Running Rememory

I went running this morning to break in my new running shoes. It was so ridiculously painful. I don't remember ever having this much trouble breaking a pair of shoes before, but I guess it'll just take a while. And I'm out of shape. 

Anyways, I ended up running by my middle school, and though it was way early in the morning, I saw my old band director's car in the lot and decided to stop by. I got some weird looks as I burst onto campus, sweating from nearly every bodily orifice, but I made my way to the band room, knocked my shave-and-a-haircut on the familiar door, and waited. 

Of course he was there, and we talked for a while about everything that was going on. Nothing had changed between us, even though it's been six years since I graduated, a fact I pointed out to him when he mentioned his age.

And in return, seemingly inevitably, he turned the conversation to my dating life (or lack thereof) and said I would one day marry some nice Chinese boy and have lots of babies.

I looked around for something to throw at him, but his office, as always, was spotless.

So I laughed instead and said I'd sooner bring home some white guy from the Midwest.

It was his turn to look for something to throw at me.

Yeah. Nothing's changed.

Out of all the teachers I've ever had, I owe him the most. If I hadn't had him as a band director, I would never have picked up the bassoon or the bari sax or the French horn or the clarinet. I wouldn't have survived my last two years of horrid CM testing. Worse still, I probably would have hated music for the rest of my life. I wouldn't still be running through my classical pieces to keep in shape musically. I wouldn't be piecing songs together by ear. I probably wouldn't ever have touched the piano again, much less hankered after a guitar, gotten one, and sung on stage.

He made music real, something more than triads and intervals and arpeggiated seventh chords squiggling about on staff paper. I don't know how he did it, but through those two strange, most painful middle school years, I grew up a lot, and he made sure that with music, I would never be alone.

I still enjoy the silence, the peace from time to time. Silence is good when the thoughts that fill it are warm, fuzzy things full of inconsequential thoughts and questions. I turn the music on when I start drowning. 

And when I just want someone to shut up. There's that too.

So here's to cats in a blender.

May they and all the horn sections in the world live long and prosperous lives.

Writing... Again

This is what my desk looks like right now:

Have I mentioned that I've been working on a monster of a story? This thing has nearly consumed my life. I wrote about fifty pages during this last summer session, and I wrote myself into such a tight corner (surprise, surprise!) that I decided enough was enough.

And so over the past two days, I've constructed a complete timeline. Though I should probably say timelines. This is the dangerous part of writing for me. Once I plan everything out, I usually lose interest in actually writing the darn thing because - hey, I actually know what's going to happen so why bother?

But. I'm really hoping I didn't kill all these trees for nothing. 

Besides, even with the timelines, I'm a little foggy on some bits, so I'll just write myself into and out of those messes when I get to them. But now... Now, i'm taking a break. My brain has been broiled from the inside out.

Wheels

I don't remember the last time I got so attached to a fictional character.

I was rather fond of Bartimaeus in that Jonathan Stroud's Bartimaeus (+1) Trilogy. Bartimaeus was funny. And I did enjoy being insulted by footnotes. I don't believe i would have known what footnotes were otherwise.

Aragorn, son of Arathorn, was pretty cool, too. But, boy, was that a long time ago.

I only have four Asimov books left, and I'm midway through Robots and Empire (so maybe that should be three-and-a-half books). For some reason, it absolutely gutted me that Elijah Baley wasn't at the center of this mess. I'd kind of started taking him and his Holmesian deductive powers for granted over the course of the last three books. 

Too bad that two hundred Galactic Standard Years have passed since the last one.

And yet Asimov keeps bringing him up, throwing in little flashbacks that hint at the greater half of Baley's life that was left untold, each one ending with a heavy finality that is thwarted by the next flashback, killing and reviving in one breath. It's like Baley's ghost haunts these stories. Elijah Baley was mentioned in the last book of the Foundation series, thousands and thousands of Galactic Standard Years in the fictional future of the galaxy, and yet Foundation was started several real Earth-years before Elijah Baley was ever written to life.

So, in a way, Lije Baley never really dies, just as Daneel Olivaw never really lives.

I guess there's comfort in knowing that. Always the wheels of time spin forward, yet to the eye, they backwards sometimes turn.