September 30, 2011

More Squeakery Freakery. And some auction comments.

 

Unnh.  Post-viral ME.  Unnnnnh.  I did make it through handbells, during which Gemma reached her crucial handbell epiphany and started ringing entire plain courses of bob minor.  I am torn between admiration and rank jealousy since it took me months and months and MONTHS to reach that stage.  I said as much (in a mild, generous tone) and she says it’s pattern recognition (which it is) and that doctors are drilled in pattern recognition.  But the best thing about it is that ringing your first plain courses of bob minor on handbells is like learning to ring your first method ‘inside’ on tower bells—if you get that far you’re probably hooked.  And we need handbell ringers. 

            I then tied myself together with string and incantations and went off to the Muddlehamptons.  One of the signs of Ravenel’s return is that they started sharp on time . . . which meant I was late.  Oops.  He was already jacking us up with his personal brand of metaphorical air pump.  Gods.  It’s not like Gordon is exactly mild-mannered but Ravenel is Ian McKellen as Magneto, only with more tunes. 

            Okay, the good news is that we’re not singing the Os Justi for the wedding.  The bad news is that the wedding is this Saturday.  I had managed to make myself believe it was next Saturday.  It’s the day after tomorrow.  About thirty-six hours.  Eeeeep.  Somebody, quick, remind me that the purpose of joining a singing group is that you SING?  Like, in PUBLIC?  Whose stupid idea was this?  And furthermore whose stupid idea was it to sing soprano, so I’m in the front frelling row?

            What we are singing is relatively straightforward*, which is to say that while I will be spending a good deal of the next thirty-six hours dragging myself through it on the piano, I can sing it, or anyway I can sing it barring the nasty business about there being an audience**.  But there is a little additional gleep, which is that we’re expected to sing the hymns—and the sopranos have a descant on the last one.***  The names of these were duly read out and everyone was nodding wisely, oh yes, we know all these . . . and I leaned out precariously over the choir rail and said in my rich American accent, pardon me, I haven’t got a clue about Anglican hymns, can you let me borrow the music?†  

*  * *

So.  The auction.  Yaaaay.  You are so fabulous.  F-A-B-U-L-O-U-S.  A few practical points:  those of you who want ordinary for-sale books, please go on ordering them.  I think SWORD is the only one I’m already out of stock on, but I’d rather not reorder till I know how many I’m going to need finally.  And it occurred to me that this is a practical-for-me way of keeping this part of the auction/sale fairly simple—ordering the correct number of extras after the 9th of October.  Even Fiona can only do so much in the keeping-me-sorted-out-and-headed-in-the-right-direction department.

            I’m also a little startled about some of the bidding.  I’d be willing to lay on (say) one or two more doodle-icious CHALICEs and DRAGONHAVENs at the top bid prices, if either or both runners-up are interested.  If the answer is ‘yes’ please let Blogmom know since she’s the one keeping track.  I will also offer another pre-Newbery first edition HERO if the runner-up felt like paying the top bid price. 

Feye:   Aaaand there goes my paycheck 

Good attitude. 

Rain.drop7:  YAY! I am so excited!!! 

Excellent attitude.

…although my compulsive, overly-competitive alter ego always shows up during auctions, and my bank account suffers for it… 

This is why I stay the ginglefrank away from eBay.  I compete with myself.  Remind me to show you my collection of knitting books some day.  

Oh well. It’s for a good cause. 

I’ve been having this fantasy of ringing a quarter peal for Everyone Who Bid on/Entered My Bell Fund Sale/Auction.  Hmmm.  You may have to wait till I can ring Grandsire Triples inside reliably

Shalea:  Going to be able to knock out a few Christmas presents, I see. 

Speaking of fantasies, this comment roused in me an immediate vision of someone pulling a doodle out of their Christmas card and saying, But . . . that looks like a muffin . . . with fangs?  

