Blatherings

So. I have an Issue that has been simmering on low heat for a while now with occasional flare-ups of righteous ire. To reduce it to essentials, I offered to do a thing, and once my offer was accepted, the terms were unilaterally changed in a really clumsy way, and I have since been seething over having to abide by the new terms and the way they were imposed. The change hasn't affected my ability to do the thing, but I'm starting to get sick of seething. I know my annoyance is justified. I also know that I have excellent reasons for soldiering on regardless. The two just aren't cancelling one another out the way I expected them to, and I'd like to get over it.

I went so far as to write up a lengthly Butthurt Check to a neutral third party, but I haven't sent it (and won't), because in the course of putting it together I realized that there's no real point other than to whine, and I've done that already and it hasn't helped. I did, however, discuss a constructive solution with Mr. 42 last night, and I feel better having done that. So here's hoping that's sufficient to put the butthurt behind me where it belongs. (<---see what I did there.)

In other news, DUDE. Bob Dylan won the Nobel Prize in Literature. I have many complicated thoughts and feelings about this. As a proponent of rhyming verse, I'm thrilled that the Nobel committee chose to honor that form and reassert its cultural and literary merit. It's kind of a poke in the eye to Academic Poetry, which largely considers itself to be post-rhyme and post-verse. I am also delighted to see song lyrics acknowledged as poetry, which honestly shouldn't be news, but apparently is to some people. During my recent flirtations with writing song lyrics, my dad sent me a rather wonderful collection of essays called The Poetics of American Song Lyrics, that's all about tying the history and techniques of poetry to popular American music, including but not limited to rock, hip hop, country, and the blues, so I'm deeply sympathetic to this argument and (like the editor and authors of the essay collection, I suspect) feeling more than a bit vindicated, especially Gordon Ball, who nominated Dylan for the Nobel back in 1996 and whose revised version of this essay about why Dylan should get the prize appears in the book.

That said, I'm kind of uncomfortable with Bob Dylan being honored because he's one of those white male artists who gets touted as a unique voice instead of lumped into a musical tradition with women and people of color. I like an awful lot of his music (though to be honest, I haven't listened to his newer stuff), particularly the sarcastic political criticism and intimately observed slices of life, but he drew (and draws) on numerous folk traditions, so between the book above and a rather on-point article from Slate about how rock and roll went from being black music to white music, musical traditions, race, and artist identity have been very much on my mind.

I'm also happy to report that after a rather gleeful and informative sidetrack into design (which shall continue at a more opportune time), I'm back into writing my sshg_giftfest story with a vengeance. The last SSHG story I wrote was based on a prompt that required SS and HG on opposite sides of a prickly social issue, so there really wasn't much opportunity to develop romance (though I tried to end it in a hopeful place). I don't know if there will be rude bits in this story or not (outright smut might be a weird tonal match, but we'll see...), but I'm having a great deal of fun writing their romance this time 'round. It's different from how I usually write it, so I'm enjoying that a lot.

And in doggy health news, Giovanni is still coughing, but less frequently (boo/yay), and Mr. 42 had an inspired brainwave to add rice to Gio's prescription dog food, which has led to greatly increased consumption of said dog food. Alas, the ricey temptation proved to be too much for Hildegard, whom I strongly suspect of eating most of Gio's breakfast after I left for work yesterday, as the bowl was 3/4 full when I left and empty, having been licked clean with surgical precision (not Gio's usual MO), when Mr. 42 came downstairs. So yeah, no more free-feeding when there is a ravenous dachshund around. This Saturday marks the last day in Gio's scheudle of antibiotics, so we'll see how he's doing then and perhaps schedule a follow-up exam if the coughing persists.

Tired today. And I have tons to do at work that I don't really want to do. But I really need to make headway on this, otherwise it's gonna start interfering with my sleep again, and I already have the election for that. :P Onward and upward!

Smooches to All.

Mun42

Last week Pacific Women's Chorus had solo auditions. I was recovering from being ill and was hanging on to what remained of my voice for dear life and fighting through congested brain. I felt that I did reasonably well, considering.

The big work that everybody wanted a piece of was Franz Biebl's incandescent Ave Maria, which has three solos (alto, low soprano, high soprano) as well as a solo trio that sings throughout. I've performed the first soprano part of the trio before and love it dearly, so that's what I was shooting for, though I also auditioned for the high soprano solo and an alto solo in another piece, just for fun.

Last night, when we got to the Biebl, the director named the trio, and I wasn't in it. The gal who was selected did a beautiful job- really, the other two first sopranos are awesome, and any of us could have done it and done it well. However, I was a mite surprised when I wasn't given either of the two other soprano solos (the high one went to the other S1, which wasn't surprising, but the lower one went to someone that didn't even know it). At the risk of sounding a bit snotty, I have a good voice, am a strong musician, and have no shame, so it is unusual for me not to receive a solo when I'm confident enough in my ability to sing it well to actually audition. I had moment of amused self doubt when I thought, "I didn't sound _that_ bad last week, did I?"

