well. I was supervised by a professor of drama in the English department, who was excited about the project and foresaw an examination board made up of people from the music faculty and the English department. Everything was green-lighted… and then my advisor vanished from the face of the earth. He didn’t return e-mails, didn’t return phone messages, didn’t respond to the drafts I left for him in his mailbox. The project trickled to a stop as I lost confidence in myself and the thesis, and my life went to hell in a handbasket as my first wedding was called off and various other problems surfaced in my life. Ultimately the thesis was abandoned, replaced by my brilliant (yes, I reread it recently) thesis on Nostalgia in the British Academic Novel: Reconstructing the Past in Thatcher Britain (available on microfiche, by interlibrary loan, and somewhere federal in Ottawa where all theses written in Canada go to rest in glory). This means that I have the bare bones of a major Gould work somewhere on a floppy disk (I shudder… it could be anywhere).

In the meantime, I was an active member of F-Minor, a mailing list about Gould’s works. In fact, if I search my birth name on the Internet, the first thing that comes up is a post to F-Minor from the archive. I have in the past few years received e-mails from strangers asking me questions about Gould and Timothy Findley for school papers as a result of this archive still being up and available to the public, which is flattering and slightly time-warpish. I unsubscribed from the list not long after the thesis fell apart, being so very hurt by the callousness of the vanishing professor (who went on to retire and not inform several students he was supervising), but going back through it this morning has me convinced that I’ll re-subscribe, if it’s still active.

Since I can’t enjoy the festivities today, do it for me! Visit the official web site at http://glenngould.com/gg/; or listen to CBC Radio Two’s Variations on Glenn Gould via the airwaves or on the Internet (Radio Two, down on the lower left), even if it's just for a few minutes to get a sense of who this man was; and read about it on the CBC web site. I’m going to be late for work now because I blogged so long about a topic that I love, but since I’m not the one with the keys… as Bill would say, “neener, neener”!

Andres

I’m not sure where to begin.

I’m back at work this week – yes, retail; covering for another full-timer who’s on a well-deserved vacation. It was fun for about half a day. Then I started to get tired. I have thirty more hours of this, mostly with new part-timers I don’t know and have never worked with.

After work was my regular class that I teach on Monday nights. I was tired, but onwards I went. I wish things could have ended on a better note; I was trying to make them understand the individual steps in writing a research paper, and one student was seemingly being stubborn on purpose until we discovered that the term “research paper” meant something completely different to her than it meant to the twelve other students and the two professors. Misunderstanding cleared up. Frustrating at the time, though.

The I came home to two messages on my answering machine, one from my orchestra contact asking me to return his call, the other from a member of the LLO board asking me if I would help out backstage. (Nice of you to ask; snowball’s chance in hell.)

I called my orchestra contact back, and sat down, stunned, as he told me that our conductor had been in a rather bad road accident on Friday, had severe head trauma, was in the Montreal General Hospital where unsuccessful surgery had taken place to staunch internal cranial bleeding, and was being kept alive by machines. So our weekly rehearsal has been cancelled.

This is the man who founded the orchestra thirty-odd years ago. Every member of the orchestra has been called and advised of the situation. Of course the rehearsal’s been cancelled!

The situation is even bleaker than it first appears. The family expects to make a decision within the next couple of days as to whether or not those life-support machines should be kept functional. Andrès has just retired from teaching high school music to be there for his wife, who is battling terminal cancer. After a promising spring she has taken a turn for the worse, and now she has just been transferred to the Montreal General to be with her husband. Family is being summoned from his native country of Latvia and other places of residence. Evidently, things don’t look good all around.

I don’t know Andrès other than as my conductor for a single year of orchestra. He has a sense of humour, a true love for music, the ability to communicate his ideas and visions, to corral forty adults of various levels of competence and with them create a thing of beauty. He taught years and years of string students at Lindsay Place High School. When I saw him last on Wednesday, he was in a wonderful mood.

The strangeness of knowing that he’s now lying somewhere hooked up to monitors and IV drips and pumps and tubes is unreal. It’s so difficult to maintain two opposing realities in the mind: that you expect upon extrapolating from the last time you encountered someone, and the reality that someone has told you which completely contradicts it. I suppose the necessity for closure is directly proportional to how well you know the individual in question. I’ve only known Andres for a year, despite the joy he’s brought me and the work I’ve done for him to meet the standards he’s set. My stunned feelings must pale next to those of the orchestra members how have worked with him longer than I, and to those of his already stressed family. I’m angry at the senseless tragedy; all I can do is pray, and I’ve been doing it since I heard the news. If he’s meant to live, let it be with peace and no pain, with health and positivity. May his doctors’ minds be clear, their hands steady, their acts inspired. If he is meant to die, then let him pass gently, with no further trauma, and may his family be spared further agony. He is an admirable man. Why did this have to happen?

This reminds me that if I walk away from someone in anger, or even indifference, there may not be another opportunity to erase that final image I’ll hold in my mind of them ever afterwards. Like my cats and our dog, he might not be there next time our orchestra gathers. My contact assures me that we’ll likely go on, although Andrès was our heart. Perhaps we will; he wouldn’t want the orchestra to dissolve. Music is eternal, although people who create it are not. It will be strange, and it will be different; but for me, it will be a way to balance the senseless and tragic loss of life, if it is indeed confirmed that there must be loss of life. For every destruction, there must be creation, after all.

Eudoxa Strings!

I have now re-strung my cello with a full set of Eudoxa strings, and the wound gut sounds sooooo mellow. I adore it.

There’s just one problem. The silver or aluminium winding is so soft that my bow is having difficulty catching it. I put more rosin on the hair, but it’s still slipping a bit. It will improve as more rosin transfers to the strings as well, but I’m starting to wonder if buying softer rosin might be the way to go. There’s a deliciously dreamy rosin that my old stand partner uses, but it’s about thirty-six dollars a cake, and I just bought a total of a hundred and sixty dollars worth of new strings over the past week. Maybe if I have a really successful workshop this week, I’ll use some of that money and try either Eudoxa rosin (to match the strings, and much less expensive at $12 a cake!) or the Leibenzeller. Rosin does last for years, though, unless you drop it and it shatters. I use Hill light at the moment, and it was fine for the Aricores, but hmmm.

The cello is lying on the floor in the living room at the moment. I wander in and tighten the pegs every half-hour or so. Honestly, they’re losing between three-quarters of and a whole tone every thirty minutes. They really, really need to stretch.

Strings, Paragraphe, and Maine Coons

Was I the only person on the planet who didn't watch Lathe of Heaven on TV last night? I woke up this morning to half a dozen e-mails in my in-box either ranting or raving about it. Please tell me someone taped it so I can figure out what the fuss was about.

I had a nightmare this morning and woke up in a jolt of freezing terror around five, and lay there shaking till six when my husband got up. Bad dreams are so frustrating; your logical mind says, "Okay, car, knife, bad man, night, these things are highly unlikely to happen, it was just a dream," but your system is still stuck in that shadow fight-or-flight a nightmare produces. I call it the shadow version because with real fight-and-flight, you can actively shake the tremors and cold sweats and pounding heart. Shadow fight-and-flight is an echo sort of reaction that happens while you're asleep, and it lingers insidiously until your husband wakes up and rubs your back and brings you cats to scare away the bad stuff with purrs. I had good dreams too, although most had a chorus of invisible monks breaking into a chant of "Esca-flowne" all over the place, a direct result of watching the first Escaflowne DVD last night. Escaflowne is my very first foray into the world of animé, and I can say at the very least the score is having some sort of effect on me, evidently. Nothing like invisible monks chanting the name of a giant robot as a dream soundtrack to really highlight the ludicrous aspect to my quality dream-time.

My parents are back from their annual holiday drive into the States, and they've picked up their new four-month-old kitten friend, who is a Maine Coon. His name is Seamus, and he's following them around a lot. Their established old cat is not amused. So now my mother and I get to exchange kitten stories. And speaking of kittens, they're getting nice and plump, and Nix is filling out nicely. As of yesterday their milk formula was blended with a spoon of pablum, so it's now like a very thin gruel, and they're a bit upset. When you're five inches long, a week is forever, so when the viscosity of their food alters once weekly, it must come as a real shock to their little kitten brains.

While going through my filing cabinet looking for a label I came across a picture taken at my one and only public cello recital. Ceri's right; my cello is huge next to me. For everyone who is waiting with bated breath to know what my string decision will be, I'm going to try a Eudoxa A string, since that's the crucial replacement and the string I always have the most trouble with sound-wise, and if it sounds horrible then I'll order a set of Aricores. If it doesn't, then I'll try a D string too, and so forth.

I went out yesterday and wandered around downtown a bit. I went into Paragraphe, and wondered why on earth I don't do it more often. It's just around the corner from Indigo, after all, and it stocks all the books I like, and is nicer, and an independent, too. (Let's never mind the fact that the owners sold out to become the directors of the distribution company owned in majority by Chapters a few years ago; water under the bridge and all that.) I suddenly thought that I ought to be reading the type of book I'm writing, to get a feel for what was being published. And then, something that an old customer who was an author from the F/SF shop told me once drifted across my mind: this counts as research. Save the receipts.

Hmm. I buy books anyway. If it doesn't work come tax-time, I haven't lost anything. Woo-hoo! So I bought Adam Davies' debut novel The Frog King, which was one of those brilliant debuts last season. It began really well, then descended a bit into maudlin self-abuse. Still better than some of the stuff out there. Just finished it this morning. Lesson learned: does your protagonist really have to hit rock bottom in an unpleasant way for your story to be told? Is your audience going to come away from the novel with an unpleasant taste in their mouths? If so, is it ultimately key to the plot? I didn't think so in this case, so my lesson note reads: put your protagonist through symbolic hell. Forcing your audience to read every little bit of ick and dredge before your protagonist sees a scrap of blue sky drags your tale down.

I also picked up Sophie Kinsella's Confessions of a Shopaholic, which is rather amusing because the cover is pink, and my ex-colleagues know how much I foam at the mouth when I see a pink or purple book. (Pink or purple pages and/or fonts are even worse.) Mind you, that's in the New Age sort of book, so maybe this slipped past my pink radar because it was in the Literature section.

I made tons of notes on what other books I would buy when I went back, too. It's been ages since I got excited about books like this. I think it's because for the first time in eleven years, I don't work at a bookstore, so I don't have my surprises spoiled for me by ordering from forthcoming catalogues. It also has to do with the style of book Paragraphe stocks. I don't have to wade through crap, the way I do at a chain store. It's all quality stuff. Call me elitist, I don't care. Label me; just let me have good books.

Paragraphe has a web site, so I thought I could start linking the books I talk about. I haven't before because I refuse to funnel money into a Canadian chain that doesn't need it (I'm a staunch supporter of independant booksellers, and you should be too), let alone an American company (Bleah! Amazon sucks! Okay, they have a good review system, I check them out for reviews all the time; and they have tempting shipping deals, but they're American! So is the Amazon.ca site - Canadian shipping address, owned by a Seattle company! Don't get suckered! Support your own economy - please!) (Okay, rant over.) So I checked the Paragraphe site this morning. Alas, it is counter-intuitive, doesn't list all their books, doesn't have a page per title describing it, etcetera. Still, it's an excellent place in person, which is what you want when you're looking for a good bookstore anyway. More nifty Montreal bookstores you might not know about: The Double Hook on Greene, which deals exclusively in Canadiana, and Nicholas Hoare, also on Greene (with another location in the basement of Ogilvy's if you're feeling particularly swanky someday). Anyone else have a favourite?

Audition Aftermath

For everyone who has been asking, Friday night went rather badly – I choked, I dropped lines, I wobbled. As I expected, I didn’t get the part. Thoughtful condolence gifts of dinner, flowers, expensive chocolates etc are always appreciated.

In fact, only one person out of the truckload of excellently qualified friends who also auditioned for various roles was cast. Which leads me to wonder, who the heck is in this show?

The casting chairman who called me was evidently rather distressed about the state of things, for he chatted with me for a few minutes about how he’d shown the committee clips he’d videotaped the past year of my vocal and stage work, and tried in every way possible to get me to come back. He also told me that the committee had authorised him to offer me an understudy role of the smallest part in the show, which is out of my range. And for a moment, I balanced between rage and laughing; I finally chose to laugh. He asked my reasons why I wasn’t coming back at all, and I told him frankly that I had been extremely frustrated last year by the lack of effort put into the show by the chorus, and that I felt as if I had been pulling more than my fair share of weight (apart from understudying two other roles and learning three different sets of blocking, I mean). The bickering, the attitudes, and the lack of professionalism amongst the chorus members irritated me to a point that it’s not worth going back. (In retrospect, being in the chorus last year was supposed to help me get a role this year, so technically I could count last year as a loss. I’m not going to think about that too hard.) The only two really bitter things about this are (a) that I won’t be working with Rob on-stage again, and (b) that Phoebe was the second of the two G&S roles I’ve ever actively wanted to sing (the first was Iolanthe, and if you’ve known me for over three years you know the nasty story behind that one too).

I was really upset on Friday night. I hate auditions because they suggest that it’s the best I can do, which I (and the casting committee) know damn well is not true. Some people audition better than others, and then (Iolanthe being a case in point) don’t improve through rehearsal. I think the shame and embarrassment I feel about audition failure revolves around the suggestion that I can’t do better, past proof to the contrary. I'm also trying to figure out why my auditions get worse as I get older and gather more experience singing. (I can trace the beginning of the end to being in a relationship with my husband, actually - I haven't succeeded in an audition since we began courting.) The dialogue part of the audition, however, was fantastic, a fact with which I’m soothing my injured soul. This audition has shown me that it’s time to go back to straight theatre. As much as I love singing, and as good as I am at it, I’m not trained, nor do I have a piano or a teacher to work on my audition pieces with me, as other candidates do; I’m feeling it out and hoping I do it right, doing it by instinct. Time to stop agonising and just do what I’m good at for a while. So, all you theatre people out there – drop me a line and let me know when auditions pop up! I do have fourteen years of varied stage experience, after all (and I'm not counting high school).

The good part: I can re-join my book club (and read The Princess Bride by Tuesday – no problem), and have Fridays free for socialising and what-not (with all those friends who also won’t be in the show!). Silver lining.

On the Cello

Okay, I'm in a educational mood this morning. I'm also going to geek out on you. Hold tight.

Since most of you have never (and likely will never!) hear me mess about alone with the cello, you can hear the individual strings and basic sounds here. (If you're curious about the physical construction of the cello, and how it all goes together, check out this exploded print of a cello.) The A string is the thinnest, the highest, and the one that breaks the most often because it's under the most pressure. The C string is the lowest, and it's a heavy string. To give you an idea of the tension on each string, a medium-gauge A string will place about 35 lbs of pressure on the cello, a D string will press around 32 lbs, a G string will press about 29 lbs, and a C string will press about 28 lbs. Go ahead, add it all up and marvel at the feat of engineering that keeps a curved box of thin wood encasing about six inches of air from exploding into matchwood.

My particular instrument is picky about what A string goes on it. Most brands that I've tried sound sharp (as in painfully hitting your ear, leaping out when the other three strings sound nice and warm, not as opposed to flat) and a bit nasal. I chose Pirastro Aricores last time, a perlon core aluminum and silver-wrapped string, and the whole set sounded pretty impressive. They have a nice dark sound that I enjoy a lot. They've stood up well, too.

Hmm. More background necessary, methinks. String instruments used to be strung with gut, which produces a very soft warm sound. Obviously with larger concert halls and most recording sessions we can't do that any more, and gut is horribly unstable in humid climates (like, well, Montreal). So strings diverged, and now can roughly be split into two categories: synthetic cores, which sound warmer and softer, and steel cores, which sound brighter and more brilliant. I have an innate fear of being heard, and besides, I like the warmer tones, so I opt for synthetic cores. Perlon is one such core. People still use gut, of course, it's just less reliable. In fact, there's a couple of brands from Pirastro string that uses a real gut core and winds it with aluminum (for the two higher strings) and silver (for the two deeper strings). On top of materials used in composition, there's the whole problem of what grade to use: light, medium or heavy. (I usually stick with medium; nice, safe, middle of the road.)

I've tried Thomastik Dominant strings (icky A strings that are wound with a flat ribbon of chrome that breaks all the time and slithers down the Perlon core), Larsen strings (swanky steel strings that sounded lifeless on my cello), a sleek steel Jargar A string that snapped three times in two weeks, a Thomastik Precision that wasn't very memorable, and now the Aricores. The staff member at Shar tried to talk me out of synthetic core Pirastro Aricores and into steel core D'Addario Helicores, but mindful of my pocketbook I held out for the Aricores. I was rather smug when he'd strung it, played it and admitted my victory; they sounded terrific.

Now, I could order a set of Aricores from Toronto, but I don't feel like it. I like Wilder & Davis, and darn it all, I want to support them. They don't sell Aricores. So.... I embark again upon the Great String Adventure. I'd love to try a wound gut string; I think it would be very interesting. They sell Pirastro Eudoxas, which would set me back around $185. If I want to keep on with a synthetic core, a set of Pirastro Obligatos is $220, but I suppose I could put the less expensive Thomastik Dominants on the G and C (a C string that costs $44 is easier to justify than one that costs $70), and use the Obligatos on the A and D. I really would rather not use Dominants again, though. Or, I can just buy one Eudoxa at a time, starting with the A string. I'd jump at Pirastro Gold, which like the Eudoxa is aluminum or silver-wrapped gut and is less expensive, but Wilder & Davis doesn't stock it.

Selecting strings is kind of like a puzzle; you can mix and blend brands, according to your instrument's peculiarities and you pocketbook, or you opt for a set where each string is designed to complement the others. It's a hit and miss sort of enterprise, though. You can hit on a brilliant combo, or it can fizzle. Price desn't seem to really indicate quality very well; those three Jargar strings that snapped were quite expensive and enjoy an excellent reputation overall (although other cellists have indicated that they've had a similar problem with thse particular A strings). A sentence of description is hard to go by too; anything that uses the words "loud" or "brilliant" usually get crossed off my list right away. I want a mellow, rich, dark sound. From the research I've done this morning, it looks like Eudoxas are my pick if I want to support my local luthier of choice (and they have a string sale on right now, so I'd save around $16 off the set which would basically save me the taxes and bring my cost down to about $167). I could always order a new set of Aricores ($99) or a set of Golds ($129) from Toronto (shipping is free, after all, and I wouldn't pay PST).

Argh. Decisions, decisions.

My Cello is Home!

I have my cello back again!