CathyR:  Just deciding where to hang my doodles, once they’re framed … 

FRAMED? 

harpergray:  I have nearly started drooling while looking over the auction and sale page!! 

It’s not a problem.  You just want a handkerchief. 

And Boyfriend has said that he will buy me something for my birthday…oh, Boyfriend…

Good Boyfriend. 

Of course, now I actually have to choose what I’d like most…a pleasant dilemma, one feels. 

Please apply the languishing, the heavy sighs, the eye rolling and the murmured phrase, oh, I just can’t decide. . . . 

abigailmm:  I requested a doodle of a hellhound lying down with head stretched up. What I had in mind . . . is what you described so beautifully earlier this summer —

Although they were in their best Ancient Hellhound God Lying Down Posture when I reappeared, where nothing on this mere mortal earth can maintain the curve of their bellies, their long straight necks have disappeared into the sky, and their bright beaming eyes are in danger of making holes in the walls.
 

I can probably do this one first because I have an excellent instinctive awareness of hellhounds which will (probably) translate onto paper and second because it’s about line and line, as previously observed, fascinates me.  But this doodle request also makes me realise, and I am therefore warning all of you, that there is a corollary to think simple which is think silly.  I’m a doodler not a, cough cough, artist, you know?  And you can get away with silly when you’re not good enough to bring off, well, art.  Beauty.   The Hellhound God Lying Down Posture is beautiful, at least to those of us susceptible to hellhound beauty.  So be a little careful what you ask.  Or brace yourself for the Doodle Version.  I could do a doodle version of the Mona Lisa, no problem.  But it wouldn’t be art.  And it wouldn’t be beautiful.

As with others, I say, produce these at whatever reasonable schedule lets you have a life. I want my doodle, but not at the expense of other important things. And thank you. 

Life?  LIFE?   I haven’t had a life in years.  I don’t seem to know what to do with one.  

               And you’re welcome.  Thank you all. †† 

* * *

* Faure’s Cantique de Jean Racine, and the first of the three Bruckner Graduals, Locus iste, which is a snip compared to the Os Justi.  They’re going to be singing all three for the Second Concert in a Row I Won’t Be in^ but I seem to have decided while I believed I was still thinking about it that I am going to keep going to practise and learn all this music for laughs.^^.  How am I going to learn to sing-with if I don’t sing-with?  I’m also frelling determined to lick Os Justi.^^^  For laughs. 

^ Although given my attitude toward my first wedding sing I find that I am not entirely sorry about this.  Also by the time they manage to schedule a concert I don’t have an ironclad excuse to get out of I will have caught up with my learning curve.  I will be not only singing-with nonchalantly, while the altos, tenors, basses and second sopranos are doing gods know what in other parts of the universe, I will also be beginning to assimilate this at practise instead of having to race home and pick out all the tricky bits on the piano—and being disastrously thrown off by all those other voices singing all those other lines at next practise. 

                Goals.  Everyone needs goals.  

^^ I can hum during the intervals of GOTTERDAMMERUNG.  While I knit.  

^^^ Maybe I’ll even manage Nadia’s suggestion, that I make them want me.  When Griselda isn’t there—as tonight—the first sopranos can use all the help they can get. 

** In thirty-eight hours.       

***  Two hundred wedding guests vs. eight sopranos.  Great.  No problem.  

† Since I don’t really read music—yet—I would need to borrow it anyway but one of the peculiarities of many—most?  Or just the ones I’ve seen?—Anglican hymnals and so far as I can tell all programmes, bulletins and orders of service^ is that they only give you the lyrics.  Do Anglican babies get a jab at birth with the vitamin K for basic hymn tunes?  How the frell are the rest of us supposed to know them?  

^ with reference to an earlier conversation about what you call the piece of paper they hand you at the church door that tells you what’s going to happen, ‘order of service’ to me has only ever meant special services, like weddings and funerals, not ordinary Sunday meetings. 

†† More tomorrow.

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