July 11, 2008

7:40 p.m.

Walking under the Missel Thrush

More book pictures coming soon.

I have been taping birdsongs and playing them back as a dialog with the birds. It�s great fun and a sweet way to start the day. I walked to breakfast playing my little tape recorder up to the sky, listening to the missel thrush answering its own calls.

Well, I ended up having wheat a couple of times, last night and today at lunch (they accidentally gave me pasta -- must be someone else in the kitchen today), and as far as I can tell it�s messed up my stomach pretty well. Still feels bad tonight. It makes me depressed.

I got far less done today in the book department; there was laundry to do, and trekking out to shower, and I had to entirely redo my Celebrancy brochure because when I tried to upload it on this website that�s printing it for me, it said the Word template I�d used (which was supposed to be acceptable) was wrong in all sorts of parameters. Since I don�t have Photoshop or Illustrator to download one of their templates, I had to use a premade design and put in my own text and photos. It came out very nicely (I hope), probably more elegant than it would�ve been otherwise. But it took a long time and I cursed a lot. Having a stomach ache doesn�t help. Then some booky things didn�t go so well, and now it�s time for bed and my stomach just feels like something�s eating it from inside.

This is going to be really hard in England. I really do try not to project negativity into what hasn�t happened yet, but fuck it, THIS IS GOING TO BE REALLY HARD. If I get like this every time I eat wheat, and can�t find any substitutes sometimes, I�ll be eating a grainless diet which is weird and unhealthy. And, for the record, rice pasta sucks.

A friend here said when she hit perimenopause in her late 40s, her digestion went cuckoo. Maybe it�ll subside when I hit menopause. Whee, something to look forward to.

Also I was sleepy all day. It was, however, a beautiful day, cooler and dry and sunny and breezy. I had two deer sightings and, running across the road in the dark as I came home from dinner, possibly a fox. I�m still hoping to sight the spotted fawn others have seen, but I think I�d have to get up at 5am and go to one of the fields.

That�s not terribly likely to happen, not in a premeditated way.

My cellist friend who gave me a lesson last week is leaving tomorrow. I�m inexplicably sad, unless it just means that I�m that much closer to having to leave, myself. Did I mention the lesson? (I can�t remember and I�m offline right now.) It was amazing. I loved it so much I almost cried. He said I had a surprising natural ability for it. And guess what? He�s giving me a cello.

Well, he has nine cellos, to begin with. Sometimes he buys one just for a particular tour, and then doesn�t play it any more. He might use it for parts or something. But he�s moving, and taking stock of all these big instruments, he decided there must be at least one he can do without. This one he�s giving me needs some things: a bridge, strings, endpin probably, a bow, maybe tuning pegs. It�s just the body and fretboard and end piece. But setting it up will be a lot less costly than buying a whole one, and I�m still hoping I can trade my Avalon guitar for the work, and a case.

Anyway, I�m flabbergasted and excited and touched.

In addition to being a bit melancholy and having a stomach ache that ebbs and flows.

I think I�ll give myself tomorrow off from worrying about how many books I can produce in the next two weeks... I think I�ll nap more. Maybe I�ll go to a state park and hike. I�ve been a little wrought up about a photo shoot they set up for me, and an interview on Monday about my �project� which I�m not working on (but they don�t know that); I�ve arranged for the interview to include the rest of the band, as they�ll be here that day for a performance. Together we can talk intelligently about the CD that I�m allegedly working on (but, in truth, is just about complete anyway). I declined the photo shoot, in the end, and also an opportunity to speak to a Young Music program group from a local school that is coming later. They really want to talk to the composers, I think -- the viola player, the jazz pianist, that sort of thing -- and I didn�t want to have to make the choice between pretending to be doing music here or telling them that I was making books instead. I have no idea how to speak to teenagers about what I do. I�m having a hard enough time explaining it to myself.

Delightful as my recent activity has been, I can�t help asking myself, what�s up with the music thing right now? While waiting for my new piano books to come in to the local music store, I�ve completely stopped working on the old one. Haven�t touched the djembe in two weeks. The piano stool is holding one of several stacks of handmade papers I�m using. And honestly, if we never had another gig, I think I would recover.

What this is leading me to conclude -- having mulled it over daily for some time -- is that I�m more sick of touring than I�ve been willing to admit. Our agent in England just contacted us about our next tour; not this year�s tour, in September, but the one that will come after that. She�s slotting it for February of 2010. Carol responded to her with enthusiasm. I thought, will we even still be going to England in 2010? If I never write songs again, for example. Because Carol has had writer�s block almost constantly for several years. I�m weary. My stomach hurts. And, oddly, I�m happy. I have nothing to write about.

What I may propose is to have a timetable. Like, if after the end of 2009 we�re only booking two three-month blocks of the year, and leaving the rest blank for other things. Surely I can find a way to sew my various vocations into a tinker�s living in a year and a half. If I knew how long the hardship was going to last, it would help me get through it.

The subject has been broached, between Rose and me, of my actually moving into their house after they get settled. It looks clear, by the way, that they�re intending to buy the big mansion they looked at. I haven�t heard confirmation yet but Marc seems to have been convinced, everyone loves the house, the sellers love THEM, and they�re eager to sell. Anyway, I jokingly asked Rose if I could live in their attic in exchange for cleaning the house, owing to ongoing financial difficulties. She responded by saying that, though she knew I loved my apartment and wouldn�t leave it unless I had to, she thought something could be worked out, as they would have five bedrooms to share among four people. I doubt she�s mentioned it to Marc yet, and I�ll let it go for now, as they have plenty on their plates. It wouldn�t happen before October or November anyway.

What an odd thing, to actually be contemplating leaving my beloved garret apartment, and not having paroxysms over it.

Yet I�m thinking of it as an interim move until Dar and I get our house, so that makes it more acceptable.

Of course, when the reality approaches I may break down a lot and cry, and curse the day I decided to always choose professions that were not lucrative.

My apartment! My miracle apartment! That I got a second time, by Divine appointment, along with a prophetic dream!

I�d better not think about it yet.

Tomorrow I�ll wake without an alarm, maybe miss breakfast in the Hall, but go out searching for the missel thrush instead. I hope my stomach will be better.