I met Ceri for dinner and sangria, and then we took the metro up to Mont-Royal and walked down St Denis (mistake, mistake, mistake - look, there's Valet de Coeur, let's look at miniatures. Look, there's Excalibor, and the new Fall line is out, ooh, microsuede... no! No! Must pick up cello!)

We got there, and I gave the young man my name and claim sheet (different anxious young man - this one was Anglophone); he brought it in from the back, and I experienced the expected "Yay!" feeling, but something else, too. I saw my cello almost as if it were the first time... and it was, well, beautiful. Aesthetically attractive, I mean. I've always slightly regretted the fact that the varnish is orangey, instead of more brown or red. Not that the colour matters, of course; it's the sound that you're focused on, after all. When he carried it out, though, I knew it was mine right away (I've always been slightly afraid that if someone had a score of cellos, I wouldn't be able to pick mine out by sight alone). Then, of course, I was swamped by the "Mine! Mine!" feeling, and he gave it to me, and all I wanted to do was hug it.

"It's so small!" said Ceri.

"Well, that would be because I don't have the endpin out," I said. The endpin adds a good foot to the length of the instrument.

"And you're not sitting down," Ceri said with a grin, "That makes a big difference too. Usually it looks huge next to you."

There was a gentleman there with a bike helmet who had been asking about violin rental while we'd waited, and he was still there as I put my cello away in the case. "That's a cello?" he asked, partly to me, partly to the young man. "My middle son wants to play the cello, but we can't seem to find a teacher."

Now, I just so happened to have a slip of paper in my back pocket with the name and number of a cello teacher on it, which I had picked up in another music store a couple of hours earlier. I pulled it out and gave it to him; he needed it more than I did. I don't remember what I said to him, really, only that if a child of ten is asking for lessons on a string instrument, for God's sake, give him lessons. Music can only enrich, and the whole process of learning to read and play music trains a different part of the brain than does regular reading. What I didn't say aloud was that it was refreshing to find a child who wanted music lessons, instead of feeling like s/he'd been forced into it. Cultivate that, says I.

So I got home and opened the case and oooh, the new bridge is twice as thick and arched higher and my strings rest on it beautifully, and it's shaped, they actually sanded parts away in places for the more delicate strings to resonate better, and the sound is fantastic. If I seem a over-excited, you should have seen my last bridge - it was half this thick, only slightly rounded, and certainly not shaped so attentively or with consideration for the individual instrument. But then, this only confirms my general not-impressed-ness with Jules St-Michel, and increases my admiration for Wilder & Davis.

The luthier made a note on the work report that my A string is beginning to unravel as well, but I knew that already. It needs to be replaced before orchestra begins. Actually, all the strings are two years old (possibly three, goodness) and they saw more playing last year than I usually do, so they technically should all be replaced. My poor husband last night nearly choked when he asked how much an A string would cost, and I told him in the neighbourhood of thirty dollars. Good thing I didn't tell him that C strings go for about fifty or sixty. A full set will cost between one hundred and one hundred and seventy. Guess I know what I'm doing with my next EI cheque...

The Luthier

After a semi-disastrous day that imploded around six o'clock, I managed to get my cello to the luthier last night, half an hour before they closed.

As soon as I walked in, I relaxed. Wilder & Davis is in an old townhouse on Rachel street, just a block west of St Denis. As I lifted the cello up the stone steps to the doorway, a woman in an apron enjoying the night air on her break smiled and said, "Bonsoir." As the door closed I could hear, somewhere upstairs, a cello being played very slowly. To my left was the empty reception area, which has a lovely bay window and a fireplace; to my right was the workshop, wide open. "Bonsoir," said a youngish luthier; "votre violoncelle?" I explained that I needed the bridge replaced and the fingerboard examined. He beckoned me into the workshop (into the workshop!) and motioned for me to take it out of the travelling case and lay it on the workbench while he cleared a space for it. We stood on either side of it as he squinted at the bridge ("Ah oui," he said immediately. I wanted to apologise; I know I should have brought this in a couple of years ago, but I held my tongue) and then pulled out a level and moved it all over the fingerboard. "Vos cordes - ils brisent ou?" he asked. (Actually, he tried in very broken but quite earnest English: I had explained about the bridge and fingerboard in my mother tongue, since in my imploded mental state the French terms for "bridge" and "fingerboard" had completely escaped me. I insisted on speaking French after that initial mind-blank, though.) "Mes cordes ne brisent pas," I explained, "c'est le vernis; ca s'enleve pendant que je joue, mes doigts se rendent tous noirs apres seulement quelques minutes." "Je vais le nettoyer quand je remplace le pont," he said after he'd grabbed a bottle of cleaning solution, then looked at the viola he'd been working on next to him. I have a funny feeling that when he goes to clean it he'll get a swipe of black colour on his rag, but he'll figure something out to stabilise the stain, I'm sure.

It was so peaceful. I felt like collapsing in the papasan chair by the plants in the front bay window and just closing my eyes. The whole place smells like orange oil, and wood; there's no sense of the busy St Denis strip a few hundred metres away. He filled out a work order, looked at me anxiously and said, "Mercredi prochain, ca va?" "C'est parfait," I said. Actually, I knew darn well that as soon as I didn't have it I'd want to play it, so getting it back today would have been nice, but my husband has a whole three days off in a row because it's Labour Day weekend, and I wouldn't end up playing it anyway. So Wednesday is just fine. (I did, in fact, indulge in a pre-emptive strike against seperation anxiety in the form of a Mendelssohn trio yesterday. I love Opus 49 in D minor.)

The bonus: I get to go back next week, to pick it up. Hurrah!

Celloing

I did something I haven't done in a few weeks.

I walked past my cello, paused, and said, "I really should play something." Before I could talk myself out of it, I sat down, pulled the cello towards me, picked up my bow, and just started playing whatever was on my music stand. It happened to be the second movement of a Breval sonata. When I'd done that, I flipped the page with the tip of my bow and started playing the next thing: the Prelude to the first Bach solo cello suite. The I played both Minuets from the same suite - with repeats.

Not bad. Not bad at all. Nice sound. I now have throbbing fingers, however.

Then I picked up the phone and called a luthier. I haven't played my cello these past three weeks because the bridge is so badly warped that I'm afraid that it will slip and smash the belly of the instrument, turning a minor repair job into a major disaster. Not only can the luthier replace my bridge ($120 - eep), they can stabilise the black stain that's wearing off the fingerboard and onto my fingers every session. (Ick.) This is a good thing, of course.

Naturally, however, now that I will be bringing the cello in for minor surgery, I'm getting all antsy. I just know I'll want to play it while I don't have it. I'm taking it in on Thursday afternoon, and I'm already wondering how much playing I can safely indulge in tomorrow without threatening the safety of the instrument.

Bridget Jones's Diary

So I finally saw Bridget Jones's Diary last week, hard on the heels of reading the second book in the series, and discovered that the film was a blend of both books. I think what might have happened was that Helen Fielding, who co-authored the script (love it when they actually get the author to work on the film) was writing the second book while coming up with a couple of key scenes for the film, and ended up using similar versions in both movie and new book, never dreaming that a second film might be made.

Clicking on Bill's link to Bridget Jones today, I discovered that they're making a film based on the second book.

Er?

This should be interesting. How they're going to top Colin Firth and Hugh Grant pounding each other and crashing through windows on a snowy street, I truly do not know.

The other wonderful bit of meta-fiction, Bridget's obssession with Pride & Prejudice's Mr Darcy and Colin Firth, was by necessity disposed of in the first film, since, well Colin Firth was in it, providing fans of the book with a deliriously smug in-joke. (And heaven forbid we mention Jane Austen in a pop film. Pride and What? Good Lord, no, we might lose the audience!) The second book has Bridget actually interviewing Firth in Italy. However, and I quote (although I have cleaned up the spelling and the punctuation), Colin Firth has suggested that the scene in which Bridget interviews, er... Colin Firth may not appear in the sequel. Firth said in a recent interview, "He won't be there, he'll become George Clooney or something." This may not have quite the same effect as the original way Fielding intended but since Firth is not in the scene maybe they'll simply hope the audience doesn't notice the remarkable resemblance."

The statement made me laugh. Probably not for the right reasons, but I laughed.

Art in Our Time

Over at The Times Online, author Jeanette Winterson has written a rather straightforward look at art in our time, what it means to create it, and what it means to appreciate it.

Of course much of what passes for art today is merely hype, or fashion, or showmanship, but this has always been the case. Art makers and art fakers live side by side in any century. Time sieves them out. What matters is not to be endlessly labelling and judging, but to be open to our own culture — to assume we have something to say. The past was not better or richer, but it was slower. Art needs time. Our impatience with art might be just that — we’re in a hurry, and art needs time.

Hmm. Wasn't I arguing this a month or two ago? Something about our contemporary culture being rush-rush and beset by microwaves and lightning-fast internet connections, and losing our ability to appreciate culture?

Winterson says something similar:

The released energies of art, in whatever medium, are a kind of radar trying to steer us back to sanity. We are not sane. We live in a 24-hour emergency zone called real life, where money is the core value, and where our inner life is denied.

Hmm. So, art validitates inner worth? Art constitutes a sort of moral compass?

When you sit down to read a book or to listen to a piece of music or walk round an exhibition, without interruption, the first thing you are doing is turning your gaze inwards. The demands and distractions of the world have to wait.

This, I think, is the problem. People can't stop to listen to what art evokes from within them, because they're afraid. Why else do we stop up our metaphorical and literal ears with noise and busyness? We're losing our ability to listen; yes. What should we do about it? Telling people to go walk through an art gallery is fine, but will it actually succeed? I doubt it. The people who are going to go to an art gallery are those who are already predisposed to do so. Those people who are filling their lives with white noise are precisely the ones who have no idea that silencing the tumult around them might be beneficial.

As appreciative as I am of the article, and as much as I agree with it on the surface, I sense an imbalance. I know it's supposed to focus on art as opposed to the rest of life, but it seems to infer that anything not art (nice, quiet, slow, coaxing out our valuable inner lives) is detrimental. The article is, of course, arguing for a balance, a contrast, a healing change of pace now and again, but she's preaching to the converted, I think.

Art

So, my husband is an artist.

This may come as a surpise to those of you who have known him only as Unemployed or Terraforming Engineer (aka landscaper). It grates severely upon his soul that he's still paying off student loans for a career he's not currently enjoying. (Never mind the fact that he paid off about $15, 000 of student loan debt in the four or so years that he was working as an artist.)

He's going into his ex-place-of-employment today to remind them all that he's still alive and available for high-paying work - er, rewarding career-focused creative exercise, I mean. I hope things go well. He loves landscaping, but he misses animation a lot.

He's good at what he does. Really good. He designs backgrounds for animated TV series, and he's aces. He's also an excellent supervisor of others - a good motivator, a terrific communicator, etcetera - and that's what he was doing at the end before the industry started its downward spiral into the crumpled, dry thing it was for about eighteen months.

I think it's because he loves art so much that it's bothered me for the past couple of years to see him have no interest in sketching at home any more. He used to sketch all the time, but over time it has petered out to the point that in the past twelve months, I think I'd be lucky to count half a dozen sketches. He designs pieces of furniture, which he then constructs for people here and there, but drawing for the pure pleasure? It went the way of the dodo.

Which is why I'm so thrilled that he walked out of Omer De Serres today firmly intent on beginning oil painting again this fall.

I've never seen my husband paint. (Apartment walls really don't count.) There are pieces of artwork stored at his parents' house, and his colour and black and white works framed on their walls, but I've never actually seen him put brush to canvas. I'm wild to see him do it. So wild, as a matter of fact, that when my next cheque comes in, I'm going to pick up oil paints and brushes for him, since his old ones are all dried up and falling apart. (Thus falls the plan of picking up a piece or two of new clothing every cheque; on the next one I have to replace the badly warped bridge on my cello, which will cost about $120, and I want my husband to have those paints. Well, I bought shoes yesterday; I'll use that as part of my clothing goal.)

Understandably, everyone wants to leave work behind when they come home at night. It's disturbing, though, to see an artist come home and not be able to draw for fun and relaxation, since they've been doing it for someone else all day. I'm all for this renaissance in my husband's artistic life. I'd also love to see him back in his original career. This time, though, I'm going to make sure he keeps up the personal artistic expression as well as the work sort of art. I think oil painting and designing backgrounds are varied enough that he can stay interested in both.

Cross your fingers.

Possession Review

Hmmm.

Hmmm, hmmm, hmmm.

The last images faded from the screen, and we looked at each other, and she made a face, and I laughed and said, "What was that face all about?", and we both went, "Hmmm" in a thoughtful fashion.

We know the book too well. We couldn't get into the movie. We need someone who's never read the book but who is sympathetic to the academic atmosphere to see it, and tell us if it succeeds as a movie in and of itself, which we cannot.

We tried. We talked about it with a couple of other teachers for a while afterwards; we had cakes and tea at Calories and tried to puzzle it out (and apart from the costuming, that cappuccino truffle cake was the high point of the day). The book had so much more that we were constantly aware of what was missing. The story didn't appear to suffer; the depth of the emotion, however, did. Our final conclusion is that the pacing seemed wrong, somehow - it was the same pace from beginning to end, no exciting bits, no slower parts to sit back and take in... just, well, plodding along. Alas indeed, for Possession is a tale of undeniable attraction and, yes, fateful unfolding, but there's more to it than "A leads to B, just follow the paper trail."

And it was short - it was just about an hour and a quarter! I really and truly feel that there was so much more to this movie that was left on a cutting room floor. It felt sparse. Now, that might be due to the fact that we know the novel so well, but knowing that the movie has been in re-editing for two years leads me to believe that there were other levels to the movie that were abandoned. It did feel, well, dumbed down a bit. Granted, academic romances aren't truly the thing to seize the American populace's imagination, but the book had an irresistible draw to it that pulled the reader in with words and subtext. The film failed in that respect; it felt a bit tepid. The end, too, was rushed, which was unnecessary considering how short the running time is. Finally, the elimination of the poetry from the whole thing cut out an entire dimension of the novel. The poets fall in love through their poetry, as well as their letters. They exchange pieces of verse, telling stories, exploring issues about male and female identity and placing within the social and natural world (couched in Victorian poetry - makes for lush reading, let me tell you!) For a movie that claims to be about the sensuous use of words, limiting the poet's writing to letters on-screen seems dreadfully severe.

Was the creative team concerned that the average American wouldn't get it? We were told at every step of the turn, rather than shown. An issue that arose in discussion later revolved around audiences: the sort of people who are going to see this movie are likely to be the ones who have read the book (or Byatt's work in some form), hence able to exercise intellectual ability to some degree. Dumbing it down was, in our opinion, unnecessary. And by dumbing it down, the urgency surrounding the unfolding research and revelation is lost, particularly at the end. (Connected and yet not: I didn't mind the main male character being American. Not at all. It was fine.)

Visually, it was perfect - settings (modern and Victorian), costuming, characterisation... the stage trickery was brilliant as well. No special effects for Possession - when the Victorian characters walk out of a room, close the door, and the modern characters walk right into it, stagehands have moved false walls and silently switched furniture to effect the change. Gabriel Yared's music was excellent as well, a wonderfully unintrusive companion to the visuals (except for that operatic piece used in the end credits). The editing between eras was also excellently done.

Something else I noticed, however, is that the title appears meaningless. With the apparent lack of emotional involvement, the term "possession" doesn't connect anywhere. The word is never used (although "obssession" is); nor do the various applications of the term ever come into question (except through a certain minor character's appearance at the opening auction, attempting to buy up as many pieces of a poet's literaria as possible - and even then, I think I might only have realised the significance because there are so many mentions of his obssession to own these and other ephemera in the book) in any way. I don't know if any audiences are going to be astute enough to catch that (or care to question it if they do), but it did bother me.

I'm going to sleep on it for a couple of weeks, then I'll catch a matinee on a Tuesday and try again. Maybe now that my mind's gone through the requisite "this as compared to the original book", I'll be able to approach it as a piece of art in its own right.

Possession Trepidation

I'm going to see a movie today, and I am trepidatious.

I rarely see movies; they're too darned expensive for what they are, and frankly, Hollywood sucks. The Paramount is dreadful too. Thirteen fifty for an hour and a half of second-rate entertainment? Not bloody likely. I also find the Paramount too flashy - loud, bright, sparkly... just the thing for people with no attention spans. It gives me a headache. If I see movies, I try to see them in any of the smaller theatres, just on principle.

Three years ago (bear with me, this is pertinent) I began writing my thesis. I wrote about three modern British novels set in academic surroundings, namely, A.S. Byatt's Possession, Graham Swift's Waterland, and David Lodge's Nice Work. (I passed brilliantly, thank you very much for asking.) Possession is a book I have loved since it was published in 1990.

For as long as I can remember (no, this is pertinent too) I have generally been disappointed by movies based on books. (Until Fellowship of the Ring came along, bless Peter Jackson's little heart, and the hearts of his creative team, too.) They're inevitably flat, and miss the point of the novel. I know they're different forms of storytelling, but they're so different that I find directors in search of a hit movie discard the heart of the novel in their single-mindedness. Notable exceptions to this rule include Howard's End (but not Remains of the Day, alas), and Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone (thanks be to all the supreme beings out there), as well as the aforementioned LOTR:FotR.

For the past year and a half, there has been a movie of Possession being retouched and re-edited. At first I was delirious - a movie! They've made a movie of one of my favourite books! And then the reality sank in - what if they ruined it? In fact, ruination was likely, considering that it finished shooting over two years ago, they set three different release dates, and scrapped them all. When I discovered that they'd changed the main characters around, I sank further into despair. No, no, no - the fact that both main characters are British is integral to the plot! If they make one American, that means one of the main plot threads is eliminated! Woe!

Equally as delighted at first when we discovered the movie was in the works, another Eng Lit MA agreed that when it finally came out, we'd see it together. Two years later, today is that day. Possession is premiereing this afternoon, and we will be in the audience. (And it's not at the Paramount - sigh of relief!)

Now, it's got Gwyneth Paltrow, so it can't be that bad. It also has Jeremy Northam (who was deliriously good in Emma). And the basic story - that of two modern-day academics slowly uncovering a hithero unknown and certainly unsuspected romance between their respective academic focii, both poets of the Victorian era, through letters and poems. (Give me a break - I'm an academic, and the thought of making such a discovery is heavenly. This sort of thing makes me all weak in the knees.) The book moved back and forth between the modern researchers and the epistolary evidence, so it was, in effect, two novels in one. The term "Possession" ends up being significant on several levels, namely the ownership of body, heart, historical documents, and of course, the spiritual control exterted by another entity, as well as the concept of self-control. (I wrote a thesis on this, remember? They gave me a degree for it.)

