Once more, the Naughty Sorceress is history.
10:25 p.m.
I taught a new student today with an almost-unpronounceable last name (I’ve been practising it, actually) from Africa. He was born in Rwanda, which is why he has a French first name, but his family left there because of the war, and he grew up in Kenya where the lingua franca is not French, but English. He’s a sweet guy, older than your average student (mid-20’s), and he seemed to get something out of our lesson, but he has absolutely no music background (other than a bit of solfege in high school), written notes are like chicken scratches to him, and he has serious ear/pitch coordination problems. What I found particularly interesting was that I would play an exercise for him on the piano and sing it, then ask him to do it and he would match my pitch, not the octave down as is usual for men. When I asked him to sing the lower octave, he couldn’t find the right note. Very strange. I have my work cut out for me with this one.
Hubby has applied for and been granted an interview for dean of the school of music at the first university where he ever taught (in the city where Little Princess was born, in fact). I am torn into many little pieces over this one. There is a 50/50 chance he will get this appointment, as they only shortlisted two applicants. In fact, he was invited to apply and a friend of ours who works out there called to tell him specifically that they needed a voice teacher. The advantages are that it’s a bigger school with a better quality of student (i.e. real music students, as opposed to our policy of accepting just about anyone to our programme here), there’s a graduate programme, a large faculty made of up very good musicians, and as dean, Hubby would be in a position of respect and higher earning power.
The disadvantages are that this city is still really in the middle of nowhere (it’s a two and-a-half hour drive to the next city, which really is a happening place, but it’s still in the middle of nowhere), winters are even colder than Quebec’s, and it means moving. I dread the very thought of moving. We have lived in this house for 18 years now and are very firmly entrenched. We have lots and lots of stuff. I also have friends here from whom I would be grieved to part. They are my writing group, my colleagues at the university and at belly dancing. I know I would have new colleagues, and I’d probably be able to find another writing group and a different dancing school, but I feel connected to these people. (As an aside, the lone male in our writing group is from this city to which I might be moving, his parents still residing there.)
Then there’s my mother’s situation and the incredibly bad timing of all of this as she is looking to clean out and sell her house so she can move into a residence. I just don’t need this kind of stress. I feel as though I should clone myself so I can be in several places at once. Maybe I just need to go back to the Dominican Republic for a week of sunshine. Let’s hope that’s all the solution necessary, because that, at least, is doable.
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