There ain�t no mountain high enough�
7:57 p.m.
The choir concert last night was the best one of all. My solo went really, really well, and some of the kids in the choir told me they got shivers from it. There was much emotional outpouring as the graduating students took the solo in the encore, tears poured freely, hugs were exchanged, bouquets of flowers were presented, as well as a bottle of scotch.
Hubby had a rather unsettling experience, however, which I heard about from the stage manager as well as him. All three nights of the concert were sold out and Hubby had not acquired a ticket beforehand. He decided he would come to the Sunday night performance, wait until everyone was seated, and then stand at the back of the balcony behind the lighting guy, if necessary. The girl who was house managing, a flutist who is a diva with an attitude, told the fellow who was ushering at the foot of the stairs to the balcony that he was to remove my husband from the hall because he didn�t have a ticket. The guy told Hubby this, saying that he was not going to do it, but that this is what the girl had said. Hubby was livid. He found her in the lobby, talking to some people, and he chewed her out in front of them, telling her this was unacceptable and disrespectful behaviour towards a professor and the chair of the department. If the manager of Place des Arts wanted to pop into the hall to watch a performance and stand at the back, do any of the ushers try to kick him out? The girl refused to be cowed, however, and there is definitely a bad aura about this, even though she was blatantly in the wrong.
The party afterwards at the pianist�s place was quite amazing. She lives in a loft above a leather-goods store on the main drag of the city, a huge, open area with wooden floors, a grand piano, and no nighttime neighbours below to be bothered by the noise. She and her sister had prepared an elaborate spread (for which we had all donated a couple of bucks apiece) and there was singing and dancing, someone always at the piano, and several people playing electric guitar and bass (including my husband on the former). I ended up leaving at about 1 a.m., taking Little Princess and a couple of her friends home, fell asleep around 2, and woke up at 6:30 this morning. I haven�t been my brightest today, obviously.
I did, however, go to Latin class where we are continuing apace translating Virgil�s version of the Orpheus story, had lunch with my daughter and her friends, taught one of my two students (the first one didn�t show up, probably due to being hungover) and went to bellydancing. After picking up the kids from karate, I am so tired, the thought of going out again to yet another student concert has me groaning. I was going to spend the evening finishing my Latin homework, the homework I didn�t get done for class today, but I fear that isn�t going to happen either.
I did have a couple of very strange dreams the night before last, though, which I forgot to record here, but which were very vivid and have stayed with me. The first one was an erotic dream in which the man lying in bed beside me was not my husband, but the singer in my daughter�s band, Ed, a young man to whom I am not sexually attracted at all but of whom I am fond in a rather maternal way only, and I just don�t understand where that came from. The second dream was equally strange, but at least understandable. I had recently dyed my hair, and it is gradually changing colour. The dark brown will not be covered by a lighter shade, so I am concentrating on making the rest of it a very dark red. It�s actually quite interesting, seeing this two-tone hair, and some people have commented that it looks as though my natural colour is the red and I am finally letting it grow in. This is rather funny, since all the hair that is turning red is actually gray.
Anyway, back to my dream. In it all the dye had washed out when I shampooed and taken with it all the colour so that what would normally be gray was now snow white. I looked at myself in the mirror and didn�t recognize the face that looked back at me. It was an old woman. I was so shocked that I had to apply new colour right then and there, and as I did, my own face emerged once more. I can only extrapolate from this dream that I am afraid either of growing old, or of changing, more likely the latter. I have kept the same �look� for all of my adult life (and my teenage years too, if truth be known), and while I have grown older and older looking, I have not compromised my style. I still have long hair, I still wear the same clothes I wore 20 years ago, I do my makeup to make myself look younger, and I have avoided excessive weight gain. Changing my hair colour is about as drastic a difference as I have made in all that time.
Well, now that I�ve got that down, I suppose I can have that nap I crave.
<~~~ * ~~~>