The film would be pretty boring if all it showed was modern academics flipping through piles of letters, relying on them to read the information about the Victorian pair aloud, or (even worse) having the camera focus on a handwritten letter in silence for the audience to read. Hence, the Victorian poets have been brought to life for their scenes. Right away, I wince; the point of the novel was to have the poets live only through their words. I know perfectly well this can't work on-screen, and that due to the story-telling medium the portrayal must change. Apparently, though, Antonia Byatt read the scripts and gave her blessing and approval, believing that the spirit of her story was being preserved. When an author is comfortable with a film, then I know that I too am likely to be comfortable.

The web site describes it as:

Well, even if I'd never read the book before, I'd be hooked: power of language, history, literary mysteries. I told you, this stuff makes me weak in the knees.

So away we go. I am attempting not to have any expectations whatsoever. Alas, however, I do have high standards when it comes to things like this. At least I haven't re-read the book before seeing it, a sure way to make me hate the movie. No, I'll read it again soon, after having allowed the movie to sink in for a while. If the movie makes sense on its own, it succeeds. If upon re-reading the book, the movie still works, it gets a big shiny star next to its name and goes on my future DVD list. And, who knows? I might even want to see it in theatres again...

The Prestige

I read a book yesterday.

I deliberately didn’t use an adjective, because I can’t settle on one. Yes, it was fantastic; terrific; well-written; thought-provoking; well-told. All of them, though, limit it in some way.

It was Christopher Priest’s The Prestige, and I read it in a single day.

On the surface, it’s a story about a contemporary journalist, certain he had a twin brother in his childhood yet with no records to prove it, who rediscovers his family history. His great-grandfather was a stage magician, an illusionist, and was engaged in a bitter rivalry with another illusionist.

In the murky depths of the unfolding story, however, it’s much more than that. The story passes from the journalist, to his great-grandfather, to the woman who has contacted the journalist, to her great-grandfather who is, of course, the rival illusionist. By the end, you realise that the story isn’t about any one character really; if I had to pin down a character I’d say the story revolves around the rival illusionist, but even so, each portion of the narrative is so interwoven with the rest that they cannot stand in their own.

It takes a large part of the novel before the reader begins to suspect, and eventually realise, the central conceit of the novel. One or two minor aberrations in storytelling style are put down to a charcter's tortured conscience, until three-quarters of the way through, the diary of the rival journalist reveals those aberrations for what they truly are. Robbed of a mystery? Hardly. The rival illusionist goes on to create what actually stands as the central conceit of the novel, and as a reader, you don’t feel cheated at all.

The layers involved are masterfully created, and well-revealed at the correct moments. Technically, this book is a fantasy; well, it revolves around a fantastic concept. But, well, it’s also science fiction – just science fiction set at the turn of the twentieth century. And it really could be a thriller, too. Well-written books that challenge genre fascinate me. It means the author had a story to tell, and chose not to be chained to a genre’s expectations. (As opposed to an author who simply cannot stay within a genre’s requisite boundaries; that’s just bad writing, and produces an unsatisfactory book.)

Let’s look at that for a moment, actually; it’s relevant. If you write within a genre, there are certain tenets you have to bide by. However, you’re not bound to turn out a stereotypical cardboard story; far from it. Genre writing means you have to push the envelope from within those boundaries, find some way to tell the story anew, involve the tenets in such a way that creates a unique example of the genre.

By deliberately not choosing a genre, Priest has kept his readers from settling comfortably into a set of expectations. (It also means he reaches a broader audience, but that’s beside the point.) Without knowing what guidelines he’s writing by (if he’s writing by any genre guidelines at all) a reader can’t run down a mental checklist and say, “Okay, I expect A, B, C, and D from this book, now I’ll sit down and mark them off as I go.” (No, I don’t actually know of anyone who does this consciously, but it does happen subconsciously, and if you're deprived of something, you end up unsatisfied. Well, no, I do it consciously if the book is dreadful: “Oh yes, there’s the requisite B event; now C must occur.”)

The Prestige surprised me in that Priest didn’t truly explain the fantastic/science-fictional elements at all. The last three or four chapters could have been expanded; he could have showed his readers how clever he was. He didn’t. He left the reader holding a book and blinking a bit at the end. I turned back a dozen or so pages and reread the ending, in fact, just to make sure I didn’t miss the revelation.

I admire authors who are secure enough to do things like this. No, you don’t have to explain it all to the masses. Assume we’re intelligent and let us figure the nuances out. In addition, an author who bucks the trend of a tragic or a happy ending and leaves the reader with a handful of loose ends snarled with knots is a courageous one. As humans living messy lives, we generally like our fiction (in form of film, or story, or whatever) to have nice, tidy endings, where everyone gets what’s coming to them. I love stories that don’t actually end. The main episode being told concludes, but the characters and their lives go on, without a perfect, pat “The End” to crown the tale. In general, however, I believe that I am in the minority, alas. The general populace needs that “The End” on the screen or on the final page of the book to contain the story, to know that there was a Beginning, a Middle, and an End. (Not that I think we can blame this on junior high English teachers.)

Life’s not like that, though. There is no Beginning other than birth; there is no End but death, and even then just because we can’t turn the page to see what happens after that final breath doesn’t mean that there is nothing to see. Our lives are intricate, with several different events and stories happening simultaneously. After an event, an episode, we go on – changed, perhaps, but we go on, our lives rarely altered in any major, drastic fashion on the surface. I like to have that sense in a story as well. Granted, storytelling is by its nature artificial; yet I enjoy a sense of reality to it. Reality doesn’t mean a stream of consciousness, an every-event-that-happens-in-a-day sort of reality; that would be too boring for words. Storytelling, however, doesn’t need to be about apocalyptic events. It can be intensely personal.

Which is what Christopher Priest’s The Prestige is about. Two men, their secrets (personal and professional), their lives becoming more and more challenged with obsession and physical secrecy. Their descendants, deeply affected by those professional secrets. The processes by which magic (stage and scientific magic) can occur. And, of course, the consequences.

Apparently he’s written at least eight other books. You can be sure I’ll be tracking them down.

On Ballet and the Magic of Dance

Wandering through one of my favourite second-hand bookstores here in Oakville, I found a copy of Karen Kain’s Movement Never Lies: An Autobiography for only twenty dollars. Needless to say, although I walked away from it virtuously, I stopped by again later in the afternoon to take it home with me. Karen Kain was a goddess to me when I was a child. I'd borrowed this autobiography from a friend of my mother's when it was released a few years ago, but when I saw it on the shelf, I knew I had to own my own copy.

I danced for seven years as a child. I wasn't obsessed with the ballerina stereotype, the way some girls are; it might have had something to do with how much I disliked the colour pink. No, what I loved was the physical expression of dance. I could use my body, my awkward clay, my shy hands, to tell a story. I forgot that I was shy when I danced. I could be graceful, and un-self-conscious, and light.

It didn't hurt that I was naturally very flexible. Exercises that others had to fight to achieve were second-nature for me. Music, too, was a part of me without effort; others had to struggle to internalise music in order to fuel the dancing, but music has always been a language I have been able to hear and understand without difficulty. I was not, as you might guess, a favourite of my dancemates, just as I wasn't popular among children in regular classes - too quick, too smart, too easy.

My mother took me to see a ballet at Place Des Arts as often as she could, usually once a season. I have had the excellent fortune to have seen the Kirov ballet do Cinderella; I saw the National Ballet of Canada do their celebrated Giselle and Romeo and Juliet, among several other ballets. We saw a lot of theatre, too. My mother has always been very determined that I would be exposed to the same kinds of culture that she had been exposed to as a child. Her father would always take the children to see the new Rogers and Hammerstein musical as it came through town, and one of my mother’s fondest memories was going into the city to see Romeo and Juliet with her older sister. She passed that appreciation of art on to me, and I expanded into opera as well, which I adore.

I began dancing at six. After a year, the National Ballet School recruiters were coming through town, and my teacher requested that I be allowed to audition. At the time I didn’t understand what an acceptance into the National Ballet training program would entail. Yes, I would be able to train to be a dancer; no, I truly had no concept of the discipline, the homesickness, the pain, the chances of failure, the depression. My mother, knowing perfectly well the horrors that children go through at ballet school, refused to allow the audition. I was disappointed, of course, but at seven, these losses come and go, and are easily forgotten.

I danced until I was just about thirteen. At thirteen, we were considered old enough and formed to a level where we could begin pointe work. This is what every woman who has ever imagined herself in place of a ballet dancer moving gracefully across the stage dreams of: the elegant long line of leg and arm, the ethereal illusion of floating, of weightlessness created by balancing on her toes. A woman en pointe possesses an ultimate secret femininity. Part of me yearned for that; part of me yearned for the slow, controlled moves that pointe work requires. Another part of me eagerly anticipated harder work: exercises, developing a new centre of gravity, working different muscles. Going en pointe was a rite of passage from child to adult.

I would have kept on dancing but for the fact that my teacher sat me down and explained that although the next step was to move on to dancing en pointe, there would not be enough students to fill the class. I and my sole remaining classmate would have to be put back a year, repeat what we had just learned, and then go en pointe two years from now with a full group.

I was crushed, and affronted, and insulted. Repeat a year when I had been so successful? Be held back to dance with people a year younger? Did she not understand what going en pointe meant to me? Had I not paid my dues, put in seven years of work to reach this moment?

Being a few weeks shy of thirteen, however, and still shy, I felt my eyes sting with tears and said little. And I just didn’t go back in the fall.

I regret it immensely now, and I have for about a decade. At thirty-one, you can see that a year – a single year of evening classes once or twice a week – forty-odd hours of extra work is nothing. At thirteen, though, it’s a lifetime.

I tried to go back when I was twenty-three. I called a dance school and they invited me to an evening class to try it out before I registered. I was terrified, but I went. The teacher was wonderful, and had I tried a class early in the session I might have registered with them and still be dancing today. The class I audited, however, was near the end of the term, and the dozen women in the group all knew the sequences the teacher was calling out. I tripped; I stumbled. I couldn’t recognise what the teacher was calling for next. I got in people’s ways. At the end of the class I avoided the women as they cooled down, skulked into the changing room to pick up my bag, pulled my coat on over my dance clothes without changing, and slipped out, my eyes burning again with tears.

And again, I never went back.

So re-reading Movement Never Lies makes me think about a lot of things. I wonder what might have happened if that audition had gone through. I look at Karen Kain’s life and although at times it was glamorous, like any kind of theatre, the effortless and natural illusion presented to the audience covers a community clinging to sanity by the skin of its teeth, performing despite sprains, back spasms, bitter and violent fights with a co-star, touring conditions that would horrify rats, and the artificial society that never quite fits into the real world. I deeply admire any man or woman who has the physical strength and mental and emotional endurance to commit to a life of dance. Had I kept on dancing, my knee and back problems might never have existed – or I might have been crippled by them. The Might-Have-Been game shoes no horses (to mix metaphors); I do my best not to play it. Dance formed my body and my love of theatre, and for that, I’m thankful.

Seven years of dance when you’re in such a formative stage leaves its mark; it is a part of me now that I could not shed if I so desired. I am complimented on my movements, both on-stage and off. I am usually quite aware of my body and how it is reaching, stretching. It is now natural for me to stand just so, legs turned out, usually with one foot slightly in front, heel of one nestles into the arch of the other. Arm movements always lead with the hand, thumb underneath the palm. My pelvis is tucked underneath my torso – and if I catch myself not doing it, I correct myself without thinking. I rarely stand face on to anyone or anything; three-quarter front was drilled into me as being more aesthetically pleasing. If I’m sitting, I sit on an angle, or at the very least turn my head slightly. And when a man I dated for a time welcomed me into his circle of friends, the sign of acceptance was being given a mock Native American name.

He named me Walks With Grace.

On the Uses and Abuses of Knowledge and Nostalgia

Don't think I'm anti-progress. That's not what I'm advocating at all. I'm arguing for an educational system that values the past equally with the present and the future. Nostalgia certainly isn't the way to go. It's a dead-end, idealised, two-dimensional reality. Everything old is not necessarily good. However, everything new isn't bad either. Throwing the baby out with the bathwater presents a problem eventually.

I was reading this article by Charles Leadbeater in the Financial Times on the (ab)uses of nostalgia by the media, advertising, the populace itself, and the state. I was agreeing with most of it and getting all excited until I realised at the end why it all seemed so familiar: I wrote a thesis like this. In fact, the very title Up the Down Escalator sounds so darned familiar I'd almost swear I read it as research, except it was just released.

Leadbeater's previous book, though, is called Living on Thin Air, which examines how to balance a society skewed:

Individually and collectively we are all trading on ideas, creativity and judgement to make a living. Put it another way, this is the thin air business and these are the thin air commodities. The difference is that we're now promoting a new type of brand: ourselves. "Knowledge," states Charles Leadbeater in Living on Thin Air "is our most precious resource: we should organise society to maximise its creation and use. Our aim should be to harness the power of markets and community to the more fundamental goal of creating and spreading knowledge." Big ideas, but for the truly knowledge-driven society, the prize, he says, is "radical and emancipatory."

[...] Ultimately, Living on Thin Air is concerned with the task of channelling the tensions and energy between the major forces in society towards a new era of harmonious collaboration: "a society devoted to financial capitalism will be unbalanced and soulless. A society devoted to social solidarity will stagnate, lacking the dynamism of radical new ideas and the discipline of the competitive market. A society devoted totally to knowledge creation would be intelligent but poor. When these three forces of the new economy work together, they can be hugely dynamic," he concludes. It makes a provocative manifesto. (Or so sayeth the Amazon.co.uk review.)

I'm now very curious to read what else he has to say, and how he says it.

The Saxophonist Next Door

And here I thought my migraines and backaches would be history once I stopped working. Apparently I live a rich fantasy life.

I'm lying in my bedroom working on my laptop. Usually I have music on, but right now there's a saxophonist wandering through some pieces nearby. This is the sax player who completely enthralled me by playing "My Favourite Things" for twenty minutes last summer, arresting my motion as I swung into the bedroom with the intent to quickly grab a book.

There's something particularly special about overhearing someone playing an instrument. Making music is such an intimate practice that listening in is a bit voyeuristic, in a way. Music has a different life if you're aware that you have an audience; it becomes performance rather than an act of love, and while performance can be done lovingly it inevitably acquires a different dimension. Some might argue that it's a necessary dimension - the old tree falling in a forest paradox. While performance adds spice to music, much the way an audience adds an essential element to a piece of theatre, I think that an audience of one - namely, the musician - can serve a more immediate purpose. The act of making music entails pulling emotion out of one's soul and interpreting it through an instrument. That act of interpretation fulfils a desire within the musician whether anyone else is there or not - possibly in a purer fashion if they are alone, since there is no need to groom that emotion to present it to someone else. It's music for the love of it, proven so by the fact that no audience is required.

Writing can be like that too. I know plenty of people who write to satisfy something inside them who, once a body of work is accomplished, quietly tuck it away somewhere. They feel no need to share the product; it was the act of putting thought to paper that satisfied some urge. I know others, of course, who seek to communicate to/with others via written word, and who have published, or who at the very least pass the writing on to someone else. The point is, the act can be done for the sake of the act itself.

I envy my saxophonist neighbour. Not just his (her?) talent and his technique, but his/her comfort in practicing with open windows. I cringe at the thought of anyone hearing me practice, to such an extent that my husband created a miniature practice room for me in our huge front hall closet in our last apartment. It was just big enough for me to sit in and have full bow arm extension in both directions, soundproofed with styrofoam and carpeting and yet I still was convinced that people could hear me. This terror of being overheard originates partially from my innate shyness, and partially from my first two years as a cellist in an apartment over a crusty elderly woman who complained if my cats ran up and down the hall.You can imagine her reaction when I practiced scales, or when a friend came over with her violin to play duets. Loud banging on my floor shattered whatever shreds of self-confidence I was struggling to establish, at a time when I was trying to figure out who I was, how to express myself as an individual, how to deal with being an adult learner with all the inhibitions that implies, and how to survive with my parents newly removed from the province. Reactions formed so early on have persisted throughout my eight years of cello-playing, which is one of the reasons why I love listening to this saxophone. Someone somewhere not only is comfortable enough to play without caring who hears, or who might complain, even if the same music is played for twenty minutes. The knowledge that someone that close to me (geographically, if not personally) is inspiring.

So, too, is my astonishing ability to play as much Bach as I have discovered I am capable of playing. A year ago, I was crushed at how poorly I played pieces I performed with capable technique when I was still studying with a teacher. Ten months of struggling in orchestra has restored much of the technique I'd thought lost. Which, of course, is one of the reasons I joined. That... and the ability to practice with less self-consciousness, as does that saxophone player nearby who will likely never know how happy s/he makes me, or what a wonderful example s/he sets me.

Life Upon the Wicked Stage

I picked up a terrific book yesterday called Standing Naked in the Wings, a collection of anecdotes and personal narratives of Canadian performers, mainly stage performers but also some TV and film actors. I'm enjoying it immensely. I've laughed out loud a few times, giggled until tears came to my eyes, and felt my throat swell shut in empathy once or twice, too. My favourite line so far:

The sword fights at Stratford are a basic part of mounting plays written in an era when homocide was a domestic art.

I adore the theatre. I love working in it (good thing, seeing as how I've been doing it for over seventeen years now), I love participating in an audience setting, I love reading about it. One of my best Christmas presents last year was a gift from my parents called Romancing the Bard: Stratford at Fifty, and there's a book out called Stratford Gold which I'm dying to get (don't worry, I abide by my own no-buying-gift-like-things-for-yourself-within-thirty-days-of-your-birthdate! rule). If I can't be rehearsing or performing, then dash it all, I'll read about other people rehearsing and performing!

Something that has really surfaced while I've been reading this anecdotal collection is the realisation that my past couple of turns with Lakeshore Light Opera haven't satisfied me at all. I think perhaps it's the extended rehearsal time (rehearsing for six months instead of two, you really lose the sense of focus and tension I feel is necessary to maintaining a good theatre product, I find, even though there's music and choreography and stage direction to cobble together). It's more than time to move on. However, I'll do one last show, simply because I cannot pass up the potential opportunity to work with my adopted big/younger/twin brother Rob in a musical comedy one last time. (Besides, then I'll have had a stab at pretty much the entire accepted Savoyard canon before I start repeating shows I've already done.) We'll see what the gods grant us.

My parents, thank goodness, have supported me in this foolish and addictive pastime since I began, having been members on the tech crew of a community theatre group in the Maritimes before I was born. In fact, they go so far as to tell me that if I could only make money from it, they'd consider it a complete and total success. Anyone feel like ponying up to support me in my indulgent pursuit of a life on stage?

