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Long live all maidens

easy and beautiful !

Long live mature women also,

Tender and loveable and full of good labor. 

Gaudeamus Igitur

« Of Books, Music and Turkeys | Main | Tight Bods and Spiky Hair »
Thursday
Oct082009

Potentillas and Ruysdael Sky

Dear Sarah,

Can’t believe it’s almost Thanksgiving! I’m so behind with everything but I do want to comment on all your news.

James Dickson’s death struck a chord deep within me. Not that people around me are all dying, exactly, but just that talk of illness is flying at me from all directions: a neighbour, an uncle, my eldest cousin in the Netherlands fighting a terminal cancer, a close friend needing instant mastectomy, ultrasounds for this and that, MRI's. Life around me is starting to sound like Atwood's The Year of the Flood. Apocalyptic. Damn and damn!

About your moral dilemma, living each moment to the fullest or saying fuck it because we never know … well, strangely I find myself saying the ‘F’ word quite frequently these days. Don’t know why exactly. It could be while I’m driving or just … anywhere, under my breath. It’s probably that fuck has replaced shit (from the sixties) so that’s a bit of a relief! Listening to Espace Musique on the French station keeps me in line when I’m in the car. Love their World Music. There’s a plus to being in this music business. When I listen to music, I feel like it's always Old Home Week, having inevitably had some connection with the performers I'm hearing, whether it’s the Amadeus Choir, Antonin Kubalek’s pianistic pyrotechnics or a composition by John Beckwith. All there at the touch of a button. I always have company!

Hope we can get you over to Hildegarde Academy ASAP. It just isn't all exuberance as it may appear from my emails. The bright smiles, the polite door holding, the deference, all these learned behaviours are very natural to our girls for some reason. But I see the stifled yawns, the efforts at yawning (yawning becomes almost impossible when overly fatigued). Or the older girls coming in for a lesson … I'm tired. Their excuses for never having touched the piano in one whole week: I had four projects, three tests and was at my Dad's house for two days. He doesn't have a keyboard so I have to wait till I'm back at my Mom's. It's started already.

By the way, not all the men at our school are handsome. That's only in the movies. They're a total mix: guts hanging over, albeit camouflaged with freshly laundered, Downy-scented cotton T's, cell phones tucked into their belts (I always worry about testicular cancer), the beanpole set (men can be anorexic too) who never stop gorging themselves on whatever leftovers they can scrounge from lunchroom platters, and the artsy ones, the wandering nomad types, with the single earring and the look of constant bewilderment on their faces. I do have my favourites of course, one in particular with his tight bod, dynamic buns and shiny triceps (you can see them better in the hotter weather when he wears little short sleeved shirts ... also tight…). There seems to be a new crew of males on board this fall and many of the trusted, familiar faces have been efficiently replaced. 

There was a Ruysdael sky this morning as I drove to work alongside Lake Ontario: low lying North Sea clouds (my favourite) of varying greys, deep blues and charcoal. They remind me of standing on the sandy white shores of Scheveningen (near Amsterdam) where I gobbled down the Hollandse Niewe (herring) in the company of my three sisters a few years ago. The maidenhair trees are yellow and some maples already fiery. But potentillas are still in bloom in hope of new seeds. At my point in life: constant déjà vu.

By the way, don't go for the spiked hair! Stick with your classy styles. 

Till next time,                                      

Adria

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