October 7, 2014

Autumn rain, surprisingly warm on the skin. My quest to get somebody to come light the furnace is complicated by the fact that any sentence beginning with “We can’t –“ is automatically dismissed by my ear. This is a learned characteristic. So many “We can’t”’s are turned around by explanation, argument, or demanding to speak to the person next higher up that a situation when the real thing comes along I fight a little too long, with a little too much acid. But this time everybody tells the same story. Nine days turns out to be a pretty general waiting time. So, nine days it is, with space heaters heating the place (for now) more than adequately.

F borrows the truck to move tympani on Friday. It’s still not back. It’s like having kids.

Drove unnecessarily through a storm to a rehearsal at which I was not expected. Combat rehearsal, and I don’t engage in combat this time. Glad I went, though, for A was back, as MacDuff and the fight choreographer, and it was good to see him.  Good to see also was the kindness and skill with which the teachers (turned out three men were pretty adept) brought the others up to speed. Men are kind to men when they are given a chance, or some set of mind doesn’t ruin it. A’s grace and growing expertise shone out of every gesture.

Agreed to try to be the Christmas bass at Marshall Presbyterian, where there are no native basses. No serious conflict with All Souls.  A Christmas adventure. . . .