It turns out that I have been assigned a solo- the R&B gospel-flavored alto solo that I tried for on a lark. In retrospect, none of the altos that I expected to try for it did, so perhaps I shouldn't have been so surprised. Still, it's about as far from my usual stylistic fare as one can get, and it's going to be so much fun to sing. I'm still laughing at myself, though. I wonder if I can request that the program read,"Mundungus42, soprano(??) solo" for the piece?

In other news, I had a crazy dream that was sort of a mix of Deathly Hallows, Bones (which I've never actually watched, but it featured grinning David Boreanaz, so "Angel" it wasn't), and Pushing Daisies. I woke up wanting to write a Harry Potter/Pushing Daisies crossover about Charles Charles, Dwight Dixon, and Ned's Dad as peacekeepers a'la the Tale of the Three Brothers to explain the mysterious watches, Ned's magical ability, what happened to the Resurrection Stone all in one fell swoop. Because really, HP and PD already have Jim Dale in common, for goodness sakes. Not that I'm writing fanfiction right now. I have three open o-fic stories that need to be finished and shopped. So if anybody likes the bunny, hop on it. I'm now thanking the powers that be that I didn't sign up for Yuletide :D

As for reading, I didn't touch "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" yesterday (I would have gotten purple paint on it) but picked it up again on the bus this morning. I really like it. It's rather whimsically structured, and I like the writing. I don't yet have a sense of why the omniscient but character-ful narrator is narrating, but I'm not going to let a minor quibble like that keep me from reading.

Right! Work!

Love to All,

Lib
Mun42

PS If anyone comes across a current news item on the subject of body hair, please link me. I promise to tell you why once I find one.

I thought I'd take a stylistic break from "Of Human Bondage" by reading Henry Miller's "Tropic of Cancer," and while it is undoubtedly a stylistic break, I'm nearing my saturation point on vaguely-arty Bohemian types living in squalor in Paris and moaning about the women they can't have. I'm only about 30 pages in, but I'm also a bit annoyed by the "I'm not going to edit this" conceit, which feels artificial. This may be the point- no idea. I try to avoid learning anything about a book before I start it, and all I knew of ToC is that there's loads of sex in it and it's considered a masterpiece. So I'll keep going and hope for an end of bedbug-picking scenes, because I get it already! Thank goodness for bluestocking79's The French Connection for reminding me of the Paris I know and love, without the lice and suicide.

Happy weekend. Northwestern beat #8 ranked Iowa at home, though we accidentally broke their quarterback in the process (ouch, sorry). The Chargers beat the Giants at home in a major karmic victory (nyah nyah, Eli!). The Brewer's Guild Festival was filled with tastiness of all sorts and people I love, our guest bathroom is now orange, I had a nice talk with my brother on his birthday, we grilled short ribs, and Mr. 42 is a love of the first water. Definitely lovely!

Much to do, as usual on a Monday. I owe about a gazillion e-mails. I will be bringing treats to Master Chorale rehearsal tonight, and I'm trying to figure out if I have time to grab a growler of beer to bring as treats. Otherwise, I'll be hitting Henry's beforehand for bulk snacks and popcorn.

Right! Best get to it, then!

Love to all,

Lib
Mun42

I was snickering to myself on the bus ride to work this morning over the following bit from W. Somerset Maugham's "Of Human Bondage."

For forty-eight hours Hayward lived in an agony of indecision. He had talked of getting occupation of this sort so long that he had not the face to refuse outright, but the thought of doing anything filled him with panic. At last he declined the offer and breathed freely.

"It would have interfered with my work," he told Philip.

"What work?" asked Philip brutally.

"My inner life," he answered.

O satire, how I love thee!

In other book news, I started reading Pat C. Wreade's "The Thirteenth Child" (kindly loaned to us by djstagemanager) last night and liked the opening so much that I read the first chapter aloud to Mr. 42. We haven't had a bedtime story in a long time. This will be fun!

While I was out sick, I managed to write about 1700 words worth of o-fic, which was nice. Figuring out where to start this puppy has been tricky. I am more grateful than I can say to miamadwyn, who mentioned that she helps keep scenes and plot arcs straight by using Post-Its on the wall. Effing brilliant!

Right! Work! Loads of it!

Love to all,

Lib
Mun42

PS A friend on the Social Networking Site that Must Not Be Named posted yesterday afternoon, "It's Wednesday! You know what that means!" I suggested burning Guy Fawkes in effigy and was quickly told off because it was still November 4th in the US. My response:

You may remember the Fifth of November
Commences at 12 GMT
The time of my post was at 12:21,
Or at 4:21 PST.

It's probably cheating to rhyme time zones, but it was too much fun to resist!