Monday, March 26, 2012
The bits when they weren't playing were good, a few of the Vivaldi concertos for two violins were quite nice and the Telemann Don Quixote also very lively and warm. But then the recorders kept coming back for more, the tall guy pulling out all the stops and playing a solo that was the Baroque equivalent of Hendrix wowing the audience. It was very impressive in its difficulty and execution I know, but it was all I could do not to rush the stage with my program and papercut his lip. Later on the whole thing became quite amusing when they were both playing flesh-coloured thicker alto recorders with bulbous, creamy tips. I'd never noticed what they looked like before and the enthusiastic bouncing and swaying almost brought on a giggle fit that would have had me kicked out of the hall. If my ears had not been bleeding, I'm sure I would not have made it through.
I am tired of living on canape classical - other than the opening children's concert I haven't been to the OSM or seen my boyfriend and the OM all season. I miss the power of a full orchestra and the kind of sound that pins you to the seat and sticks its tongue right down your throat. I'm tired of being tickled by the occasional arpeggio or fondled by a concerto grosso. I want a symphony, to be slowly seduced and teased and delighted through the opening and allegretto, heightened to a flush in the scherzo, and brought to a frenzy in the finale, breathless and gasping and spent.
I need a good symphonic you-know-what....
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Monday, March 19, 2012
And my heart is wandering from place to place looking for a solid place to land and yet rejoicing in the soft breeze that is keeping it aloft. Perhaps I will let it hover on the currents a while longer.
Friday, March 09, 2012
Part of me has turned upside down as well it seems. While I share most people's feelings of spring hope and anticipating the end of the winter, I am also moody, because I know that I am due for more change, and I am tired of negotiating with myself for it. I know what is in my heart and what isn't, and I am mad at myself for trying to justify it, waffling in the spring breeze and hoping I will suddenly wake up and everything will be different, that I will be content and sensible.
One puddle does not make a spring. There is so much beauty to see everywhere and in everyone, especially in the places where you least expect to find it. I can no more stop seeing it than I can stop breathing, and spring's light and warmth are making my eyes and heart restless for more.