Shakespeare's Words: The Importance of Language

The latest issue of The Economist reviews a book called Shakespeare's Words: A Glossary & Language Companion by David and Ben Crystal, and the review begins thusly: "Although welcome as a magnificent tool, this doorstop compendium prompts an alarming question: has Shakespeare become a foreign language to us?"

I'm wildly vacillating between two extremes. On one hand, sure, modern English-speaking people don't know enough about their own language to understand a lot of Shakespeare, which is lamentable. On the other, you don't need to understand every word to understand the meaning. That's why Shakespeare's tucked into that little slot that's marked "Genius".

On the other other hand (let's move down to feet, shall we?) I anticipate this new book with glee, word-lover that I am. One of the reasons I relish Shakespeare is because he uses so many different words. His vocabulary is delightfully varied, and if he didn't have a word for something, he made it up. A goodly portion of our modern lexicon is derived from Shakespeare's oeuvre.

Without further ado, check the review out. I hate the fact that people feel the need for a glossary to understand what someone is saying, when if they just listened and watched they'd get the gist of it, but even a glossary is preferable to rewriting a perfectly good piece of theatre. That, in my mind, is punishable by death. My back goes up every time someone suggests rewriting a line in a Savoy opera "because modern audiences don't know the phrase". Tough. The piece of theatre is a piece of history. Constantly updating it means you will lose the heart of it. Look at what happened to the Bible. Sure, King James brought the Bible to more people who hadn't had previous access to it, but he rewrote and twisted meanings left, right and centre. (Incidentally, yes, that's the same King James for whom Macbeth was written. He really had a thing about witches, didn't he?) Rather than pandering (look! A Shakespearean word!) to the lowest common denominator, why not educate them instead by leaving the challenging reference as is and the LCD rising as a result?

Please note that by updating I don't mean changing the setting, or performing the work in different costume. I think Baz Luhrmann's Romeo and Juliet was brilliant, transmitting the truth of the piece to modern audiences while preserving the language - excellent proof that one doesn't need to rewrite something to tell a story originally written in Elizabeth I's reign. Luhrmann's work made the point (and "o, excellent well" at that) that proved something which more high school English teachers should know by now: Shakespeare is meant to be watched, at the very least heard aloud, and not read. Updating, for me, means changing words, phrases, into what a modern interpeter thinks would be equivalent. It resembles translation in that a translator cannot translate word for word; s/he must search out equivalent idiom and translate meaning. I find it ludicrous that people think Shakespeare (let alone William Schwenk Gilbert) requires translation. Older texts such as works in Middle English? Well, we're now getting to the point where our language has shifted so much over the last millennium that yes, an extensive glossary or a side-by-side translation is required for the lay reader when approaching works dating from 1240 CE like King Horn. Chaucer (d. 1400 CE) is iffy; but again, if read aloud, his works such as the mainstay Canterbury Tales make much more sense. Shakespeare is a mere four hundred years old. Language has not shifted so far in four centuries that a translation is required.

Is Shakespeare truly becoming more obscure, though?

It is sometimes assumed that it is only a question of time before Shakespeare becomes inaccessible. But does time come into it? As early as 1679, John Dryden was complaining that “the tongue is so much refined since Shakespeare's time that many of his words are scarce intelligible, and his whole style is so pestered with figurative expressions that it is as affected as it is obscure.” Shakespeare's 17th- and 18th-century adaptors blithely clarified him. In 1664, when William Davenant adapted “Macbeth”, the hero was made to say that his bloody hands would “add a tincture to/The sea.” Not until 1744 when Garrick, in part, restored the original, was Shakespeare's “multitudinous seas incarnadine” heard again on stage. In fact, time may have helped. Modernism has made us more patient with obscurity. We rate suggestion more than clarity. When, for example, the horrified Claudio in “Measure for Measure” imagines himself dead and lying “in cold obstruction”, we relish the strange blockish mouthful before turning to the notes. -from The Economist review Fardels By Any Other Name

Indeed. Our society has this queer dual drive to honour the past ("it must be good, because it is old", also known as nostalgia), and to remake everything in a contemporaneous fashion, bringing things up to speed to be as cutting-edge as possible. We outgrow and outstrip our own accomplishments of a mere decade ago; it's little wonder that much of modern society considers four-hundred-year-old theatre no longer accessible. It requires time, and patience, and the willingness to luxuriate in language, something that many people have forgotten how to do in this microwave- and Internet-dominated world.

What has also killed Shakespeare in the twentieth-century is bad, bad theatre. Dreadful interpretations. Actors still being trained to strike a pose and declaim, as opposed to speaking the emotion implicit in the script. Poorly done theatre in an age where TV and movies distribute a permanent product to billions of people in almost no time at all has had an adverse affect on how historical theatre is perceived. A fleeting, brilliant piece of live theatre has more power and depth to it, yet because it is fleeting less people are exposed to it, changed by it. Twentieth and twenty-first century media has made possible the sharing of exquisitely crafted art, but it has also made possible the sharing of so much crap. Unfortunately, there's more of the latter, overwhelming the art by sheer numbers.

Is there hope? You bet. So long as the world doesn't decide to go the way of Ray Bradbury's dystopic utopia in Fahrenheit 451 and destroy literature because each author says something different, thereby dividing the people who cannot rest peacefully is they do not all share the same unchallenged opinion. Personally, I'm hoping for a renaissance in the arts sometime soon. Then again, I'm one of those who thinks holding a tangible, bound book in my hands is infinitely preferable to scrolling through an e-book. Someday, I'll probably become outdated too, and need to be brought up to speed - contemporised, for the lack of a better term. Until then, however, I'll honour original works in their original forms as best I can.

Concert Post-Mortem etc

To everyone who made it out to the wilds of the West Island to hear me play last night - a heartfelt thank you! The concert was smashingly well received. Two notes: Next time, I will wear my glasses, no matter how hot it is; and I will never share a stand with that particular partner again. The night was a challenge: I've never played in such extreme conditions (no, not even that freezer of a church in January where my hands were so cold), so the exhaustion produced by playing for two straight hours with no break was compounded by the exhaustion brought on by the heat and humidity. I'd take the chill of a January church over that humidity any day. In addition to the human response to heat, the instrument response was a nightmare as well; wood moves all on its own in humidity, of course, so everyone's instruments were swinging in and out of tune wildly. Apart from a couple of rocky patches, though, we seem to have come through just fine, judging from the enthusiastic audience reaction (especially between the first and second, then the second and third movements of the Beethoven! Was the heat so horrible that you wanted the concert to end so soon?) and our conductor's gentle smile at the end of it all, his hands pressed to his chest as he bowed ever so slightly to us. In light of my last post about singing in either official language, I also found it highly amusing that our soloist chose to begin her rendition of O Canada in French; threw everyone off, I hear. I also had the pleasure of showing off my early birthday present of a lovely backpack cello case. I adore it; it's everything I wanted and more. (The pockets alone are worth it!) No more hefting and swinging and bumping the instrument into my legs; now I have hands free, and it feels lighter to boot. Thank you, o parental units!

Said parental units are on their way back to Oakville today; I'm extremely glad they have air conditioning in their car, otherwise I'd have told them to stay here and to call in sick from Montreal! We had a lovely day wandering around Old Montreal yesterday; I highly recommend the newly restored Chateau Ramezay for anyone who is interested in local history. ("There was a Battle of Chateauguay?" my husband asked in amazement, looking at a large map of local military movements. "I lived in Chateauguay, and I never knew that.") I've forgotten how much I enjoy museums.

It's just too darned hot today. (Yes; go and cue the Cole Porter.) I slept poorly, and had to get up way too early for an osteopath appointment. The last one was a bit aggressive, and I was in a lot of pain (modified, but pain nonetheless) last week, so today she took a much gentler approach and I feel pretty good. Lethargic, but good.

Been playing around with my template again... I figure this will be the summer edition of Owls' Court. You know, like green leaves, and we'll return to the autumny browns and reds in the fall? (Maybe?) My comments also seem to be on the fritz, and for some reason I can't access my YACCS control panel to fix them. Maintenance will be ongoing, I promise.

Books I've read recently and have had no time to blog (let alone list in my reading box!): Fall of Neskaya by Marion Zimmer Bradley and Deborah J Ross (not bad, but not MZB's Darkover); The Green Man: Tales of the Mythic Forest, edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling; Good Night, Mr Holmes by Carole Nelson Douglas; Wicked by Gregory Maguire; and Deryni Tales, edited by Katharine Kurtz. I've been pretty voracious lately. It's almost like I'm making up for lost time.

I wanted to sit down today and come up with some sort of rough weekly guideline for practice and writing and such, but my brain doesn't seem to want to engage. Not that I'm trying to create a rigid schedule; on the contrary! This summer is about not having a schedule. I know, however, that if I just let myself drift, I'll feel useless and get irritated with myself. I wanted to use this time to write and really work on my cello, and while a week of relaxation won't kill me, a week can easily turn into two, then three, then it will be September.

Well, maybe not quite that quickly.

I'll think about it tomorrow.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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...

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.

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.

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!

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?

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.

Rehearsal From Hell

I had a truly horrible rehearsal on Wednesday night.

I'd even practiced that morning. I'd gone through the evil Minuet & Trio from Beethoven's First Symphony and some of the nasty shifts from the first movement too, and I was feeling pretty good about myself.

Then I got to rehearsal and we began with the Rossini overture, and the substitute director took it at a really fast clip. I lost it. I ended up just sitting and staring at the music, unable to grab an anchor point to pick up again and be in the same place as everyone else.

It got worse: we then moved to the Bizet. (Remember? The tenor clef? The treble clef?) Any progess I'd made on this piece left me, bags and all. They even slammed the door.

It was around this point that I realised the next concert is only four weeks away.

Then we moved to the Beethoven, which should have been my best performance of the night. I was so rattled by this point, though, that I spent a lot of time feeling rather nauseous, staring at the score again, miserable.

I have absolutely no emotional connection to this music. The Mozart symphony we're doing is easy for me, because it's so beautiful, so lyrical. These other pieces are technically challenging and very difficult to make sound easy, which is important. Music should sound effortless. Since I have no emotional connection to them (other than the sinking feeling I get when I look at them, which is probably classified by a large percentage of the population as "negative"!) it's hard to make them sound pretty, let alone care about getting the notes right.

So, I bought a new set of earphones, and batteries for my Walkman, and I'll just listen to it all over and over until I can sing it in my sleep. That will help.

I was really down Wednesday night when I went home, and Thursday morning wasn't much better. On the way to work, though, I heard a terrific recording of the overture to Mozart's Don Giovanni by Tafelmusik on CBC Radio Two, and suddenly, I was reminded why I play the cello, why I joined the Lakeshore Chamber Orchestra, and why music is so important to me. When I got to work, I dashed off a quick e-mail to the show's host Tom Allen, thanking him for helping me out. He e-mailed me later in the day to say that he was "glad to hear your musical cloud has lifted" and telling me to "keep the faith".

I'm looking forward to working on my music this summer. It's a pity that my concert will be over just as my time off begins, so I won't be able to devote the time I'd like to preparing for it, but I'll choose a piece to really polish up to feel good about before orchestra starts up again next fall.

Music is such a gloriously emotional thing, and it brings such a variety of people together to perform and experience it. I don't know who invented it, but I think I'd like to shake their hand.

CURRENTLY READING:
Five Quarters of the Orange by Joanne Harris, which is about a woman returning anonymously to her native village in France to open a restaurant in the house she grew up in. It's two stories simultaneously: the modern storyline, and the story of when this main character was growing up sixty-odd years ago in German-occupied France. I'm enjoying the war storyline more; the modern story is about her weak nephew and his desperate, food-snobby wife trying to steal her mother's recipe book to help their own ailing high-class restaurant, which the protagonist has discovered is also a kind of diary in code which her mother kept during the war. I find the modern antagonists pretty lame, although I love the recipe book/journal aspect of it. Harris uses food and wine as a metaphor for everything her characters can't actually come out and say in all her books; it's an interesting trope, but it's becoming predictable.

This is the third Harris novel I've read; the first two were Chocolat and Blackberry Wine. So far, Chocolat is still my favourite. Jury's still out as to where Five Quarters will fall.

On Synchronicity and Thomas Wharton (No Connection)

Cool! At this very moment, when I went to check my blog, Stephen's Chirographum was in my BlogSnob box.

I love coincidence.

Now if I could only get rid of the sudden striking pain through the right side of my brain...

CURRENTLY READING:
Again, I finished the book before I could blog it: Salamander by Thomas Wharton. I have a soft spot for Canadian literature - it was my secondary focus through my BA and MA - and I enjoy trying new authors. Wharton has an interesting style. Very readable, once you get past the complete abandonment of quotation marks. The story begins in the ruins of a sacked town, as an officer rides through the streets slowly. He catches movement inside a destroyed bookshop and investigates, discovering a young woman, methodically going through the debris, and ends up talking to her about reading. She tells him a four-part tale about what stories might lie between the unopened green sealskin covers of a small book she has rescued, a wonderful technique for launching the reader into the book proper. The story is partially fairy tale, partially magical realism (think Umberto Eco crossed with... well, Umberto Eco, actually), wandering through Italy, Egypt, London, China, all over various seas and oceans, involves pirates, music, automatons, acrobats, and the secret, hidden Library of Alexandria. It revolves around a printer who is summoned to an odd mechanical castle in Europe to create the ultimate riddle book. He falls in love with the daughter of the house, then is imprisoned for almost two decades, eventually freed by his daughter, who then quests for her long-vanished mother while her father (now slightly mad) travels with her, still seeking to fulfil his mandate of creating a book which can simultaneously contain everything and nothing. I love stories like this because you get the paradox of a printed book talking about the printing of books; the text becomes the very subject examined, bringing an odd insight juxtaposed with the difficulty of seperating the book you're reading from the book being written about.

My bus-book at the moment is a mystery called Harm None by M.R. Sellers, who has transgressed unforgivably in my opinion: he can't use "its" and "it's" correctly. Ever. I'm reading it because it's an occult mystery written by a witch, and I also like to support small-press literature whenever I can. So far, the story is fine, but this irritating grammatical error trips me up every time. There are others, and some bad sentence structure, and an over-reliance on decription - all amateur errors, so I'm being very open-minded as I go through it. If I'd been let at this manuscript before it had been published, though, it would be different, let me tell you.

Philosopher's Stone on DVD

Egad!

I completely forgot that Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone comes out on DVD today!

Perhaps I will be pleasantly surprised by the husband picking it up on his way home, or while I am teaching tonight.

My mother secretly bought me a box of Peek Freans Bourbon Cremes while I was in Toronto. I haven't told my husband. They're mine. They're hidden. I am about to go open the box oh so lovingly, remove two, then hide them again and try to forget the box has been breached...

Ceri on Episode Two

Ceri saw Episode Two on Sunday as well, it seems.

The one good lightsabre battle was ruined by focusing on facial closeups rather than having us see the actual battle.

I'm not certain which battle she has chosen as the best, but I think it's all a continuation of the trend begun in Gladiator of making battle look as confusing as possible, because that's what it would seem like if you were in the middle of it.

Yoda did not kick butt, he looked damn silly

I must agree. I think it was silly because we're used to him being dignified, however. Would it have been silly if he were six feet tall? Size matters not, especially when you're facing a lightsaber blade.

Amidala did not emote.

This is a let-down from the first film in what way? Honestly, how could she improve when playing opposite Wooden Christiansen?

The computer generated "riding-a-bucking-animal" shots were horrible.

Oh, gods, yes. Absolutely dreadful. All of them - the beast-riding in the arena, the beast-surfing in the field... funny how we balk at the organic CGI but the droid and machinery CGI is just fine. We have firm standards concerning how live things are supposed to move. It's probably a subset of the Fight Or Flight instinct: "You know, that big bear-like thing isn't moving the way it should... why are these flags popping up in my brain?" Not-moving-right means something's more wrong than usual.

The movie had poor script, poor directing, poor acting (probably due to the aforementioned script) and poor characterization.

And not enough actors of decent caliber to even partially save it. I cheerfully agree. I enjoyed it anyway. It's a space fantasy. A B-movie. It's supposed to be campy. The bad CGI is right up there with stopping the film in A New Hope so the doors could open or close, then recording again and hoping the actors hadn't moved. If it was a Good, Quality Film, I don't know what the fans would make of it.

Lucas can't write, can't direct. We know this. He cast Ewan McGregor to make it all okay, though, and actually gave him screen time and a plot to carry. I wish Christopher Lee had been given more to do. At least he didn't die; he might actually be in the next one. We'll see.

Fascinating note: This soundtrack is actually in chronological order, a huge improvement over the last one.

So, of course, now the burning question is... when do I play NSW next?

The Brunching Shuttlecocks on Episode Two

The Brunching Shuttlecocks have reviewed Episode Two. And pretty much hit it on the head.

The form letter to send to Lucas is also dead on.

Nonetheless, I enjoyed it anyway. My movie-going standards appear to have descended drastically within the last decade.

The Shuttlecocks have also rated futuristic devices that pop culture has made, well, pop culture. My fave:

Laser Guns: It's a good thing that laser guns are going to be around in the future, because so far the uses of lasers have been universally disappointing. Instead of blasting the heads of mucus-filled aliens, we're correcting vision, pointing to things in office presentations, and making security systems look cool. What happens if aliens invade right now. What are we going to do, viciously and savagely cure their myopia? B

Four Word Reviews

New site I discovered recently thanks to Kat: The Four Word Film Review!

LOTR: Fellowship of the Ring: "Evil jewellrey attempts takeover." "Lucas could learn something." And my personal favourite, for all those AD&D players out there who watched it: "Oh look - another fight."

Titanic: "US history wrong AGAIN!!" "Ship sinks, people die." "SOS - such onerous storytelling." "Iceberg: One. Winslet: Nil". "'Star Wars' for chicks." (Which I completely disagree with -- who says women can't be SW fans? And who dares imply that women would automatically prefer Titanic?)(Someone dies!)

Episode Two: "Lucas shouldn't write dialogue." "Where are the actors?" "It's good- thank God."

2001: A Space Odyssey: "Never trust a robot." "Apes, computers, monoliths, murder." "What's with the rock?"

Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone: "Bespectacled lad levitates broom." "Book in fast forward." And my favourite, "Film renamed for Yanks."

Episode Two Review

So much has happened.

