September 19, 2010

Quiet Sunday evening. Spent the weekend at Lake Logan, at choir retreat. I normally hate that activity, for reasons too subterranean and complicated for me fully to understand, but I did not hate it this time. Met the new couple, Marie and Russell, both such gusts of fresh air that they alone may have levitated the weekend. Stayed up late and gossiped, which though an uneven and uncontrolled activity, includes moments of great satisfaction. The next day is a waste, but perhaps it is worth it. I realize that I have no small talk. I’ve mastered ribald blasphemy, and high discourse on art and philosophy, but nothing much in between. I can listen. Most of the people gathered in our cabin for drinks could talk about what they sang in choir in previous years with a recall and enthusiasm which left me baffled. I have been singing in choirs–well, longer than the rest of them have been alive-- and yet it never occurred to me to bring it up in conversation. I not only have no small talk, I rarely feel empowered to offer a purely personal anecdote not tied to illustrating some principle or other. The weather was perfect, the lake, which ended under our balcony, preternaturally still.