What is happening to my days? But by bit time is chipped away until here it is at bedtime.
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Here is where I keep myself accountable to me for progress on projects of my passions. But yesterday I got behind and then ahead on this episode.
Sometimes I feel I make other people feel inferior through my checklist. Please don’t. I feel inferior to everyone else in that I’m sure they’re getting other stuff done that they don’t even need to report because they are so good at getting their adulting jobs done that I feel guilty not getting done or just overlook, like dishes and shampooing. The same 24 hours is all we get and we make choices of what we can do. What we need to do. And what we can’t wait to do, leaving other necessities hanging with futile hopes.
And since this blog is attached to ‘Warts and All’ I’ll start with what hasn’t gotten done. My husband asked me today why I haven’t been playing the uke, recorder, or violin. Well, I thank Mrs. Skinner for this sidetrack path straightener.
When I got sick of practicing piano and ready to quit lessons, she came up with this bait and switch. Forced practice came from Mom. But I adore my teacher. She sent me home with her ukulele. It helped so much in bringing me back to the piano.
So in hopes of keeping my music alive I tried the recorders and strings. And sure enough it worked.
When my dad was in the rest home over a decade ago, the lady in the room next to his played her piano all the time. I decided I wanted to grow up to be her, or Huge Lauri of House fame. He would sit down and just play, no sheet music just music.
I’ve been stuck with eye music since I was 5 years old. My goal this time is to learn to improvise and play. Still, there is so much to learn to get to that stage of free-playing. The other instruments help with learning chords and meandering melodies. And a change of positions. So I need to get back to them sometimes.
Duo still rides my stationary bike managing a few lessons for the half-hour 4-5 miles on #3 grade. So… There’s that.
I was going to put up a review today and totally forgot. Let’s blame the heat.
Meanwhile, I did finish the second sea turtle diamond painting. I still need to straighten and seal. But
I hope you had a great Thursday!
Is it me? There seemed no other good Snoopy puns. All seemed like this one. So maybe Facebook is trying to tell us something.
I started my revisit to playing the piano at the beginning of October last year.
At that time two of my friends were in the hospital. In my piano journal I mentioned the deep thoughts and how it might affect my “playing”. Three days later one of my friends passed away and I worried the other might join her. Outside of praying there was little I could do.
Birds sing. They just do. Creativity has to happen. Just because.
I think I started before October. But the journey back to the keys got serious then. I started keeping the piano journal then.
I remember trying to figure out how to start.
My friend and I were already working on bringing back our creative muses. She said I should make sure to say ‘play’ not ‘practice’. It has worked.
But when I started back I found I couldn’t play songs I memorized or at least conquered back when I was twelve.
It was embarrassing, depressing, in fact, to even think about some of the songs. And I had to have everyone in the house hide away while I played.
At first I would play for five minutes. My anxiety was so high.
I’d play far easier things or sight read what might be easy.
Early on I looked at the Shirley Temple Songbook and felt that there was no chance I’d get the rhythm. Modern rhythms, syncopation. Bane of my existence.
Well, I finally got brave and started hitting the Songbook.
Still missing my Michele. But glad Yvensong is better.
The Lightning Stenography Device by M.F. Sullivan
My rating: 3 of 5 stars
Well, that was a trip. And if it wasn’t interesting in some places, making me think about some ideas expressed, I’d say it was hours I’d never get back.
I want to thank NetGalley for letting me read this one. It was worth the thoughts.
The idea of a machine that could write for you without spell check and fumbling fingers seemed unique, until I realized that the paralyzed people already had that kind of thinking machine.
The Lightning Stenography Device, shortens to LSD. Drug use is implied often. And that kind of lucid writing, as if from an impaired writer, rambles forth. Many deep philosophical views are turned into sagas of gods and angst.
Mostly, this felt like an anthology of short stories tied loosely together. Just not my kind of book.
As a child my mother wanted me to have curly hair. She or my aunt gave me perms. Ugh! I hated it! And it took forever to grow out. It wasn’t so much curly as frizzy.
In sixth grade I had a thing for Shirley Temple. I used those pink sponge rollers, or mom would use rags to curl my hair into those ringlets. I loved Ms. Temples songs, shows, and dances.
My teen years found me using coke, orange juice, or coffee cans as rollers as Cher straight hair was in. I couldn’t find pics, sorry.
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
This Time Next Year We’ll Be Laughing by Jacqueline Winspear
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
This has to be my favorite memoir. I love how Jacqueline Winspear takes us through her life. It is perfect in that she does her own narration.
If you were lucky enough to read or listen to the Maisie Dobbs series, you are rewarded in this autobiography by the glimpses of a real life beneath the fictitious murder mysteries. Ms. Winspear leads us through her childhood in England and to adulthood in Ojai, CA. We meet her family and see how their lives blended with the events in history and how they survived.
If you get the chance, Libby has this audiobook. It is a great way to ease away from the mystery series. Her life’s story helps me look at my own life and how to bring in the bits I have left out of my story without hurting others. Just tell your story. Now, if only I had a wonderful English accent!
Conclave by Robert Harris
My rating: 3 of 5 stars
The Pope died. It’s time for a new one. We’ve lived through a few of these. It is an interesting concept.
I’m not Catholic, but I have friends and family who are or have been. So I’ve always been curious. How does this work? How do they choose, especially since the church has a range of awesome and sinful? So when I saw the author on a talk show, I put the book on hold with Libby.
It was okay. For me, it was falling into a past of reading about men by men. Quite boring. But I’m glad I read it. Tiny bits of progress of thought seem to thread through this story. But I wonder if women are anything less than barefoot, pregnant witches to these self-important men. Sorry. Not sorry.
Still, these are my opinions that are changeable like the wind. Read it yourself and enjoy.
Darswords 
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