I deliberately took the weekend off from blogging and from e-mail, too. I needed to focus myself again. Besides, the weather was gorgeous, and I always feel guilty inside at a computer when it’s sunny outside. (Soon, soon I will find a battery for my laptop, and I will be free, as free as a bird to walk across the street to the park and sit out there to write!)

Yesterday I finally saw Episode Two. After a stream of previews, the Fox fanfare began without a “Main Feature” graphic, and the hair on my arms started to prickle. The Lucasfilm graphic rippled across the screen, and we got those famous blue words in a silent darkness, and I squirmed back into my seat, bracing myself.

That first crashing chord and those big yellow words catch you off guard even when you know they’re coming. Next to me, Rob jumped, then began to laugh, his way to release tension. I, on the other hand, cried. It’s stupid, I know, but I always get tears rolling down my cheeks as I grin like an idiot when I experience it in a theatre. It’s so huge, so moving.

Anyway, what a film! This should have been Episode One. Toss in a bit more exposition about how they found Anakin and left his mother behind, a bit about how the Gungans are the other indigenous dominant species of Naboo, and there you have it. Surely that stilted kind of exposition wouldn’t be noticeable among the rest of the stilted dialogue happening. Egad, but it was horrid! The comic one-liners were welcome – as MLG said, it’s almost as if Lucas remembered that humour was successful in the first trilogy – but overall, the dialogue was horrid. (Apparently Harrison Ford turned to Lucas in frustration somewhere in the first trilogy and said, “You know, George, you can write this shit, but you can’t say it.”) Every time Padme cut Anakin off, I expected him to say, “Yes, your Senator-ness.” It didn’t happen, but there were plenty of other decent one-liners. Just no sustained dialogue of any quality whatsoever.

I enjoyed seeing more of the Jedi collegium, and more of the Order as well. The scenes of the film were almost dizzyingly short at times, which was odd. However, the new ships were glorious, the costumes were brilliant, and not only did I get one decent lightsaber battle, I got a whole arena full of Jedi. Talk about wish fulfillment!

If I had been Padme, though, at the first moment of Anakin staring at her, saying, “I’ve thought about you day and night since we met ten years ago,” I would have stepped back and said, “You know, Ani, you may have been assigned to me as my Jedi protector, but you can just wait out here, and my personal guard will accompany me everywhere, because you’re unhinged and creepy and probably not all there.”

Had I also been a member of the Jedi Order, I would have called him into the office and said, “Hey, Ani, you’re talented in the Force sensitivity department, and you’re a terrific pilot and good with machines. There are plenty of rewarding careers out there in the galaxy. I just don’t think the Jedi Order is cut out for you.”

My personal theory is that the Order is becoming as complacent as the Senate, which is why both of them end up destroyed, and why the Order doesn’t figure out the danger from Anakin even while they listen to his complaints and witness his willful ways.

All in all, a terrifically enjoyable film, and so far, my second favourite Star Wars film, right after Empire.

Saturday night was Ceri & Scott’s Superhero Party! After a day of frustration and tragedy involving my sweet little sewing machine, which I will not get into because I’ll probably just get mad again, I almost didn’t go because my costume wasn’t finished. However, I rallied at the eleventh hour, finished the essential bits by hand, and went anyway. I’m glad I did, because I had a terrific time, and also won best costume, which wasn't my intention but a nice surprise! I take costume creation very seriously; it’s a bit of a flaw, actually, because I’m a perfectionist and if it’s just tossed together or doesn’t look right I’d be embarrassed to be seen in it. This costume, on the other hand, while it didn’t have all the details I’d wanted to add, was spectacular. Go here to check out Alex Ross’ version of me. Well, of Promethea, actually, but on Saturday night I was Promethea, according to what people were telling me. (There were comics scattered everywhere, and the new Promethea trade was among them, so everyone had a turn checking the visual reference.) Eventually I will have a picture of my own to put up so you can all be impressed.

Friday night we played Star Wars, where we got out of the embarrassing situation we’d been in and managed to deny the bad guy the artifact he’d been looking for, but not before a malevolent presence used it – and him – for its own ends. Uh-oh. In the next session a new storyline will begin as our mission parameters change (our cover as independent mercenaries was blown when we came down pretty hard against the local warlord in a botched sting – oops), so we’re all looking forward to what’s going to happen next. We usually game on weekend afternoons, but Friday nights appear to work quite well, so maybe we'll game a little more regularly now. A little more Star Wars is always a pleasure to work into the schedule!

What else? Oh yes, I have a new bicycle! We need to remove the rust on the fenders and the chain, readjust the brakes, and replace the front wheel (which is a bit bent, alas), but for 25$, it was a bargain! It’s one of those lovely five-speed touring bikes which look like they’re right out of the 1920s, and it’s foxy-red, too, on top of it all. I love it. And with some time off coming up this summer, I’m looking forward to bicycling around the neighbourhood, maybe going down to the Lachine canal which is being re-opened to pleasure craft this summer. I could take my laptop, work on some stories. Or maybe just enjoy the sun. (Assuming we get sun.)

It was a busy weekend indeed. I’m a lot more relaxed now that I know I’ve got time off this summer. I just hope I don’t cram it with things I think I should do. I intend to focus on writing. I don’t know whether I’ll rewrite my novel, or expand some short stories, or work on the introductory Wicca text I have a pile of notes for, but write I shall!

Just Call Me Lilith

Comment dated May 13, 2002, 2:20 pm:
Curse you, foul temptress! Must....resist....beautiful...saxophone...

At three-thirty, Ceri had called me to tell me she'd broken down and gone to her music store to rent a shiny new Yamaha sax.

Thank you, honoured ones and gentlebeasts, thank you. I'll be here all week.

That "Do it" wasn't me whispering temptation in your ear specifically, Ceri... I was voicing that seductive siren's call to everyone who had ever considered holding a musical instrument, or who had buried their clarinets or guitars in their closets at home and forgotten about them. You just heard and responded to it a little more immediately, that's all.

Everyone needs more music in their lives.

On Instruments

So on Saturday morning I e-mailed Ceri and wondered if she'd like to meet me for coffee, since I'd decided at SEVEN A.M. when my husband woke me up to say good-bye ("It's either that or not say good-bye," he explained to me; bitter thought in return: On Saturdays, it might be worth it) that I would get outside and enjoy the sun, terrifically windy though it was, and pick myself up a tambourine.

Short tangent: why do I need a tambourine? Because I don't have one. Tangent over; back to your regular blog experience.

She called me and said yes, not only would coffee be neat, but had I eaten breakfast yet? Of course I hadn't. (Breakfast is a week-day thing for me.) So I hopped a bus to the metro with my trusty current bus-book (Lathe of Heaven) in tow, and had read half of it by the time I'd hit her place. (Read the rest on the way home. I am now paranoid.) We had breakfast with Scott, and then puttered about music stores all afternoon. After trying out every single noisemaker in the first shop (I work retail, and occasionally have the urge to go dish it out gleefully to other poor wage-slaves) I picked up my tambourine, squinted at the price of the music stands, then watched Ceri sigh over the saxophones. I proposed another music store (heh heh heh) and she got all perky and excited. Scott left us at this point, and off we went to sigh over more saxes. Ceri was feeling so bereft of her rental sax of last year that she even went so far as to have the salesgirl calculate out how much paying off a new Yamaha alto sax within one year would come to by monthly payment.

I freely admit, I did this whole temptation thing intentionally. Why should I be the only one with a pile of instruments I don't devote enough attention to? "But I have lots of tin whistles! And a bodhran! And I don't play any of them!" Ceri wailed. So? If you don't have a sax to ignore, you also don't have a sax to pick up and play when you'd like to, is my reasoning.

My list of instruments (in order of acquisition):

The husband has a chanter and a bodhran as well. We have a piano in someone's basement that will be there until we can afford to get it moved by official trained piano movers. ("Do not try this at home" takes on a whole new meaning when it involves an upright piano and basement stairs.)

Why do I have a household of musical instruments? I had to think long and hard about this the other day. I've concluded that it's due to the potential that rests in all of them. I can sit in a patch of sun in the living room with my harp against my left shoulder (mildly heretical, but I bat left-handed too, maybe that has something to do with it), lean my cheek against the soundbox, and just feel all the music inside it. Call me crazy, but I can do that for an hour, then just touch the strings gently here and there, and then put it away again. It's not about releasing the music, or liberating it, or whatever you like to call it; it's about connecting with the instrument, feeling it inside you, releasing something in your own spirit that's in harmony with it.

(Ed. note: It's raining! Woo-hoo! I will put on my CD of Vivaldi double concertoes in celebration.)

Sure, accomplishing a terrifically hard run on the cello is satisfying too, but in a completely different way. Producing coherent and recognisable sound is work, which isn't the same as pleasure for me at all. So why did you join an orchestra, I hear some of you asking in a snarky tone. Well, because when I was playing cello quartets a few years ago, I dicovered that I loved hearing the interaction between the different lines. I adore Bach, for example, four or more careful musical lines all dancing with one another, often produced by only two hands on a keyboard (I also adore Glenn Gould, so there). When I sing in a group, I love hearing the tenors sing against the altos; hearing certain musical lines in unusual juxtaposition thrills me for some reason. Working in orchestra satisfies me in a similar fashion: I can work through all the different lines and hear them come together to hear a richly textured tapestry of sound, and I'm right in the middle. I often wonder how the audience can ever approach the experience I'm having, simply because I've been studying these works performed in-depth along with thirty other people. (Not that I'm diminishing the audience's experience in any way; as a writer and performer I am a firm believer in the audience-co-creates-experience theory.)

Where was I? Oh yes. Ceri and her saxophone. So I say, heck, yes! Own that sax! Hold it; press the keys gently; watch the complex mechanism move; lose yourself in the dance of sunlight on the brass. Blow a couple of notes here and there. Above all else, love it, and love the potential that lies within it, that lies within you. If no one ever hears you, so what? Music is about you and your experience. It's pure emotion. It's about raising your spirit. Technical brilliance is never a measure of that. If you enjoy working musical challenges through, hey, great; otherwise, life's too short to say, "Oh, I'll never be able to devote the time I should to it."

Do it.

PotPourri

Laptop modem still not working.

My back is going "crunch" in the middle.

Still haven't heard about an interview for those teaching posts.

Got my copy of my tax forms back from the tax guy (finally - he had the wrong phone number) and I owe $2.23 to the federal government, and am owed $43 from the provincial. No, I don't understand either.

I practiced my cello last week (yeah, I'm pretty stunned myself) and got to the point where I could play Beethoven's first symphony all the way through at half speed. Good thing I practiced, because we three cellos had to play through some very embarrassing bits alone over and over. I was mortified, although I shudder to think what I would have sounded like if I hadn't practised.

I still have one more day to go before my weekend. It will be a long one.

CURRENTLY READING:
A limited edition hardcover collection of two decades of Charles de Lint's Christmas chapbooks, all gathered into one volume "in a moment of weakness" as the inside flap says. Very good. Very, very good. Uneven, yes, as they were never intended for true publication, only Christmas gifts for his wife and then a small circle of friends. It's called Triskell Tales: 22 Years of Chapbooks. The early stuff that I'm still in is about two of his recurrign short story characters called Cerin Songweaver, a harper, and his oak-spirit wife Meran.

I recently reread The Doomsday Book by Connie Willis too. Small print. Periods were difficult to see. Yes, I was wearing my glasses. I remember it being a lighter read than it actually was, less suspenseful, less historical. Odd, that. Then again, I read it over ten years ago. I think I prefer To Say Nothing of the Dog and Passage.

I also read A Long Fatal Love Chase by Louisa May Alcott which is about an innocent young lady whose guardian loses custody of her in a gard game and marries her off to a dashing genleman who turns out to already have an estranged wife. When our heroine discovers this she flees in the night and he pursues her through various cities and false identities. Nice and not-brain-bending for a Monday afternoon in the sun. The word "challenging" certainly would never come up in relation to this book, but it was fun.

This weekend Ursula K Le Guin's The Lathe of Heaven is up, as my book club is doing it on Tuesday night.

Birthday Wishes

Things I want for my birthday:

- A good music stand. One with a solid table so when I go to write something on my music it doesn't bend and slip off. It still needs to be relatively portable, though, so nothing that weighs a ton.
- A new cello bag. Preferable one with backpack straps as well as handles. It'll need to be waterproof, and have at least 10 or 15 mm of padding. They're about $100. The bag I have has been well-used for eight years by me and who knows how long before that, and is wearing through. I don't want it to rip when it shouldn't (like when I'm carrying it on a bus).

I've made an interesting discovery. A few years ago when I replaced the bow that originally came with my cello, I found that it was a 3/4 size. Looking at all the bags that other people use for their cellos at orchestra, I think my bag is a 3/4 size as well, because it barely fits my 4/4 instrument, and a full-size bow won't fit in the bow pocket and still allow the top flap to fold over.

Just thinking, that's all.

Editor's note: No, you haven't missed her birthday. She's simply giving you a couple of months advance warning. Isn't she sweet?

Oh, isn't that nice... CBC

Oh, isn't that nice... CBC Radio Two is playing Enya's May It Be from The Lord of the Rings soundtrack.

Howard Shore is Canadian!? The host must be joking.

After a quick Google search: Dear gods. It's true. He's Torontonian. We'll forgive him, though, and concentrate on his Canadian-ness.

Mediaeval Baebes Review

I had the most amazing night out yestereve!

The Mediaeval Baebes have just blown my concert standards way out of the water. From the first moment when the lights dimmed and their silvery shapes ghosted out onto the stage to stand at a semi-circle of microphones twisted with vines, and the repeated eerie wordless call that a single voice begins to cry out in the darkness to open the show with Spiriti, to the very end where we were still standing on out feet, applauding and crying out for more as the house lights came up, the audience was entranced. Dorothy Carter, the mediaeval music specialist who inspired Baebes founder Katharine Blake to grab a gang of friends and set some mediaeval texts to music, had a pile of zithers, dulcimers, psalteries and hurdy-gurdys around her, and received what was possibly the evening's largest single collection of whistles, cheers and applause (and rightly so!). The fantastic drummer has my husband trying to find room for a full kit somewhwere; not a traditional kit, mind you, but more like three large bass drums set up around him with slightly different tones. My favourite effect: drawing a bass bow down gently along the edge of a cymbal. Spooky.

Eight women, wearing fantasty outfits thematically linked by colour, with sticks, tambourines, chanters, shakers and recorders. Ethereal voices. A drummer, a hammered dulcimer. A club of perhaps two hundred people, hanging on their every note.

What a fantastic night.

We had the best seats in the house - dead centre right behind another couple, the fruits of being the third party in line. We had terrific company too - this is the second concert I've been to with Dimitri, and he's just too much fun. Maia and Gab and Marc were there as well, and I think we had an excellent blend of people to share ita ll with. We also met a wonderful new person by the name of Jenny, who scooted over at the intermission and asked if the seat in front of Marc was taken (it wasn't; he'd been leaving room for the gentlmeman in the wheelchair to maneuver if necessary). She fit in just fine (both the chair and the group) and she seems darned familiar to everyone, although none of us can figure out why. She's a native of Saskatchewan, here for school (studying massage!) and although it turns out she's been to the bookstore we work in once or twice, we all know that's not why we know her. Hmmm... a mystery!

Curiously, I could understand certain songs better than I can with a CD and the lyrics in front of me. I've taken Middle English courses, and I've studied medieval French texts as well, and I've always had to read things aloud to "get" them. However, this was different somehow. Perhaps it was the immediacy of the sound, that crackling "live" quality that gets lost once you trap the sound with the recording process. Or, maybe it was just the electric energy they raised as soon as they reached their mikes, grounded (oh yes, you could see it), and began opening themselves up to something they very obviously enjoyed without shoving it at the audience. They allowed the audience to enjoy as well, to share, to discover. I have no patience with performers who are narcissistic and are there for their own self-gratification. As a performer myself, yes, there is an element of "I have to have fun"; if you're not enjoying yourself, neither is your audience; they sense it. There are performers out there, though, who are so wrapped up in their own sound, their own presence, that they seem to be there for themselves and only themselves, which is such a cheat: your audience is there to share, and if you don't pour yourself out to them, what do they have to give back to you? Performing is like a volleyball game; you serve, they return your serve, you pass it back to them... and each time the ball gets passed, it grows bigger, stronger, wilder, purer. A selfish performer is a performer I will not see again. Loreena McKennitt falls into the latter category, unfortunately. The first time I saw her during her Visit tour, she was phenomenal and gave the audience more than any performer I'd ever seen before. The second time I saw her, during her Mask & Mirror tour, she was self-absorbed. I still buy her albums, but I'll probably not see her live.

The Mediaeval Baebes, I will see again. Frequently. Often, if possible.

Now, if I could just figure out how to raise that kind if spine-tinging, hair-prickling energy in ritual, I'll be happy.

Attack of the Clones Score

Damn.

After The Phantom Menace travesty (or tragedy, take your pick), I told myself rather firmly that I wasn't going to get worked up about the next Star Wars movie. And I've done very well at not going through web sites, checking out the Star Wars home page, or following magazine articles. I've seen only one single trailer for the movie (the no-sound, visual flashes that was released months ago), and no TV spots at all. I stopped reading Star Wars books (another guilty pleasure) back when the line was sold to Del Rey and R.A. Salvatore wrote that dreadful Vector Prime thing.

Then Taras had to bring the new soundtrack to the NSW game last weekend.

I am undone. Damn them all. The soundtrack is fantastic. The quality of work is even from beginning to end, sweeping, and balanced emotionally. Terrific new themes. Excellent re-introduction of old themes from Ep 1 as well as the Force theme, and that chilling little bit called The Imperial March put in such a creepy place that it hits you broadside. They even still use Anakin's theme at the end, the second repetition played over two or three instruments quietly creating the Imperial March under it all, so that you barely notice it. Creepy, I tell you.

Now I'm excited.

Well, it will have spaceships, and lightsaber battles, and excellent costumes, and impressive sets. I'm fine with that. So what if George Lucas can't write a love story. I've learned to not expect brilliant scripts from films in general. I suspend a lot of expectation when I walk into a theatre now; maybe I'm getting cynical in my third decade, but if I don't expect anything, I'm always pleasantly surprised.

I take what I'm given and put myself into the story, and if I enjoy it, hey, that's great. Good music is essential for that in my cosmos. (Lightsabers and starships are good for me too.)

Now if you will pardon me, the end credits just finished. I have to go hit the Play button again.

Once More With Feeling

I was handed a CD of MP3s last week; a compilation of digitally captured songs from the incredibly elusive musical episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, “Once More With Feeling”. No, I'm not going to tell you who did it for me. Suffice it to say that he's an incredible sweetheart and a perfectionist to the point of obsession, which means that this CD is practically of professional quality, well-balanced, and complete with added bonuses (which I have yet to access). It also means he thinks it isn't good enough. We love him in spite of this. (Sometimes because of it.)

