The month of February and I have never gotten along well.
Some thoughts:
It really is just bad luck that every time I’ve turned on public radio in the last few days there has been a story about death. Not just reporting the facts of one or more deaths, but actually about death.
There will not be this little daylight again until sometime in October.
I am now immune to the particular viruses that have given me stomach flu and laryngitis this month. Their offspring may be mutated bastards, but I won’t be troubled by the originals.
Only a few more weeks of scraping before driving. Which digs into the composition time I’ve tried to block out for myself in the mornings.
I can’t really be expected to try to write music under these circumstances anyway. As Jennifer Jolley puts it, “why compose when you can blog?”
I’m halfway through this year’s installment of Best American Short Stories, and if they seem evenly split between love and death, that’s normal. Literature is about love and death.
February is the shortest month, and there’s a good reason for that.
There’s no pleasing singers, especially in February.
The urge to go to bed at a reasonable time and not get up until March is completely acceptable.
I am a better person for refusing to go to the Wendy’s that smells like a sewer inside. I’m not so sure about driving extra to get to the Wendy’s with the fancy Coke machine.
If I lose my voice and can’t talk in class, that might actually be an improvement.
At least I get to go to a Cleveland Orchestra concert this week. Only some of the music they’re going to play is about the pointlessness and futility of trying to master one’s own destiny. The rest is by a composer who couldn’t think of anything else to say and took the last thirty years of his life off.
Seventeen more days until March.
The idea of “nostalgia” doesn’t mix well with February. It becomes too much -algia.
And what’s the point of being nostalgic anyway? February was awful in almost any year I can think of.
It may be February, bit it isn’t Simon Kenton Winter Camp in 1989-90 over New Years. That was some horrific awfulness and a misguided idea if I ever heard one. I still can’t believe my parents paid for me to do that, and that I thought it would be fun.
It also isn’t the winter of 1999-2000. That was some Grade A awfulness, although I was at least busy that February.
And–OMEA Convention was in Cleveland this year, and I didn’t go, which is some February awfulness avoided.
Well, this is dismal, and it’s time for class. Enough griping about my first-world problems.