Left to which, I observed this morning, I transform into a single cube of carrot and one of broccoli embedded in a shiny tan aspic of sloth, depression, headaches, fatigue and nosebleeds; or, rather, into Julie Andrews in her dirndl on the Salzburg hillside, arms outstretched, point of view swooping from a medium close-up showing the edelweiss and the smile on Julie’s face, to a long shot revealing the amazing scenery, except it’s shot from a Nazgul, not a helicopter, and it’s not amazing scenery or even a hillside, but the inside of my house and the only sound is not music, it’s the clock ticking, and the wind outside, and the coffee machine, maybe, finishing its perk, and the PC fan, and it’s not a dirndl, it’s sweatpants and a t-shirt and this stretched-out dark grey fleece sweatshirt thing and I’m not dancing and twirling and singing, just walking from room to room opening curtains, or closing them.

Left to my own devices, I think, I neither paint nor do the collages I’d planned nor play the cello nor do extra work nor write nor get extra sleep nor exercise nor anything.

My devices are:

1. Loneliness, which I like to think does not bother me, but which I actually secretly use to enter a profound state of melancholy misery.

2. Misery, to which I think I have a certain attraction, if not addiction.
3. Catatonia, which supports the first two.
4. Wind, which the band will be playing the day I lose my mind completely. It is my least favorite weather, below freezing rain, below even fire, brimstone or toads. You can’t see it, yet it pushes your car off the road. Just like time.
5. Something else. I could continue this list, but it would sound like self pity.
6. Self pity: I wonder about this one. Is it my device? Or would stoicism and self-deprecation be? What is the relationship between the two (three)? Do they all cloud clear, non-judgemental vision of what actually is?

So I played the cello and left a little later for work. They played Maurizio Cazzati on the radio, Capriccio sopra sette note, played by Sonatori de la Gioiosa Marca, which just so totally rocked.
And it’s sunny.

scroogle

It is windy outside. The rain has stopped, I believe with little faith. It snowed this morning, the drive into work was very good at keeping everyone’s attention. The snow seems to have taken the road crews by surprise. Most of them were probably in the mountains skiing with their families, since schools in this half of the country are on vacation this week. So, being skiing, they were unable to plow the roads, including the freeway, and it took us a bit longer to get to work.

I am not on a road crew, and so must work this week. My children are off skiing with their grandparents, my wife left today on a business trip. I look forward to days like this, empty days of nothing but work and sleep and various fun hijinks, such as feeding the birds, or the cats, or walking from room to empty room, alone or with a cat in my arms that watches my face with concern as I murmur things like, just you and me buddy, or, they’ll be home Friday pal.

I always imagine it’ll be more fun than it is, this time off. I’ll paint, I tell myself. I’ll play unlimited cello. Now it’s nine PM and I’m already sleepy.

It’s windy outside. Gusts of wind nearly blew my little car off the road tonight. But the snow has turned to rain which means less shoveling. It might mean other things in other cultures, but in the one I inhabit it means, less shoveling.

I talked to Beta and Gamma this evening. The lifts weren’t running because it was so windy, Beta said. She didn’t sound so great but didn’t want to talk about it. Gamma was unhappy with her group at her ski school. The girls are stupid and also all left by lunch, leaving her the only girl with a bunch of stupid boys.

Outside it’s windy. Inside it’s quiet, only the sound of wind and my fingers on the keyboard and the PC fan whining like an industrial washing machine.

Gaagle.

Announcing the third annual Metamorphosism St. Valentine’s Day Limerick Contest, which is actually the fifth annual contest of its kind here.

Important: entries will be disqualified if they don’t follow this year’s rules!

And here are this year’s rules:

1. Entries must be proper limericks. Limerick information here, here, here, here, here, here and here.

2. Deadline is 14 February 2006
3. Entries must be submitted to comments in this post.
4. Entries must include something. Last year they had to include references to medical pioneers, microscopic animals and skin conditions. The year before that it was psychiatrists/psychologists, the year before that philosophers. So this year, extra points will be awarded for references to hair bands, disfiguring diseases and or types of Roman gladiators.
5. I am the boss of the rules, and may change them arbitrarily as usual.

Acme Heartmaker

Beta wangled me into playing in the music school orchestra this year, rehearsals start sometime this month. They are after work this time so I have no excuse. Among the things we are set to play is part of Mozart’s um Mitridate. Hey, I said, I know someone who played that, I’ll ask her for some pointers. Of course, I said, her version might have been a bit more complicated. Maybe, said my teacher.

Meanwhile, this Romberg sonata in E-minor or something I’m learning is starting to sound like music, rather than a painful string of notes. The music, that is, is beginning to stick its head out and look around, nervously, checking if it’s safe.

Is it safe, says the music.
You bet, I say.

Alpha said last night, Hey, you’re sounding a lot better lately. A person can almost stand to listen to you.

And the cats no longer run away and we have to go sticking those xeroxed “have you seen my stripey red cat” announcements to trees when I practice.

Announcing the third annual Metamorphosism St. Valentine’s Day Limerick Contest, which is actually the fifth annual contest of its kind here.

Important: entries will be disqualified if they don’t follow this year’s rules!

Acme Heartmaker