It’s catchy. Damned catchy. I mean, I knew it was catchy before, because I’ve been humming various selections since I saw it months ago. Now that I have all the songs here, though, and I’ve listened to it two or three times, I can say with all confidence that yes, it’s catchy, as well as actually being completely plot-driven musically. Whedon has created an alarmingly accurate Broadway/Disney/1950s “hey, let’s put on a show!” kind of musical where the lyrics are decent, the musical styles are varied and excellent satires/homage to their genres, and a surprising number of cast members can actually sing.

Buffy is a guilty pleasure for me. Musical expression is an innocent pleasure: while I'm enthusiastic about most kinds of musical expression, I enjoy musicals a lot. To have the two together like this is, well, cool.

Amadeus: Director's Cut

Well, here we are in not-so-sunny YUL, looking out the windows at the brave little lilac buds carrying about ten centimeters of snow. (That’s about four inches for you Imperials.) This is unreal. It’s all a bad dream, and when I wake up it will be sunny, and warm wind will be blowing, right?

If I’m dreaming, then I get to see Amadeus again and compare my dream version of the director’s cut with the real version.

I never saw the original film on the big screen, only on VHS. I've seen a stage version of Sir Peter Shaffer' Amadeus, and it was terrific in and of itself. The film, however, offers a completely different dimension. Shaffer describes it thusly:

When I asked [director Milos Forman] what he would do with the piece he replied that a film based on a play is actually a new work—an entirely different fulfillment of the same impulse that had created the original. The adaptor’s task was to explore many variant paths in order to arrive in the end at the same emotional place, and that the director must collaborate with the author in order to achieve this.

An interesting view. I wish I could be that optimistic regarding movies based on novels; but then, most filmmakers don't consult the author of the original work in an adaptation. Once the rights are sold, it no longer belongs to the person who created the story, spent years crying and laughing and sweating the story out until at last it exists in tangible form. This is how you get atrocities like making the protagnists of A.S. Byatt's Possession Americans in the upcoming film. Ahem. But I'm not bitter.

The director’s cut was fabulous. They restored an entire twenty minutes, including a deleted storyline about Mozart trying to take on a student; a scene in a dressing room between Salieri, Katerina, and Mozart; and a scene of Constanze visiting Salieri after dark to, um, further her husband’s career. As Monica said, for a twenty-year-old movie to still be that good upon a general theatrical re-release is pretty impressive. It still has the power, drama and wry, wry humour of the original, explains a couple of reactions later on in the movie, and damn, has such amazing music.

Actually, if I have a complaint (about something other than the seats, that is), it’s about the sound quality. For a movie that revolves so entirely around music, you’d think they’d re-balance the soundtrack and give it to you in surround sound, or Dolby at the very least. Instead, when the opening crash of the first chord of the Don Giovanni overture crashed into the theatre, I felt like I had vertigo: it came from the front speakers to either side of the screen, and only the front speakers.

About the seats: okay, I know I have back problems, and I haven’t seen my osteopath in three weeks, but like seats on an airplane, the seats at the AMC are designed for someone a foot taller than I am. What ends up happening is my back curves into it and my head is pushed forward and down by what would be the neck rest on anyone other than myself. If I were shorter, I’d be fine; if I were a foot taller, I’d be fine. As it was, I fidgeted a lot, and eventually ended up stuffing both my sweater and my coat by degrees into the small of my back to re-align my spine into some sort of correct distribution. MLG swears he didn’t notice the gymnastics, but I think he’s just being nice.

Everyone came back to our place for baked Camembert (with sage and thyme on top – mmmm), a shrimp ring with home-made seafood sauce (because I realised too late that we didn’t have any left in the fridge!), and a guest appearance by Devon Julia!

The general reaction: Wow, she’s really small. Smaller than all three of my cats, in fact. Well, maybe not Maggie-cat…

Why I Love Stuart McLean

Stuart McLean is playing They Might Be Giants on The Vinyl Cafe:

I'm your only friend
I'm not your only friend
But I'm a little glowing friend
But really I'm not actually your friend
But I am

(and while you're at it
Keep the nightlight on inside the
Birdhouse in your soul)

And Maggie-cat is facing me, sitting in front of the monitor, trying to shoot her paw into the bowl of freshly popped popcorn on my lap when I dip my own hand into it. It's a game for her; the popcorn rattles and she can sort of see a shadow moving through the plastic bowl. (Yes, popcorn; I've been up for hours. Again. Besides, corn is a cereal; it's morning. What's wrong with that?)

Second Chair?

They put me in the second chair last night at orchestra. I like the seat; I hate the responsibility implied. Our section leader is away so they moved Walter and I up from fifth and sixth to first and second for a few weeks. Eep! Well, it will make me practice the Beethoven if nothing else. The Minuet & Trio is all over the fingerboard and quick, damn it. I can coast through anything decently except demonically fast 3/4 time...

I also tried my cello bow last night for the first time in three months. Right after the last concert in January I picked up a really cheap student viola bow for about $40 and tried playing with that instead. The frog is smaller (the handle, folks, the handle) and while it's a couple of inches longer than a cello bow and the weight distribution is slightly different, overall it's a bit lighter. It works quite nicely for me; it's easier to handle, and I can create a smoother sound with it. Going back to the cello bow last night was disastrous! So it's back to the viola bow. I'll have to sit further away from my stand partner though, so I don't stab him like I almost did last night. (Can't you just see the headlines?)

Tax on SF

Just when you thought it was safe:

Michael Williams, a Republican candidate for the 5th Congressional District seat, has a novel plan to fully fund NASA: Tax science fiction.

Williams proposes a 1 percent "NASA tax" on science fiction books, science fiction comic books, space sciences books and any other space-related literature.

The tax would also apply to "space, space-related, and science fiction toys, puzzles and games," Williams said in a listing of his platform.

Where does it end? Do we pay a science fiction tax on our Doritos because they have Episode Two likenesses emblazoned on the bags? Will they stalk the streets at Hallowe'en and slap a tax on kids wearing a collection of boxes and foil pie plates? Kids who want a telescope? Movie soundtracks? Innocent book clubs in need of refined germanium who gather to discuss zone purifiers!?

Ugh. Read the whole article and learn more about Williams' brilliant campaign ideas, if you dare.

I don't know whether to thank Scott or not for bringing this to my attention.

Voice Work

Well, that was interesting. I detest walking into a situation where I'm not prepared, and since this whole thing was non-disclosure protected (lots of espionage in the computer game world, I understand) no details could be released to me about this project to help me prepare. So I walked into the recording room cold. It was fun; no denying that. My partner was an absolute scream who made me cry with laughter. The main problem with the five female roles, though, was that they were female stereotypes as opposed to the ten male international characters. Granted, they were stereotypes too, but at least my partner could play with accents. I had to play up the stereotypes, which gave me much less room to improvise and basically left me pretty unengaged. They had fun fooling around with my voice, making me sound about a hundred pounds heavier than I am for one character, and I must admit I had a good laugh when they played back a couple of other characters that I had nailed dead on. All the same, though, as much fun as the exercise was, I wish I'd been given more than three catch-phrases for each role to record as a test, and I really wish I'd seen visuals for all of them.

In other news, we anxiously await the official good news of the birth of the new daughter of our upstairs neighbours and very dear friends Jeff and Paze! They're at the hospital today, and they've sworn to tell no one the name of this child until she's born, which has left the rest of us with no choice but to call her The Peanut. Poor kid; it's going to stick. It will, however, be nice to be told the name that will be on her birth certificate! Watch this space for news as soon as there's news to be released...

And the Winner...

Woo-hoo! For all of you out there sitting on the edge of your seats, it was announced in Ottawa this afternoon that the winner of CBC Radio's Canada Reads! project is In the Skin of a Lion by Michael Ondaatje! Steven Page, lead singer of Barenaked Ladies, nominated this novel as the book that all Canadians should read together over the summer.

Well. That was my excitement for the day.

Tonight I'm off to a top-secret voice test for the spoken dialogue of a computer video game being developed here in Montreal. Oooh... the suspense...

Canada Reads! Update

Your Canada Reads! update:

Last week, they voted out A Stone Angel on Wednesday, A Fine Balance on Thursday, and The Handmaid's Tale on Friday. I missed today's debate, which must have been thrilling! I have never read >b>Whylah Falls, but I've read Ondaatjie before, and he's really good. We'll find out tomorrow which one was voted off, and which one is left to be Canada's first book in the coast-to-coast book club!

I'm pretty lame, aren't I?

Well, it could be worse. I could be saying, "Hey, it's only whatever days till Star Wars: Episode Two comes out!" (Isn't that sad? I don't even know how many days it is. I'm usually up on these things. It's around Victoria Day. I'm not overly concerned about it because I'm not going in the first week anyway.)

Long Fatal Love Chase (love that title)

CURRENTLY READING:

A Long Fatal Love Chase, by Louisa May Alcott. I read her novella The Inheritance recently, and I enjoyed it so much that on my way home from HMV (with only a Mozart and a Rossini, under $20, and both for study purposes - I couldn't find the Bartok at a low enough price) I stopped by the second-hand bookstore across from the metro and picked up two Alcotts, this and another collection of novellas called Behind A Mask (under $10!). If you've ever read Little Women, you know the kind of stories Jo writes. Well, Louisa May wrote them as well. These will be perfect bus books - if they last that long...

Books Are Cool

The strangest thing just happened to me. I was double-checking my blog page after fiddling with the template, and the banner at the top caught my eye. I recently uninstalled my ad-blocking software, so these are new to me. Normally they are pesky. This banner was bright yellow and advertised some place called Central Booking, with a catch-phrase of Read Like Crazy. Hmm, I said, listened to the Force murmuring in my inner ear, and clicked on the banner - something which I never do.

I discovered something rather cool. A whole community of people like me who think books are important, and who like to talk about them. Check it out.

Imagine. A banner for reading, popping up on my web log. I love my life.

That earthquake I posted about at ten to seven registered as a 5.5, and was felt from Niagara to Quebec City, from the northern US to the Laurentians. Nice to know I wasn't just dreaming. (Hmmm - I was awake before six-thirty, and the earth moved. Coincidence? You decide.)

Well, it's 7:30. I think I'll go away now. Maybe a nice bath with a book. Then breakfast. Then HMV. Once home again, I will (gasp!) practice. My husband and I have made an agreement: we have a whiteboard divided into two columns by the instruments. Every time one of us practices we'll log the date and time on the board. At the end of the month, we'll add them up. This is an overt attempt to shame each other into practicing more. I have an eight-year head start, but I am graciously waiving that in the interests of fair play. (Ye gods - have I actually been playing the cello for just shy of eight years? Goodness.) I'm looking forward to the creative excuses he will come up with to explain his lack of chanter-playing.

Coolness Factor

There is something so cool about turning on the radio and hearing a symphony you've played in chamber orchestra. This is Beethoven's 2nd, and I adore it. It was the grand finale to our concert in January, and it has deplaced the 7th as my Official Favourite Beethoven Symphony. We're working on the 1st now, and it just doesn't grab me like the 2nd does. I'm loving the Mozart we're doing though, the 26th. Which I must go downtown to find a recording of this very day - heh heh heh - HMV, here I come, second weekend in a row! I buy very few CDs now; they're expensive and I haven't exactly had the disposable income necessary, nor the time to check out music stores. Barring last weekend's joyous celebration of Baebes, I think I've bought all of six CDs this year, most of which were under $10 and study discs for orchestra (gotta love those classical Naxos CDs!). Before that... hmm... I bought the Harry Potter soundtrack in early December. I think that's pretty much it for last few months of 2001; I don't even remember what else I might have bought after the summer. I'm looking for a recording of the Mozart and some Bartok, again for orchestra prep purposes. It's not so hot today, so it will be a nice trip. Maybe I'll take the 104 again.

Up Too Early

So I'm here at 4:45 AM, tuning up my blog. Can't sleep. Probably has something to do with having a glass of red wine, watching an hour of TV, and going to bed at 9 PM last night. When I woke up at 3:30 AM I knew it was game over, but I tried to lie in bed for a little while anyway, in case sleep decided to mosey on back. No such luck. So here I am, with a cat on my lap (if you knew I was using my ergonomic kneeling chair you'd understand how creative this positioning of cat can be), listening to the very first Mediaeval Baebes album, Salva Nos, which I picked up yesterday to complete my set. It has the stunning, show-stopping Gaudete on it, which is one of the pieces of music which can seize me no matter what I'm doing, get my blood flowing and lift me spiritually out of whatever mood I've been in. A great track to raise energy, if you put it on repeat and sing along. Assuming you can sing Latin and understand what you're singing. Which I can, in Gaudete. (Insert smirk here.) It also has the phenomenal title track, Salva Nos, which is, like Gaudete, another chant to Mary, whom we all know is the Goddess anyway, right? (Yes, I'm getting the Latin down for that one too, rather rapidly.)

Salva nos, Stella Maris
Et regina celorum
Que pura Deum paris [...]
Salva nos, Stella Maris
Et regina celorum
O virgo specialis
Sis nobis salutaris
Imperatrix celorum [...]
Lux cecis, dux ignaris
Solamen angelorum!

Oooh... I just get shivers. Which have nothing to do with being barefoot in the middle of the night when the temperature has dropped twenty degrees (honestly, does anyone remember something called a seasonal temperature?).

I know what this means. It means I'll have to take a nap this afternoon, or risk falling asleep in the middle of the student round-table discussion I'm co-moderating tonight.

Speaking of students, I pulled off another spectacular workshop Tuesday night. I'm beginning to think that I really am good at this, and people aren't just saying it to be nice.

CURRENTLY READING:

Wicca: The Old Religion in the New Age by Vivianne Crowley. There exists an interesting phenomenon in the Wicca division of occult publishing. There are hundreds of 101 texts, and very few advanced texts. Why? Because it's an experiential religion, meaning once the basics are communicated you have to build on them yourself, creating your own relationship with the Divine. No one, published author or otherwise, can tell you how that's done. They can give you suggestions, but in essence, you become your own 201 text. Which is very cool, but a bit frustrating as well. Anyway, the upshot of all this is I read a lot of 101 texts, partially to become familar with the variety of crap and fluff that's being published, but also to zero in on the good stuff, the wheat amongst the chaff that I can recommend to seekers when they interrupt - er, ask my help at work. I enjoy it a lot more than people might think. Sure, the basics are repetative, but the interesting thing is how the authors express those basics, what angle they approach them from. You can learn a lot about the complexities of spiritual and religious philosophy from how the same thing is said a dozen different ways. Vivianne Crowley is a nice, solid, British antidote to a lot of the fluff that's being sold these days. It's not new; it was originally published in 1996. This is a revised edition; hence the subtitle.

Meeting of the Waters by Caiseal Mór. It says it's book one of The Watchers. We'll see if it makes the trilogy potential or not. Alternate Celtic fantasy, set around the Fir Bolg/Danaan clash. It's got ravens, standing stones, harps, druids, cover art by Yvonne Gilbert that I fall for every time, damn it. Eh. It's bus-reading material, which in my world means a book that fits in my bag (Trollope has been relegated to at-home reading), a story that isn't too complex (a book that gets picked up and put down frequently can't be too deep or intricate otherwise you spend too much time trying to remember what happened), a story that isn't so meaningful that I'll become too involved and miss my stop.

Canada Reads! Update, and Vanilla Coke

Your Canada Reads! update: Wednesday, they voted Margaret Laurence's Stone Angel (which I read when I was sixteen and didn't enjoy; it disturbed me, although I have enjoyed other Margaret Laurence works) off the list in Wednesday. Yesterday, they voted off Rohinton Mistry's A Fine Balance (which I have not read, and intend to very soon). What they end up with for the first ever national book club will be very, very interesting...

Ceri reports that Coca-Cola will be releasing a new flavour in May. You guessed it: Vanilla Coke! Woo-hoo! It's coming out mid-May in the USA, and up here in the True North Strong And Free sometime later. I foresee a strike force crossing the border to grab some, because heck, I certainly don't want to wait...

My only problem is, whatever will I do with that bottle of vanilla schnaaps in the cupboard?

Canada Reads!

Do you know what the CBC is doing for Canada Book Day? They're running a Canada Reads! project hosted by Mary Walsh. The question: "Is it possible to find a single book that captures the imagination of an entire country?" The thesis of the project is simple: five notable Canadians get together, each recommending a Canadian book of their choice which they believe all of Canada should read. There's a daily debate between these guests, moderated by Walsh, and each day one book is voted off the list leaving a single book at the end, to be announced on Canada Book Day, April 23. This will be the book that Canada Reads.

The gests are pretty diverse: Kim Campbell, our first (and only, so far) female Prime Minister, who is defending A Handmaid's Tale by Maraget Atwood; speculative fiction author Nalo Hopkinson, who is defending George Elliott Clarke's poetry collection Whylah Falls; Leon Rooke, novelist, story story author, and widely published, defending Margaret Laurence's Stone Angel; Megan Follows, actor, who is defending Rohinton Mistry's A Fine Balance; and Steven Page, co-founder and lead singer of the Barenaked Ladies, is arguing for In The Skin of a Lion by Michael Ondaatje.

Tough choice!

The debates are terrific - they're seriously arguing the pros and cons of each book, the themes, the meanings, the strengths and weaknesses. They're all terribly good books, and the guests are having difficulty choosing one to vote off.

You can vote for your favourite work of Canadian literature too - check out the Canada Reads! website and click on the People's Choice - Cast Your Vote link. I must go into the library room and try to decide on which Robertson Davies book or Timothy Findley book to vote on. Then there's always the L.M. Montgomery oeuvre, and Jane Urquhart's Away... damn...

PotPourri

Well, here we are: a typical Montreal summer day, and it's only mid-April. You can feel the water hanging in mid-air, and my hair is frizzing. Ah, summer. Two and half weeks ago we had two feet of snow fall. Only in Montreal!

Neat things I’ve done lately (other than take a new bus home):

Picked up the new Mediaeval Baebes album, The Rose. In my opinion, their finest collection to date. Yes, I have my tickets to the concert here on May 3rd. Found a nifty article on the Baebes "coming out" as Pagan, too. This surprises me not at all.

Watched the third season finale of Buffy. Wow. My convocations were nowhere near that exciting. Joss Whedon really took the old cliché of “graduation is a rite of passage” to extremes, didn’t he.

