(no subject)
Oh grief, sadness, silence and tears.
My bleoved and adored, admired and respected
singing teacher is dead.
To a singing teacher one always has a very special relationship.
It's more than just teaching technique, berathing, physiolgoy -
it's teaching about soul, life, values, emotions and imagination
it's about learning about yourself, your possibilities and limitations.
By doing this, you're learning to transform technique into real music.
She was a friend, a confidant
I will say no more, I won't talk about it, I'm too sad.
I can't.
After great pain a formal feeling comes--
The nerves sit ceremonious like tombs;
The stiff Heart questions--was it He that bore?
And yesterday--or centuries before?
The feet, mechanical, go round
A wooden way
Of ground, or air, or ought,
Regardless grown,
A quartz contentment, like a stone.
This is the hour of lead
Remembered if outlived,
As freezing persons recollect the snow--
First chill, then stupor, then the letting go.
(Emily Dickinson)
My bleoved and adored, admired and respected
singing teacher is dead.
To a singing teacher one always has a very special relationship.
It's more than just teaching technique, berathing, physiolgoy -
it's teaching about soul, life, values, emotions and imagination
it's about learning about yourself, your possibilities and limitations.
By doing this, you're learning to transform technique into real music.
She was a friend, a confidant
I will say no more, I won't talk about it, I'm too sad.
I can't.
After great pain a formal feeling comes--
The nerves sit ceremonious like tombs;
The stiff Heart questions--was it He that bore?
And yesterday--or centuries before?
The feet, mechanical, go round
A wooden way
Of ground, or air, or ought,
Regardless grown,
A quartz contentment, like a stone.
This is the hour of lead
Remembered if outlived,
As freezing persons recollect the snow--
First chill, then stupor, then the letting go.
(Emily Dickinson)