Thanksgiving Thoughts: Mostly Mushy

I just looked back at last year's Thanksgiving post, and what a happily mushy post it was. I fear this one may get a bit mushy as well, so if that sort of thing annoys or offends you, turn away now...

  I feel a bit more melancholy this year -- it seems everyone does.  But late November is really the only time when I find myself missing America and that is because of Thanksgiving.  Tomorrow's the big day, and I'll be cooking and eating and drinking and cleaning and complaining throughout.  It will certainly be fun.  But it will be different this year.  This year, Number 2 Son is across the ocean, having the time of his life and his own holiday celebration with all the Guiney aunts, uncles and cousins.  Hubby and I will be here with Number 1 Son and a group of his friends.  That will be great, of course, too. 

But I always miss my family back "home" during Thanksgiving.  My parents, sisters and their families will all be together, and once again, I won't be there.  And now, we'll be missing a quarter of our little family unit here as well.  Tomorrow I will focus on how much I have to be thankful for -- and it is so very very much.  But today, I've allowed myself a bit of a wobble.

So as I was running around doing errands, I slowed down a bit.  I took the time to chat with the nice lady behind the till at the post office.  And then as I was walking out of the building, I ran into a friend who I haven't seen in, maybe, ten years.  She's the mother of the boy who became Number 1 Son's first friend after we moved here.  It was marvelous to see her and trade news, and it made me start to think about the wonders of old friends, how you can slot right back in with someone even if you haven't seen them in years.  We promised we'd get together soon, and I think we will.  But even if we don't, the connection remains. 

As I continued on my way, I noticed that the gale-force winds that have been plaguing London these past weeks had simmered down.  And when I looked up, I saw that the sky was actually blue.  Yes, blue -- not white or grey or thundery black -- blue.  Look, here's proof:

Amazing.

So I'm feeling a little better, despite my mortal fear of making gravy.  And knowing that my parents will be reading this, as they always do, I wanted to send off something their way especially, knowing that I'll be missing them and knowing that, just as much, they'll be missing me.

Happy Memories

I never thought I’d write about my childhood.

           

There were no frosty nights beneath the covers,

hungry mornings, whoring mothers, discarded needles.

I never bore tissue-rent injuries within, bone-chilled bruises without.

Instead were blissful mornings when I woke to see

ducks swimming in flooded streets

dad in the kitchen without his suit

days off at home, just because.

There were sisters, always sisters,

crawling in-between forbidden cracks,

secret soaring flights from chest to bed and back again.

Enough, ever enough,

even when there was no more to give,

dreams and love to nourish our hoped-for worlds.

How could I have wished for more?

Silly child.

                                                                Ok,  Mom.  You can stop crying now....

Music, This Time

I was feeling sorry for myself last night.  It has been a very busy, crazy couple of weeks.  I've been fighting a cold for most of it, plus I have somehow wrenched my shoulder out of place and am fitting physio appointments into everything else.  And there I was, on the tube, my violin over my back, on my way to a special orchestra rehearsal in preparation for our concert this Sunday evening.  And last night was Friday night.  Friday night!  We never have rehearsals on Friday, especially since we'll also rehearse on Sunday afternoon before the 7.30 opening notes.  But it was the only time we could meet with our soloist, so, dedicated bunch that we are, there we all were last night from 7 -10 pm, rehearsing Dvorak's Cello Concerto in B Minor.

Well, that is one of my favourite pieces in the world, and I was thrilled to see, not surprisingly, that our soloist, Jonathan Ayling, plays is magnificently.  Listening to him play would have been enough to get me out of my Friday night doldrums, I think.  But during the second movement, I had an epiphany that I wanted to share.  During a long expanse of rests, I was carried away by the emotion of the piece and I realized, "this is why I love music.  This is why I particularly love performing music."  As a writer I spend my life putting everything I see and feel into words.  Everything gets a label, a definition.  But with music, I don't do that.  What I feel while I'm playing music I don't name, don't describe, don't associate with other unrelated things.  I don't have to spell it out, explain or categorize it, rhyme it, string letters together to create some sort of onomatopoetic portrayal of it.  Music, I just feel. Presently and regardless. And it seems to be the only way I can stop all those words in my head.  So by the time I was back on the tube on my way home I felt better, and I slept better than I had all week.

So, if you are in London, do come to the concert of the Kensington Philharmonic on Sunday, 22 November at 7.30 pm, Chelsea Town Hall, Kings Road SW3.  Tickets are available at the door for £12 (£2 under twelves).  It's a wonderful all-Dvorak program including, besides the Cello Concerto, Three Slavonik Dances, and his Symphony No 9 in E Minor known as "From the New World."  I promise you'll be transported.

And if you can't come along, here's a performance of my "epiphanal" moment from the concerto's 2nd movement.  Take it away Yo Yo:

"Too Many Magpies" Takes Flight

Tuesday night saw the launch of Elizabeth Baines' new novel, Too Many Magpies.  I can't wait to read it.  It looks like a small-gem-of-a book.  Elizabeth read from the beginning, then took questions, and then read some more from the end.  The audience was so enthralled, we demanded more.

The entire evening was wonderful.  The launch was held in the Calder Bookshop in London, first founded by John Calder, friend and publisher of Samuel Becket.  The small shop is full of wonderful books which you'd only find in a small independent bookshop like this.  And at the far end is a stage, complete with a curtain and lights, where theatrical productions were held and is now the perfect venue for a reading.  Given Elizabeth's own theatrical background, this space was a perfect choice.

It was great fun for me, too, because I got to see some of my writing friends there, like Tania Hershman and Debi Alper.  And I was able to finally meet Salt Publishing's own Jen Hamilton-Emery. I must say, supporting each other's work in this way is one of the great joys of being part of this community of writers which has come together via facebook and blogging.  Not to mention the free wine.

So do go get Too Many Magpies.  Elizabeth is a wonderful writer, as anyone who has read her short story collection,  Balancing on the Edge of the World, will know.  And to get you in the mood, here's a song for you.  Not exactly about magpies, but it's still one of my favourites (thanks to peh74 for this video):