Scherzanda

This is a test post from , a fancy photo sharing thing.

I just set up a URL that matches my new and permanent name for this journal.  I’ve carried the old posts to the new site, and will stop posting here from now on.  I promise I won’t move the site again, even if the psycho-ex finds me!

http://afeastofreason.wordpress.com

MMMMMMMMMMMONKEYS!

My favorite sock pattern.

Not much else to report other than knitting news. I’ve got a gig in less than two weeks that’s been a source of stress because I’m putting a lot of pressure on myself to play like I’m some kind of virtuoso.

Progress with Weight Watchers is slow and steady.

The husband is working too many hours. As usual. I remember what he looks like ‘cos his picture’s on my cell phone.

I’m thinking about taking some physics classes. For fun. And math. And chemistry. Yes. For fun.

And my hair’s getting long again. This is important.

I’ve always hated rap, finding most of it devoid of real musicianship and painfully lacking in the way of anything cerebral. I have found an exception to the rule:

http://www.myspace.com/greydonsquare

It doesn’t get better than cashmere lace. I spoil myself ‘cos I’m worth it.

I’ve been practicing for a little gig playing piano music during the reception of a big fundraiser.  I’m throwing in a Chopin waltz and maybe a nocturne because that’s just how I roll, but too much of that and people will think they’re at a funeral.  I also know a lot of new age style piano music, but then it’ll sound too much like the soundtrack to Lifetime (”television for women”). Blech.

So, I’m doing some old jazz ballads and got myself a Tony Bennett and a Frank Sinatra songbook.  Well, not just that.  I’ve dropped nearly $200 on sheet music for this gig (that is a donation of my time, not a paying gig), so I could learn all sorts of fun things like Autumn Leaves and stuff from the likes of Hammerstein, Berlin, and others which I’m surprised to not have touched before.

I’m still light years behind my last instructor, and dozens upon dozens of musicians kick my ass.  But, to the average person, I sound pretty damned advanced, and that satisfies.  Most importantly, I’m truly enjoying my playing.  I’m no longer daunted by anything I come across (except some scary Liszt pieces and other things of a truly virtuoso nature).  I do wish I had better jazz and improvisational skills, but those are coming along.

My sightreading continues to improve which has been a really enjoyable experience.  I’m now able to pick up and play straight through some of the not-so-crazy-hard Chopin pieces on first try.  Not to concert perfection, but I can get through them and fudge them enough for the lay person’s ear. That means that  with dedicated practice, were I so inclined, I could polish one short Chopin piece per week.  I’m not so inclined, though, as much as I love that moody French-Polish romantic piano-poet.  Nope, these days I’m all about the show tunes, the torch songs, and things like The Girl from Ipanema.  I can now find the second inversion of a Bbmin7 without having to think AND put a Chopin-Waterfall-etude spin on it in the middle of a jazz ballad.  Couldn’t do that last year.

I’ve been depressed for over half my life. Now that I’m not, I find I write less, and what I do write does not have the kind of beauty and intensity I used to generate. I’ve been called brilliant and talented, but these traits only seem to manifest when I’m grief stricken, heartbroken, or struggling with some kind of painful disconnect from life. I think I’ll just have to enjoy happiness over creative achievement. If I’m happy and surrounded by love and only knit socks for the rest of my life, then so be it. Though, for old times sake, I thought I’d repost some of my old misery, just to show that I was once full of artistic promise. It’s hard to believe it’s been over 7 years since I’ve written a song and almost 2 years since I’ve written any interesting prose.

Anyway, here’s a repost:

My Twin

She looks like me but has no eyes. She paces the halls behind me. She is losing her hair. She has never been loved. I hear her tap and scrape her razor on my wall. Her hand is always reaching. She is filled with fear and a vile desire. She screams. She has never stopped screaming.

She is the enemy, trapped in the asylum with me. I have knocked her unconscious and locked her in a closet. I have drugged her. I have gagged her to no avail. I have kicked her till she hemorrhaged. I tried to drown her once but that only pissed her off, made her worse, made her violent.

But today I do not bind her, silence her, tie her down, or deny her. I motion toward the table and offer her a seat. I will be her amanuensis. I bear witness. There are stories in her hips she’s never told. I listen to all of them. And when I have written them down, she goes to sleep.

She has not slept in 20 years.

Heh. My stuff doesn’t seem that good, clever, or interesting to me anymore.  Too funny.

I’ve spent the past twenty minutes bawling over the death of a tiny kitten that I only new through a blog.  I don’t know why this small death has loomed so large in my consciousness.

Last week my dear friend Casy sent me a picture of my kitty Kawdy-Kat that I’d never seen before.  He’s been gone 2 years now, but something about this new image hit me with a force I’d not have expected.  I’ve grown immune to the pictures I’d been used to, but seeing him anew, a new spring of grief was tapped.

I’m still angry that he died.  I still miss his fluffy white chest and his scratchy miaow.  He should be here in Oregon with me.

If love weren’t such a part of my nature, I’d probably try to avoid it.  Loss is the price we pay for it, after all.  But, I can’t help it.  I love hard, and despite the inevitable grief, it’s worth it.  It’s the only real thing we have.  I know someday that everything I now love will no longer exist.  It just makes me love harder.

I’ve been depressed for over half my life.  Now that I’m not, I find I write less, and what I do write does not have the kind of beauty and intensity I used to generate.  I’ve been called brilliant and talented, but these traits only seem to manifest when I’m grief stricken, heartbroken, or struggling with some kind of painful disconnect from life.   I think I’ll just have to enjoy happiness over creative achievement.  If I’m happy and surrounded by love and only knit socks for the rest of my life, then so be it.   Though, for old times sake, I might repost some of my old misery, just to show that I was once full of artistic promise.

Oh simple square hand-knit dishcloth, you make me so happy.

2008 will be my most prolific knitting year ever. The 10 hours of bus-commuting weekly has been put to good use.

And now for some quotes I’ve collected this week:
“I contend that we are both atheists. I just believe in one fewer god than you do. When you understand why you dismiss all the other possible gods, you will understand why I dismiss yours.”  -Stephen Roberts

“George Bush says he speaks to god every day, and christians love him for it. If George Bush said he spoke to god through his hair dryer, they would think he was mad. I fail to see how the addition of a hair dryer makes it any more absurd.” -Unknown

“As people become more intelligent they care less for preachers and more for teachers.”  -Robert G. Ingersoll

(I’m convinced the title of this post consists of a sequence of words never before typed in the history of humanity.  I could be wrong, but I suspect I am not.)

Shell Gasoline is offering collectible micro-fiber cleaning cloths.  Collectible? Is this something someone would actually collect?

It’s up there with Jeff Foxworthy’s collectible buckets of KFC.

File under:  Stupid.