In the deep midwinter.
7:36 p.m.
The other two know me, but I didn’t know them. One is a German exchange student who was in choir last semester, and the other is an English lit major, also in choir. The former has a lot of voice instruction under her belt, the latter absolutely no musical knowledge whatsoever. Yet they are both delightful, and I think this is going to be a good term.
The emails are still flying between the librarian, the agent, the general manager, and now the composer-in-residence. Everyone is trying to make life easier for this famous actor so that he will not pull out of the project. The funny thing is that I am included in the loop, I, the mere copyist, while my husband the composer is not. I end up forwarding my emails on to him.
My mother phoned this morning. She said she was calling because she was so very lonely. I wish I could do something. Apart from moving to Toronto to be with her, I can’t. I sometimes wonder if I shouldn’t do exactly that. Just sometimes.
When we told her before that Hubby was having a piece played by the symphony, she said she wanted to go, and we told her we would take her. Now we have decided that it would be a very bad idea. The concert is at night, when she is at her most dissociative, and she would be very confused and maybe even difficult. It would necessitate taking her home immediately after the concert, and there are festivities we want to attend. If we took her to the party, she would be stuck in a corner and get angry that she wasn’t the centre of attention. So we have decided not to tell her. When she wonders why we are in town, we’ll say that Hubby’s work brings him there, and that is the honest truth. I hate dissembling, but I don’t think we have a choice now.
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