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Despite many things: despite missing Reggie yesterday, despite the depressingly diametric opposition of Stephan's paper's thesis to what gives my life meaning, despite the abrasion of nearly any interaction with my mother today to my tooth-grinding irritation-- despite these things, now I am content. Yea, even serene.
Salad's party, or the 20 minutes we spent there on the way to the concert call, was the kind of awkward in which no one acknowledges it and it is therefore no longer awkward. And the food was amazing, so we ate, greeted and ran. I do miss late nights of philosophical maunderings with Salad, but circumstances have consipired to preclude them in recent years. I may have to offer to play cards one of these days.
The concert was a balm to my soul and a fly in my ointment all at once. Tom, the love of my academic-musical life and the reason I came to Rice, makes any experience transcendent. And then also, his dearly-beloved conducting protege, Alastair of the adorable accent and expressions. I may already have expressed my appreciation of Alastair's conducting, but let me repeat myself. He lights the focus of whatever is in range of his smile, inspiring the same joy of performance in the orchestra as the chorus. He takes the emotions of the music upon himself, languishing and blaspheming and transcending and sorrowing and proclaiming all as the music require, but focusing and reflecting back onto the performers what he feels and inducing the same feeling in us. He moves with nearly inconceivable grace; every tiny movement had its purpose, and when moved to his full capability, the interpretation was so rich and wide-ranging. As Stephan said in the car on the way back, everything he did seemed inevitable. I very much wanted to express my joy at again being part of his ensemble, but by the time he got to the reception we were no longer there, and I was feeling pretty shy anyway.
Most of the time I could use the concert to ignore the vexation at my side. It seems like she can't be doing much different, but my tolerance has apparently decayed beyond some breaking point. All the little amateurish mannerisms my mother seems not to realize she's got annoy me to an unreasonable degree. I may have just got my panties in a permanent wad about these things, but during a concert when you're onstage, you just don't fidget. You may have to move every so often, fine, but all this craning your neck to see what the horn is doing or turning to the people next to you to smile at them when something unexpected happens, or, god forbid, making comments when something goes wrong, makes me want to smack you upside the head, woman! Shut up and sit still, for the sake of the concert! Argh! I'd rather not stand next to you. And the irritation has spread outside the context of performance, too. I still get along with her fine, but all the little annoying things she does have gotten more annoying. And I'm sure she hasn't changed anything, so it must be my perception.
That's one of the few reasons I'm seriously considering Dan's living-conditions proposal. It would be a phenomenal waste of money, but it might improve my ability to deal with the allergy I seem to have developed to some of my mother's habits if I didn't live with her for awhile. And it would be cheaper by a little than living on-campus. Maybe it would improve me as a person all-around, having roommates again and being more responsible for things that have a big effect on my life, like groceries and rent and transportation. Anyway, I'm actually thinking about it.
And my serenity is furthered by the fact that I have finished my ling paper and the theory assignment is not due till Tuesday. And there is another Tom concert tomorrow night, the Mozart Solemn Vespers and Carissimi's Jephte, which will mean no more rehearsals of the evil Baroqueness in Shepherd Singers. And then the theory will be overwith, and life will be even more serene.
I've got it so good. I think about that all the time, but sometimes it's particularly overwhelming how my life seems to have come with a benediction and multitudinous opportunities, more than I could possibly by my own merit deserve.
Salad's party, or the 20 minutes we spent there on the way to the concert call, was the kind of awkward in which no one acknowledges it and it is therefore no longer awkward. And the food was amazing, so we ate, greeted and ran. I do miss late nights of philosophical maunderings with Salad, but circumstances have consipired to preclude them in recent years. I may have to offer to play cards one of these days.
The concert was a balm to my soul and a fly in my ointment all at once. Tom, the love of my academic-musical life and the reason I came to Rice, makes any experience transcendent. And then also, his dearly-beloved conducting protege, Alastair of the adorable accent and expressions. I may already have expressed my appreciation of Alastair's conducting, but let me repeat myself. He lights the focus of whatever is in range of his smile, inspiring the same joy of performance in the orchestra as the chorus. He takes the emotions of the music upon himself, languishing and blaspheming and transcending and sorrowing and proclaiming all as the music require, but focusing and reflecting back onto the performers what he feels and inducing the same feeling in us. He moves with nearly inconceivable grace; every tiny movement had its purpose, and when moved to his full capability, the interpretation was so rich and wide-ranging. As Stephan said in the car on the way back, everything he did seemed inevitable. I very much wanted to express my joy at again being part of his ensemble, but by the time he got to the reception we were no longer there, and I was feeling pretty shy anyway.
Most of the time I could use the concert to ignore the vexation at my side. It seems like she can't be doing much different, but my tolerance has apparently decayed beyond some breaking point. All the little amateurish mannerisms my mother seems not to realize she's got annoy me to an unreasonable degree. I may have just got my panties in a permanent wad about these things, but during a concert when you're onstage, you just don't fidget. You may have to move every so often, fine, but all this craning your neck to see what the horn is doing or turning to the people next to you to smile at them when something unexpected happens, or, god forbid, making comments when something goes wrong, makes me want to smack you upside the head, woman! Shut up and sit still, for the sake of the concert! Argh! I'd rather not stand next to you. And the irritation has spread outside the context of performance, too. I still get along with her fine, but all the little annoying things she does have gotten more annoying. And I'm sure she hasn't changed anything, so it must be my perception.
That's one of the few reasons I'm seriously considering Dan's living-conditions proposal. It would be a phenomenal waste of money, but it might improve my ability to deal with the allergy I seem to have developed to some of my mother's habits if I didn't live with her for awhile. And it would be cheaper by a little than living on-campus. Maybe it would improve me as a person all-around, having roommates again and being more responsible for things that have a big effect on my life, like groceries and rent and transportation. Anyway, I'm actually thinking about it.
And my serenity is furthered by the fact that I have finished my ling paper and the theory assignment is not due till Tuesday. And there is another Tom concert tomorrow night, the Mozart Solemn Vespers and Carissimi's Jephte, which will mean no more rehearsals of the evil Baroqueness in Shepherd Singers. And then the theory will be overwith, and life will be even more serene.
I've got it so good. I think about that all the time, but sometimes it's particularly overwhelming how my life seems to have come with a benediction and multitudinous opportunities, more than I could possibly by my own merit deserve.
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