Dust, moulds and mouse shit.

Tonight I attended a new and different writing group and, as always happens after I come home from one of these sessions, I am inspired to write.

I have a rehearsal on Thursday with the horn player who has invited me to sing Schubert with him and his pianist on their recital in February. As always happens after a summer of slothfulness, I get vocally out of shape. This summer I managed to get into enough shape to sing that jazz concert in August, but after that I sang nothing until last week when I realized I’d better start practising again.

On Wednesday, before we left, I warmed up and went through the Schubert. I could not sing full voice over my break. I sounded like someone with nodes. So I used this fluty, ineffectual sound that at least allowed me to hit all the right notes.

At our farmhouse there was a harmonium. I should have taken a picture of it. Alas, I did not. I was able to practise daily, pumping the pedals so the pitches would sound. Every day I got better. But every day I breathed in god knows what moulds and dust and mouse shit being exhaled by the harmonium as I pumped the bellows.

I am pleased to say that my thighs are stronger, as well as my voice. Today I sat down to the piano, sang through all my warmups and the Schubert, and felt that I would not make a fool of myself at the rehearsal on Thursday. So there. Nyah.

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