Thoughts, I guess
You want to know what I miss?
Bird song.
Odd, huh?
I miss hearing the Towhee and the black capped chickedees and the titmouses and the Blue Jays . . . heck, even the crows (and you know how I feel about them)
Anyways, I'm currently (of my own volition) listening to Impressionist Prints. Yeah, I'm surprised too. But I started to hum the bars after my solo and felt that perhaps my brain wanted me to listen to it.
Sometimes I wonder why I avoid the plethora of band music I have on my computer . . . but you and I already know that answer, don't we? I avoid it because it causes me anguish. Why? Because part of me misses playing. But my mind remembers the pressure and the stress and the times I got in trouble. My mind, as I listen to this piece, remembers the remarks made whilst playing it. I remember the elation of playing that one run and that went to a low Eb. I remember barely being able to breath when the sax solo played in the beginning of the second gallery because that meant that I had to play my solo soon. I remember the tubas and the remarks and the laughter later . . . I remember it all because it was important to me.
Eh, enough about that. My memories aren't important . . . not when most of you who read this have your own about the occasion.
Um . . .
So my schedule for March is buggered up. It's like they (Johnnie and Carolyn) closed their eyes and flipped a coin and where ever that coin fell, that's the day I worked. Hours are right, I think (I'm hoping, since Carolyn knows her stuff that the hours are indeed right) and they're at odd times, but you know what? At least I know when I'll be working.
The weather has warmed up.
I have questions and I have confusions and I'm not sure I or anyone else can answer them. I need advice, but I don't think there's anyone I can turn to in this instance.
Oh well.
I should be doing other things, I'm sure . . .
Bird song.
Odd, huh?
I miss hearing the Towhee and the black capped chickedees and the titmouses and the Blue Jays . . . heck, even the crows (and you know how I feel about them)
Anyways, I'm currently (of my own volition) listening to Impressionist Prints. Yeah, I'm surprised too. But I started to hum the bars after my solo and felt that perhaps my brain wanted me to listen to it.
Sometimes I wonder why I avoid the plethora of band music I have on my computer . . . but you and I already know that answer, don't we? I avoid it because it causes me anguish. Why? Because part of me misses playing. But my mind remembers the pressure and the stress and the times I got in trouble. My mind, as I listen to this piece, remembers the remarks made whilst playing it. I remember the elation of playing that one run and that went to a low Eb. I remember barely being able to breath when the sax solo played in the beginning of the second gallery because that meant that I had to play my solo soon. I remember the tubas and the remarks and the laughter later . . . I remember it all because it was important to me.
Eh, enough about that. My memories aren't important . . . not when most of you who read this have your own about the occasion.
Um . . .
So my schedule for March is buggered up. It's like they (Johnnie and Carolyn) closed their eyes and flipped a coin and where ever that coin fell, that's the day I worked. Hours are right, I think (I'm hoping, since Carolyn knows her stuff that the hours are indeed right) and they're at odd times, but you know what? At least I know when I'll be working.
The weather has warmed up.
I have questions and I have confusions and I'm not sure I or anyone else can answer them. I need advice, but I don't think there's anyone I can turn to in this instance.
Oh well.
I should be doing other things, I'm sure . . .