Read a lot. I’m noticing that I’m rarely in the midst of a book when I blog; this stems from the fact that I read fast. Books I have read: Child of the Prophecy, the third book in the Juliet Marillier's Sevenwaters trilogy. Not as good as the earlier two; explores the theme of family and belonging in a different way, and didn’t have as likeable a main character. In fact, I found myself getting a bit exasperated with her. Yes, yes, you moan because your grandmother has you completely under her control – ever wonder why she’s so intent on keeping you there? Maybe because you threaten her? Get past the limp and stand up for yourself! The ending was a little too pat, as well. A Pilgrim In Ireland by Frances Greenslade: a very good first-hand narration of her solo trip to Ireland to search for roots, and the feeling of unbelonging that rose up to stop her. Where does a Canadian belong when we feel like intruders in our own land, and exiles from the land of our ancestors? I also finished Tea With the Black Dragon, a lovely little tale of history and innate magic transcending time and death (sort of).

CURRENTLY READING:

Can You Forgive Her? by Anthony Trollope. The first chapter is designed to not make you want to read the book. I am convinced of this. It's not very portable, either; two and a half inches thick will make it difficult to slip in my purse while going to work.

Dvorak

I love turning in the radio and hearing the end of Dvorak's cello concerto.

The only thing that could be better is turning it on and hearing the beginning.

Officially Shpooked

Okay, now I’m officially shpooked. This morning I said to myself, “Gee, I wish I had a new Mercedes Lackey book to take with me to Toronto this weekend.”

Twenty minutes ago, our CanPar delivery man dropped off two boxes. One of which contained the new Mercedes Lackey hardcover Gates of Sleep, based on the Sleeping Beauty fairy tale.

I’m almost afraid to take it out of the box.

Dudley Moore

Wow. Dudley Moore is dead. I was thinking about him completely out of the blue last week. No particular reason, just popped into my head. I spent a day or so tryingto figure out why - had I seen a clip from a movie, heard a comedy sketch, or something of the sort. I didn't come up with anything, so I let it go. Then on the news this morning, they announced his death. Eerie.

Moore was one of those people who was dreadfully, awfully talented. He trained as a classical pianist as well as developing a nasty wit. On Music & Company this morning Tom Allen played two different Moore musical sketches, but the one that sticks in my mind is the Same To You musical piece he did, which is Colonel Bogey a la Beethoven. I almost spilled my tea. It's right up there with Peter Schickele's baseball version of Beethoven's Fifth symphony, Conductor vs Orchestra. ("My God! They're reprising the opening theme! This has never been done before - listen to the crowd - they're wild!")

So I enjoy classical musical humour. Shoot me.

Anti-Bizet

Well, sleeping on it does work! I wrote last night's post on-line (a no-no I usually avoid by composing in Word and copying it over) and my computer froze as soon as I hit the "Publish" button. Argh! Was it lost? Was it trapped in cyber-space, awaiting my secret Jedi powers to free it?

After half an hour of trying to un-freeze the unit I gave up. If it was gone, it was supposed to be gone, and my earlier post was to stand as to my musings on Eric's sudden passing. I checked this morning, and voila! My post!

Orchestra tonight - I'm so anti-Bizet that I pulled out my CD and my music this weekend and listened to it over and over, then played the opening bit. Or, I tried. Then I played with the Schubert symphony for a while. Much more satisfying. This marks the first time I've touched my cello between rehearsals in, um, five months. Gulp.

Woke up this morning to a delightful bit of Renaissance lute music from a CD called "Lute Music for Witches and Alchemists". Now I have to own it. Hey, I'm supposed to be enjoying life more consciously now, right?

New Furniture, Cats, and the Academy Awards

About a month ago we inherited a never-used sofa bed and matching recliner chair. Nice, neutral in style and colour, comfy, and miles more attractive and less uncomfortable than the tiny 30 year old sofa bed we'd picked up at a garage sale a few years ago. That sofa bed was being used as a scratching post by our three fluffy hellions, so we've been keeping an eye on them when they're in the living room with the new set. If we're in the apartment and hear that tell-tale "skrr skrr skrr pop" we yell, clap our hands sharply, or smack the offending puss on the rear (depends how persistent they're being). Well, you can't watch them all day, so when we noticed a thread or two hanging off the arm rest of the sofa we decided to cut further damage off at the pass.

We brought home a board wrapped in heavy jute rope and screwed it to one of our doorframes.

All three cats ignored it.

I rubbed some catnip on it. They rolled around on the floor in front of it on the bits that fell off.

One by one, I picked each of them up and carried them over to the scratching board, put them down, picked up their front paws and made little scratchy movements against the rope. They pulled their paws out of my hands and gave me injured looks.

I gave up. Another terrific idea, down the drain.

A couple of days ago, I was in the bedroom and heard the "skrr skrr skrr pop" sound. I yelled; the sound didn't stop. I walked into the living room ready to dish out hell, and there was Maggie, on her back legs, back curved, her front claws locked in the rope, looking at me like I was an idiot human who was contradicting myself again.

Ahem.

She's the only one who uses it, though. The other two haven't figured it out yet. Either that, or they've tried and she's defended it, having decided it's her personal scratchy spot. My money's on Maggie telling the other two that it's really better for them if they use the sofa to sharpen their claws, and she's no longer using it to give them more opportunities.

Oscar Review:

I haven't watched the Oscars in years, namely because I've been so disinterested in what the world of film has had to offer. Last night we watched the back-to-back Enterprise episodes, then tuned in to the Academy Awards in time to watch Sidney Poitier receive his honorary Oscar. I missed all the LoTR awards, but by checking out the web site I'm very pleased to see that Howard Shore got a statue for his incredible score which rarely leaves slot no. 3 in our CD tray. I did have the fortune to see Randy Newman win for Best Song, however, which was long overdue.

Overall, I'm pleasantly surprised to see films like Gosford Park and A Beautiful Mind be honoured. These are films which I was excited about when I heard they were being released, then got swamped by the general raving hullabaloo once they came out and lost any desire to see them. Guess I'll be fixing the oversight soon. Maybe I'll rent Moulin Rouge so I can finally see that as well. Oh, and why not see LoTR again while I'm at it.

Movies I'm looking forward to this year: Possession (scheduled for July 2002, based on the novel by A.S. Byatt, which is one of my Desert Island books and one of the three focal points of my M.A. thesis - although apparently this film ruins the whole turning point of the novel by making the scholars American!), The Importance Of Being Earnest (Oscar Wilde rides again!), Star Wars: Episode Two (I refuse to call it by the lame, lame title - we'll all call it Ep2 anyway), Spider-Man, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (a title which can't be changed for American audiences, thanks the gods), and of course, The Two Towers. Most of which are likely to be ignored this time next year.

Men With Brooms

Men With Brooms was a riot. I highly recommend it. If you do not have a sense of humour, or have qualms about your Canadian identity, do not see it. You won’t get it.

The credits faded in and out on the black screen. There was a loon call. I murmured to my seat-mates, “Well, I know I’m in a Canadian movie – there’s a loon crying.”

Then the deep patriotic male chorus started singing about the land of the silver bush to visuals of rushing water and wind through the trees, and the hoarse calls of beaver and the wail of a bagpipe. If the audience hadn’t known by the loon that it was a Canadian movie, they had to have figured it out by then. Not that it mattered; I was crying with laughter already.

Only our row was laughing in the whole theatre. We must have all been curlers or something. Or patriotic. With a wicked sense of humour.

CURRENT READING:

Well, Men With Brooms, actually, because I had to buy something that wasn't a fashion magazine at the tiny bookstore near Zellers while I was waiting for my husband to come back and pick me up from my haircut (took him over an hour). Contains a couple of scenes cut from the movie that explain later scenes, and classic descriptions of Canada like, "an endless stretch of blacktop heading deeper and deeper into a land that comprised nothing but rocks, trees, lakes, rocks, trees, lakes, rocks, oops there's a moose, trees, lakes, rocks and more rocks." (p.196) And then there's the opening paragraph, which goes like this:

"Once upon a time, there was a very cold country full of rocks. One particular province of this country, known as the Province of Ontario in the Dominion of Canada, was simply chock full of cold and rocks. The rocks, being rocks, didn't mind the cold. They just carried on, being rocks, until someone (an immigrant from a not-quite-so-cold but just as full of rocks place called Scotland) disturbed their peace.

"Canada has never been quite the same." (p.1)

Cello Stuff

I finally got the URL for the Lakeshore Chamber Orchestra web site last night, so you can check that out. There are still some terrific pictures that have yet to go up - namely the formal "black" photo taken at our last concert in December, and the informal casual dress photo taken last November at one of our rehearsals.

I noticed again last night that the fingers on my left hand are getting black again from working on the fingerboard of my cello. While I'd love to assume that it's due to my impassioned playing, I rather think that it's the stain on the fingerboard starting to come off. It's only a student cello after all. Although the last time I was at Shar in Toronto getting my strings changed, they looked at it and told me that it was a rather high quality student model - apparently it's not plywood, its solid carved wood. When my stand-mate tried it a couple of weeks ago he exclaimed over how easy it was to get sound out of it, so I guess that dreamy, mellow, 350 year old cello I tried during the same trip to Shar which made me sound like Amanda Forsythe still isn't a necessary replacement. Ah well.

Today is the official Drink Much In Honour Of Rob day - to Hurley's we will go!

Osteopath and Book Club

Two significant events took place yesterday:

1 - I finally had my appointment with the osteopath - hurrah! I felt so comfortable, even though a little voice in my mind kept saying, "This is a sports clinic, look at all these real sports people being treated, you're just a tense cellist with a little curve to her spine". My appointment lasted two hours (which made the stiff charge worth it) and there was noticeable improvement which surprised even the osteopath. It's a wonderful treatment that involves gentle extension of the spine, loosening of the muscles adjoining the vertebrae, stretches, and so forth - less aggressive than a chiropractor. She took a whole forty minutes and talked to me about my life, my headaches, dizziness (in my case all probably connected to spinal problems - wow) and when she asked if I were active, I told her no, but curling competitively for six years as a teen probably didn't help my back much. Turns out her brother was my first skip. Small, small world, especially when you grew up in the West Island. Unfortunately, she's so busy that my next appointment isn't until April! I'm on her cancellation list, though, and I'll grab whatever comes up, even if I have to get to work late. To avoid this problem of discontinuity, I planned ahead by scheduled three more appointments scattered evenly through April and the beginning of May. Ha.

2 - Last night marked my triumphant return to the Nebula Book Club! Now in its third year, this is an intellectual and social exercise that I've been deprived of while I was doggedly practicing the cachucha for The Gondoliers. Now I'm back, and wow, last night really reminded me of how much I'd missed it.

Actually, there was a third significant event: I actually saw an episode of Buffy The Vampire Slayer that I'd seen before, thereby ending my three-month streak of discovery. It means I'm getting to the point where I started watching it semi-regularly the first time Space started the reruns. There are still tons of episodes I haven't seen in the third season, but now I've got a relatively complete score-card for all the other seasons (except for the newest season, of which I've seen all of three episodes). I love this show - campy, yes, and very 90's teen, but it's well-written, has terrific characterization, and a sense of humour. Oh, an an over-arching storyline - always impressive. Other than The West Wing, it's the only show I follow.

CURRENT READING:

When you weren't looking, I read How Reading Changed My Life by Anna Quindlen, a short but poignant examination of what access to books and literacy in general brings people. I'm currently in the middle of Kushiel's Dart, a rather sensual debut novel by Jacqueline Carey about the training of a courtesan-spy. I'm enjoying the first-person courtly style in which the narrator tells the story (odd, because I often have no patience in artificially elegant writing styles) as well as the varied interpretations of the ideal of love this book raises. It's really not the type of book I usually like, so I'm quite taken aback to realise that I'm probably going to buy it in hardcover while it's still available, and the sequel when it's published in a couple of months too.

PotPourri

Whoa! Somewhere along the past day and a half, this page received its three hundredth hit.

I'm stunned. In just under one month, people have stopped by by three hundred times to see what I'm rambling about. (And yes, I set my counter to ignore my own hits on the page.)

Wow.

In other news, damn it, it's SPRING! We've thrown open all the windows, I've gone for a walk to buy orange juice and a paper, and now I'm sitting at the computer in a patch of cosy sunlight, breathing in the warm spring smells, listening to Mozart arias on the radio. Apparently it's going up to 16 C today. Life is pretty good.

Tonight I'm leading a class on ethics, then I'm off to a good old-fashioned sleepover with four other women. There will be much chocolate in various forms, as all good sleepovers must have. The added bonus of adulthood means daiquiries too. Woo-hoo! Tomorrow morning we shall dawdle over silver dollar pancakes and waffles, then I've got a Star Wars game in the afternoon, and a book club soiree in the evening. Needless to say, this does not allow for seeing Men With Brooms, so we have plans to see it next Saturday that shall not be overturned!

CURRENT READING:

Typically, I've begun half a dozen things at once:

Witches & Neighbours by Robin Briggs is a socio-politico-cultural examination of the witch hunts in Europe, creating a historical context of the changing face of society in order to further understand the phenomenon of the hunts. Interesting.

Pilgrims of the Night by Lars B. Lindholm is a fun look at the ancestry of modern magical belief, Western mystery schools and esoteric practice. After looking at people like Thomas "Chip" Aquinas (you had to be there) and Agrippa, I've learned about John Dee (who had more money than sense, most of it apparently originating with the Philosopher's Stone and his alchemical experiments) and Albertus Magnus (whose name means "Big Al", and who was below average height).

Mutts Six: A Little Look-See and Mutts: Sunday Mornings by Patrick McDonnell. No one told me there was a new Mutts collection out!!

Teach Yourself HTML and XHTML. Yep. I'm trying to figure out how to create another table in this template so I can format it to have different fonts and colours so you can actually read it.

And, yes; I found Perdido Street Station, so that's next...

IN THE DISC DRIVE:

Affairs of the Heart: Music of Marjan Mozetich (and if you don't recognise it, it's probably because it's Canadian and modern).
Classic Yo-Yo: a collection of nifty bits of Ma's recordings, about half of which I don't have. The other half is good enough to have twice.
Yo-Yo Ma Plays the Music of John Williams: no, it's not Star Wars on the cello. I never knew Williams had written a cello concerto, let alone an Elegy (expanded from a musical theme used in Seven Years in Tibet) or Three Pieces for Solo Cello.

Post-Show Sloth

Hat trick! My Roll Up The Rim To Lose score is now three for three!

I feel sluggish. It's the typical post-show sloth that descends upon me. Hey, run in high-performance mode after dark on top of your regular weekly activities with little sleep for over a fortnight and then see what happens to you. I've now overslept my alarm for three days in a row. Today is my eleven-hour shift from hell day, too. I don't have high hopes for it: yesterday was The Day That Would Never End, and that was only nine hours. Two hours more makes all the difference when you're in retail, working at a counselling intensive job. All I want to do is order books. Why don't the customers just let me order books? I foresee much Coca-Cola in my immediate future. And a serious chocolate run.

I have, however, managed to see friends in the evenings for two nights running. Wait - wait, there's a name for this... oh, right: a social life.

Curling Geek

Four days until Men With Brooms is released on the big screen! I can't wait!

Hey, I told you I was a curling geek...

Someone Got It Right

Is that Colm Feore playing Trudeau in the upcoming CBC made for TV movie?

Beauty & The Beast in IMAX

Beauty & The Beast is, without question, the finest film of the Disney oeuvre.

My husband and I gave ourselves a much-needed treat and travelled to the Paramount Sunday night. This in itself is rare; the flashy, loud atmosphere doesn’t turn us on. Nor does the flashy, inflated price of entry. This was a special occasion, however: the tenth anniversary IMAX version of the first animated movie to be nominated for a Best Picture Academy Award. It’s been cleaned up a bit, and a cut sequence has been restored.

Breathtaking! From the opening truck in past the bushes and trees, we were gasping. Nothing like seeing your favourite Disney story on a screen three times the size of the one you saw it on originally; or like hearing the score you know backwards and forwards on a sound system like the one the IMAX theatre has. Woo! There is also something rather special about re-living the story at that proportion. I know IMAX is designed to overwhelm the viewer to a certain extent, and I'm usually not able to take all of an IMAX show in, but this one was really quite well done.

The restored sequence, “Human Again”, was terrific. I own the Broadway recording, so I know the song, and I was eager to see what Disney had originally conceived for it. The inclusion makes a lot of sense. If you’ve ever wondered how the castle goes from grimy and gloomy to bright and shiny, here’s your answer. The enchanted objects decide to facilitate the romance (and thus their restoration to original form) by creating appropriate atmosphere. The sequence also includes Belle and the Beast in the library reading books, a scene in the Broadway recording that always touched my heart. Both characters are ciphers with a polishing of personality, but Belle’s love of storybooks is the trait that makes her, well, human. What was eliminated from the Beast’s character along with the “Human Again” sequence is the fact that he is virtually illiterate. I had no idea that his shamed revelation was a part of the original Disney script, seeing as how there is so much new material created for the Broadway version, so the scene was a delightful and exciting surprise! In the Broadway show, Belle is reading a King Arthur story to him. In the original animated version, she’s just finishing up Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, an interesting difference.

What they didn’t restore for the IMAX version (which irritates me no end) is the pause at the end of LeFou’s song for Gaston where he tries to spell Gaston’s name. I’ve heard that it was cut from the movie because they didn’t want to make fun of people who couldn’t spell. It was a really amusing snippet of (again) character action, and I would have appreciated seeing the entire movie in its original form.

It was a truly special evening. My husband and I love Beauty & The Beast for several reasons, but the ones uppermost in our minds Sunday night were that in the end it’s a terribly romantic love story, and romance is something that’s been quite absent from our lives these past few difficult months; and the associated fact that, physically, we embody the pair. In fact, it’s a comment a lot of people make when they see us, and especially when looking at our wedding pictures. (I would like to take this opportunity to state that my husband looked fantastic on our wedding day, and the Beast could never pull off a kilt the way my husband does! It’s the size ratio that tips most people off. Okay, and our colouring, and the length of hair on both of us, and my love of literature, and his slow warming to the idea of reading books…) A few Hallowe’ens ago, we did the Belle and Beast costumes and pulled it off quite nicely, thank you. There are pictures somewhere, but I am scanner-less. My costume (the blue dress) is still intact, and I think we’ll repeat it some Hallowe’en in the future. This time, though, instead of the scruffy cloak, we’ll find a nice blue jacket and a white shirt with a jabot for my beau!

So, to my shaggy Beast of a husband, from your very own Beauty… may we have a happily ever after, as well.

