Getting ready to play Quartet for the End of Time in a few hours. So far today I have rehearsed with my trio, deposited some checks, gone to the grocery store, done laundry, organized music, and prepared a roasted beet salad and stuffed spaghetti squash for lunch. Now I'm worried, because this day has been too uneventful and well-adjusted for me to properly channel the conditions of a German POW camp.

Maybe later I'll go for a run while listening to Wagner or something.

#Messiaen #Wagner #cheerful

Exhaustion is getting home after a ten hour day (and another one the day before, and a fourteener the day before that) and collapsing into a dead sleep on the couch without even bothering to take off your shoes or pet the cat who has come to nudge and lick your face with maternal worry.

It's days like these, especially right after I wake up from one of these addling corpse naps, when I have to remind myself that I have the best job in the world, that I get to go to work every day and play Bach and Beethoven and Verdi and I get to practice and rehearse Ravel and Messiaen and learn any number of extended techniques and awesome instruments for my beloved new music ensemble, and if I'm lucky like I was today, still somehow have time to make pasta with chard and roasted tomatoes for lunch, and take out the recycling, and update this dastardly diary that 0% of the populace reads.

So I rub the sleep from my eyes and make some homemade potato salad which I've been craving all day and eat approximately half of the very large bowl of it and in my carbohydrate-induced stupor I await tomorrow's impending twelve hour day.

#pasta #music #life

Today is the Moon Festival. The weather is perfect. The sun is resplendent, the breeze carefree, the sky cloudless. All the windows in the house are thrown open, inviting the balmy autumn air and light to dance across the kitchen tiles while spaghetti sauce simmers on the stove and kale is stemmed, washed, and cooked. The hum of the washing machine mingles with outside noises: a barking dog, Mrs. Wilson's pleasant warble wafting over from next door, kids playing in the street. The cats sunbathe languorously on windowsills, lifting their heads only long enough to paw idly at the occasional passing insect.

Today is the Moon Festival, and while my mother celebrates with family and friends a world away in the jolly old PRC, my celebration will be a more solitary endeavor, punctuated by naps and rehearsals and a startling lack of moon cakes in my immediate vicinity.

Tonight, the moon will be shining bright as day, and I will curl up on the patio with a blanket, a book, and a giant mug of tea. I will briefly wonder how I could have possibly let myself be so lackadaisical as to squander away a perfect afternoon of practice time when I should have been working on the twenty-odd things I have on my plate. Then I will take a sip of tea. It will scald my tongue at first as it always does, and I will forget about my non-problems, and I will look at the moon, and I will open my book, and I will be content, because

Today is the Moon Festival.