CURRENT READING:

Spells of Enchantment, a well-loved collection of fairy tales. I’m big on the “happily ever after follows trials and hardship” thing these days.
Perdido Street Station, by China Miéville
Actually, I lie. I finished The Eyre Affair (Criminal that the second book remains yet to be published! How can I wait until July?), and I know I said I’d pick up Perdido Street Station (“[r]eminiscent of Charles Dickens, Franz Kafka, and Neal Stephenson”), but, um, I can’t find it. So I picked up...
An Exultation of Larks instead. Turns out that the collective noun (or “term of venery”) for a collection of rooks is a building. I wasn’t far off by guessing that they were called a house of rooks. I adore English; it’s such an illogical language. A book like An Exultation of Larks is just the kind of etymologial feast that I love to sink my beak into.

Now, if I could just find Perdido Street Station…

ALSO READ:
I’ve been polishing off books like After Eights. Books I’ve swallowed recently which didn’t get Current Reading mentions all their own were Light-Bearer’s Daughter by O.R. Melling, Girl in Hyacinth Blue by Susan Vreeland, and Element of Fire by Martha Wells.

Curtain Down

Well, the show's over. We all got together to strike the set yesterday, and I had more fun there connecting with people than I'd had through most of the run. It's so painful to realize that the cast just hits its stride both on and off stage right around the time our two-week run comes to a close. We came close to selling out the house for the last week of the run (missed it only by a couple of seats each night), and the audiences loved it. A good show all around, in the end.

We had a terrific party after Saturday's show, and I enjoyed myself quite a bit (to my utter surprise). We got there early, so we had a choice of seats. I firmly believe that sitting with Rob, Andee, Christina and Richard made our evening much more fun than it would have been had we arrived later than most (which is what we were expecting, having to drive back to NDG to wash up and change, then drive back to Dorval where the party was being held) and been relegated to whatever seats were left free.

And now... the glorious knowledge that my Tuesdays and Fridays are free once more until September! (And what have I done? Booked them up for the next couple of months teaching workshops at work. Sigh...)

Promethea

So I’ve picked up the latest issue of Alan Moore’s Promethea (number 19 for those who are following it), and wow. Wow not only for the lush Van Gogh artistic tribute, but for the portrayal of this particular stop along the storyline.

Okay, having some sort of background in occult studies made following Promethea's trip through the Major Arcana possible, and I’ve been trying to wrap my mind around the journey through the sephiroth along the Tree of Life as it progresses. Then last month I read The Witches’ Qabala by Ellen Cannon Reed to prep myself for a lecture on the Qabala, and it was the proverbial shock of recognition – my brain encompassed it all for a moment, then lost it as I saw that I had understood. (Never make the mistake of remarking that you’ve succeeded at something, particularly grasping the truth of the universe.) I proceeded to devour the first third of Self-Initiation Into the Golden Dawn (for the info, not to actually – oh, never mind) and amused my husband by exclaiming frequently in happy discovery and wearing out a highlight and a half. Qabala is like the blueprint for the universe, or a filing system in which every aspect of the universe is organised. It’s nifty.

Anywhats, all this led to another flash of recognition when I opened Promethea #19 (“Fatherland”) which talks all about Chesed, the sphere of greatness, benevolent ruler gods (excellently illustrated in a double-page spread), and the vision of perfect love. Seeing how the Virtue of this sphere is Obedience, the leap at the end into the unknown is just perfect. The next sphere will be the second to last, that of Binah, understanding and intelligence, or form and restriction, but not in a negative sense… more like a container. Binah is the feminine principle to Chesed’s male principle; the passive/negative side to the universe. It will be interesting to see how Moore envisions it…

Poison Potatoes and Jasper Fforde (no connection)

Interesting fact:

"It may be surprising to learn that the potato, a staple crop in many Celtic lands, does in fact come from a family of poisonous plants that includes henbane and deadly nightshade." (pp.197, Celtic Folklore Cooking - Joanne Asala)

Well, you learn something new every day.

CURRENT READING:
The Eyre Affair, by Jasper Fforde. Working in the cynical and asinine world of publishers and booksellers, I'm not quite sure how this got published. I think the editor must have come across the manuscript, started reading, scratched his head a bit, tried to figure out if this book was (a) a mystery, (b) a comedy, (c) a science fiction novel, (d) a historical, (e) literary criticism, (f) all of the above, or (g) none of the above. Then he probably read a while longer, and at last leapt to his feet and jumped around a bit, then drew up a contract to publish this debut novel of brilliance which defies classification. I recommend it to everyone, especially starving English M.A.s (like yours truly) who will get all the jokes and laugh a lot. It helps, although it isn't necessary, to be familiar with Francis Bacon, William Shakespeare, William Wordsworth, John Milton, the X-Files, the basics of temporal mechanics, and how a basic sense of humour functions. A knowledge of twentieth century history is actually a hindrance. If you like Connie Willis, you'll enjoy Fforde too. (And if you don't know if you like Connie Willis, go look up Passage, or The Doomsday Book, or any one of her numerous award-winning novellas and short stories. If you want the humourous taste of Fforde, though, check out Willis' Bellwether or To Say Nothing of the Dog.)

Pagan Poster Girl Strikes Again

Fourth show down, two to go!

We were sold out last night, standing room only - and people were willing to pay for the standing room. We began fifteen minutes late as the Front of House crew were still trying to find seats for people at eight o'clock! As nice as it is to have a complete audience, it makes it difficult for the singers on stage: a full house soaks up sound, causing it to seem as if you aren't projecting, as you cannot hear your voice bouncing back. As a result, all of our soprano soloists thought they weren't pushing enough and had to keep reining themselves in from forcing their voices. Our first act ran 75 minutes long; usually we clock in at just under an hour. That may not sound like a lot to you, but when a well-rehearsed show can be clocked down to the minute, it's an eternity!

I had an interesting conversation backstage last night with two young ladies who through circuitous conversational coincidences ended up wanting to know more about where I worked, and what witchcraft was all about. There were four other ladies listening covertly. Well, part of my personal mission is to educate, after all! The Pagan Poster Girl strikes again...

CURRENT READING:
Well, I'm book-less again, actually; I read Girl in Hyacinth Blue by Susan Vreeland last night, a lovely collection of thematic stories revolving around a painting by Vermeer. I intend to begin Jasper Fforde's The Eyre Affair tonight. The subtitle describes it as "An Out-Of-This World Tornado of Adventure and Imagination Featuring the Feistiest Literary Detective Ever To Hit The Page". Her name? Thursday Next. (I kid thee not.) It looks hilarious, and combines two of my favourite themes, time-travel and literary archaeology. After that's done, I'll finally read Perdido Street Station by China Mieville; borrowed it from a friend after she met him at the World Fantasy Convention here in Montreal last November. Updates as events warrant.

If Only

Just a quick note today; I've been up to my freshly-auburned head in stuff to do. Thank goodness the show's over next week! I also learned at orchestra last night that there's no rehearsal next Wednesday, as it's March break and the high school we rehearse in will be closed. As much as I adore orchestra, it's an attractive concept: every night off for one full week. Glorious!

I missed two weeks of orchestra due to one of my trademark migraines the first week and then the Vinyl Cafe show the next, so I haven't touched my cello in three weeks. I'm rather proud of how well I did. I sight-read L'Arlesienne Suite by Bizet (ugh - mostly tenor clef) and Schubert's Forth Symphony, ("The Tragic" - in E flat again, sigh). I dreaded going while I was at work all day, but I enjoyed myself immensely when I got there. I have to keep reminding myself that I joined the chamber orchestra to make sure that I played at least once a week. I feel simultaneously impressed with how I keep up and ashamed of myself: if I can hold my own (barely, but I do) with little to no practice outside rehearsal, how good would I be if I practiced for at least an hour a day like I used to?

If I had my druthers, I'd read a lot, write a lot, and play my cello at least three hours a day. I'd also sit in the park. Now, if I could just get someone to pay me for doing all of that so my moggies could be kept in the style to which they have become accustomed (i.e., in kibble), I'd have it made!

Insanity! Unnatural météo! It’s going up to 10° C today, and we’re over halfway there!

I went out this morning to take a walk to the pharmacy, and it’s warm – windy, but warm. You can smell that Spring smell in the air- the damp earthy odour, the aroma of dead grass… but it’s more than that. There’s a sense in the atmosphere, in the air that you breathe into your lungs, that your alveoli recognise and send the news racing through your cells to inform your whole body that in case it hadn’t noticed, the season has changed: rejoice! The sun now stays in my living room more than forty-five minutes at a time! I can leave the windows open again! I can wear shoes outside instead of boots! Soon I shall be able to wear my little fox-red corduroy jacket again!

Not that these events were far off the recent reality of the situation. (Except the sun staying in the living room.) We actually hit a high of 6° C in the city yesterday. I’m not certain if we’re setting records or not. I do know that it didn’t ever really feel like Winter for more than a week at a time. I have a sneaky suspicion that our average temperatures this month are hitting the standard March averages instead. I tremble to consider what our Summer might be like.

That, however, will be then. This is now, and I’m rather enjoying it! The unnatural weather this winter had me on edge – it was just wrong – but it’s the end of February now, and I’m more than ready for buds and the first signs of green, thank you very much. I suffer from a touch of seasonal affective disorder, but apart from that February usually has me fed up on several other fronts as well. Bring on March, say I!

CURRENT READING:

Fool’s Errand, by Robin Hobb
The first book in a new Farseer trilogy called The Tawny Man. This is pulling me right the way I need at the moment! It’s told in the first person, a departure for Hobb’s work, and it works surprisingly well. I’m possibly enjoying it more than I enjoyed the first Farseer trilogy. I’m much too near the end for comfort. The problem with reading newly released hardcovers is that you have to wait for the rest of the series!

Thoughts Onstage

The shows have just become better and better, and the first week of the run is over. It bothers me how relieved I am.

See, in the seventeen years I’ve been doing theatre, I’ve lived this odd contradiction. I love working on a show, all the preparation, the evolution of the sense of identity that the company develops, the actual staging of the thing where there’s an excitement in the air as you give something to the audience, they transform the energy you’ve raised and give it back to you, and it snowballs into an all-around magnificent performance.

However, I don’t like working with people very much, and I hate being the centre of attention.

This confuses just about everyone I know. “You’re on stage singing alone in front of five hundred people!” they say. “How can you claim to not like being the centre of attention?”

Easy. I’m in character. I’m someone else.

The wonderful lie about stage work is that you are simultaneously someone completely different living the story for the very first time, and plain old you, focusing very closely on where you are onstage, how the audience sees you, how the audience sees the stage and performers as a whole picture, what’s coming up next, and how you’re sounding tonight. It’s like multi-tasking with personalities. I love doing it, and I do it well.

This year, however, I’m just not into it. We have a terrific cast, a chorus that ranges from passable to outstanding, two phenomenal directors, and a fantastic show. I’m not enjoying it, and I don’t know why. Not knowing why irritates me, and when I get irritated with no apparent source I get angry, and when I get angry I get very cold and don’t like to be around people even less that I do on a good day. During a show, everyone gets all jittery and excited and they do all the stupid theatre stuff that I tolerate on those good days but which is sending me right up the wall this year – such as the two-cheek kisses and the “break a leg” wishes, all from forty people whom I work with but don’t necessarily like. I usually go into what my dear friend Rob calls “show mode”, where I don’t chatter with everyone else backstage and try to be by myself so I can keep focused on the show and my character. The two mind-sets don’t mesh very well, and as a result I just know that people think I’m stuck up and don’t like them this year. In our current disastrous financial situation we can’t afford to go out with everyone after a show either, to the spontaneous parties or to the official planned ones, and that’s probably not helping the anti-social beliefs that are developing.

So, in other words, I’m frustrated. There are a few people who don’t rub me the wrong way this year, and I love them dearly – particularly Richard, Rob, Andee, Annika, and Tara - and they’re my saviours backstage along with Sarah, Kay, Helen, and Christina. It’s nothing personal against everyone else; it's just that these people somehow know how to cut through the crap going on and touch me gently, to make me calm. I’ve been doing theatre with Annika since we began, seventeen years ago; we’ve lost count of how many shows we’ve done together. Rob is my chosen brother, older, younger and twin, and I’d be without an anchor in a show (and life in general) if he weren’t around. Richard is like a younger brother who I care very deeply about. All three of them understand how I can’t seem to connect with this year’s show, and have the same professional approach to theatre that I do, and they make this run okay somehow. They also understand that I’m not a people person, and they never make me feel guilty about creeping out of the theatre right after the curtain closes, or pressure me to go out partying.

Hence I’m relieved that we’re halfway done. I don’t know why I’m not enjoying myself, and that upsets me beyond belief. I should be having fun. Well, I am having fun, to a degree; but it’s nowhere near what I usually get out of it. If we weren’t doing Yeomen of the Guard in 2003 I’d quit the society based on how I feel this year, but it’s such an awesome opera that I have to try for it. With luck, everyone will remember how blown away the cast and audience were by Rob and I in Ruddigore and we’ll be able to play opposite one another again. If luck’s not with us, well… I guess I’ll be sitting on the other side of the curtain.

CURRENT READING:

The Big U, by Neal Stephenson
Brr. Was university really that bad for this guy? Some really philosophical concepts, and some truly terrifying pranks. Stephenson wins the award for Obsession With Pipe Organs In An Author’s Books. Lots of themes that are further explored in later works. Interesting.

Survived

Well, we did it, and we’re not dead, the theatre is still standing, and no one asked for their money back, so I guess it was all right!

No, seriously, though, as always in theatre, we had absolutely everything go wrong that could go wrong. Lines were dropped – okay, that happens here and there. Someone’s cell phone went off loudly in Act 2, despite the several “turn off your damn phones you inconsiderate jerks” in the program; besides, it’s just common courtesy. But the icing on the cake was the P.A. announcement ten minutes before the intermission. Both our stage managers ended up in the school night supervisor’s office yelling at her. Last but not least, yours truly caught her swishy red and white circle skirt on a huge wooden plant cutout and nearly swept it over as she fled offstage in Act 2. We’d all been so careful about the pointy, sharp, evil-looking thing up until last night, and of course, the near-disaster had to happen to me in front of an audience.

There’s a theatre tradition that you leave notes and little gifts and flowers for people throughout the run of a show, and my night to do it is always opening night. Well, I got to the theatre later than I usually do last night, rushed, and I stopped dead when I saw carnations, chocolates and cards sitting at my make-up table. I felt horrible. I have never, in the seventeen years I have been doing stage work, ever, forgotten opening night. Not that I forgot it was opening night – that’s a little too engraved in brain tissue. What I forgot was that on opening night I gift people.

Now, I can do it on some other night; that’s not the problem. The fact that I forgot for that particular night really upsets me.

It threw my whole mood off. My parents and in-laws were in the audience, though, and my mood improved slightly when I saw the huge bouquet of deep red lilies my mother picked up for me. They're breathtakingly exquisite. Then we got home and polished off a bottle of Soave (Italian, of course, in keeping with the Gondolieri feel) and that was terrific too. I see my parents so rarely that I cherish all the time I get with them, especially here; I usually travel to Toronto to see them. Now I've seen them here twice in two months; they came down for my smashing chamber orchestra debut as well.

Off to cog to make money for kibble!

Vinyl Cafe, League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, and the Gondoliers

The Vinyl Cafe show last night was terrific - not as good, in my opinion, as the one taped in NDG two years ago, but hey, it's Stuart McLean - he's always good. Listen two Saturdays from now (that would be, um, March 2nd) to hear the fabulous Montreal show broadcast on CBC Radio 2 at 10 am, and Sunday March 3rd at noon on CBC Radio 1. Stuart grew up in Montreal; why doesn't he come back more often? This is only the second show he's done here, in all the eight years he's been hosting the Vinyl Cafe. He went to school with my dentist, I discovered a few years ago. The things you hear in a dentist's chair! (Ah, it's such a small island, after all...)

The news is in, and it ain't good. The movie adaptation of League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, Alan Moore's phenomenal graphic novel, is going ahead... and they're ruining it. Check out The Last Comic Site's rant on the topic and mourn with me, my friends.

The Canadian women's Olympic curling team lost last night in the semi-final round to Great Britain. Now they'll play for the bronze. Seems a pity when they've demonstrated that they're obviously the strongest team in attendance. And how about the Canadian men's hockey team? Way to pull up your socks, gents!

The Gondoliers is opening tonight - wish I was enjoying myself just a teensy bit more. I'm getting rather frustrated with the chorus' apparent lack of dedication to the project. Ah well; the magic of theatre means the audience will never know. It's a truly terrific show, and light years beyond what the society has pulled off before. Our new stage director, Corey Castle, is gods-sent, and I adore him. I just hope we haven't frightened him off...

Curse You, Tom Allen

Tom Allen of CBC Radio 2’s Music and Company is insidious. He remarked that the show-stopping tenor aria La donna è mobile sounded tricky to sing because you could so easily slip into It’s Howdy Doody Time.

AAAGH!

Now, I dislike Verdi's La donna è mobile to begin with. Apart from being derogatory towards over half the planet's population, it ranks up there with the opening movement to Beethoven’s 5th Symphony, Mozart’s Eine kleine Nachtmusik, and Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. They’re all overplayed, and as a result I can’t stand them. I can appreciate their genius, the mastery over the medium and all that, but the fact that people never get past them to discover other wonderful examples of symphonic or chamber triumph bothers me. What also rots my socks is that it’s a closed loop – people like them so the music gets played a lot, and because it gets played a lot people assume it’s good and like it.

Sigh.

So now, whenever I hear La donna è mobile, on top of gritting my teeth, I’ll have to think of Howdy Doody. Brr.

Speaking of the CBC… Lord

Speaking of the CBC… Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring (henceforth LOTR1) has thirteen Oscar nominations. Thirteen. I am of the opinion that Home Run should call Bill and me back for another Siskel & Ebert session on the merits of these nominations. Heck, they should just give us our own show.

Oscar Nominations

Woo-hoo! The Oscar nominations are up! Normally I couldn't give a damn, but this will be an interesting year, what with all the animated movies and films-based-on-fantasy-books-that-were-fine-on-their-own-merit that were released. I have conflicting emotions concerning movie adaptations. On one hand, they completely destroy the book (oh, come on, you know it's true); even if the adaptation is "faithful" you can never go back to the book and read it the way you read it before a director, set of actors, and set designers interpreted it and sold it to squintillions of viewers. On the other hand, however, sales of the original book go skyrocketing, which can only do people good. The world should read more. (We will not, I repeat, WILL NOT discuss movie covers on books. Hold me back.)

Anywhats. Check it out.
74th Annual Academy Awards