Today, a tree crew came to the brace huge cracked branch of the 100 year old willow that overhangs my yard and carport. They will return tomorrow to take down the branch.
I talked with the foreman while we watched the amazing acrobatics of the front guy who shinnied up to the top the tree then tarzaned across the gap to lasso and tether the cracked branch. Another good looking dude with mirrored shades was standing at the base of the tree, holding the end of the rope so that the man swinging above him would not hit the ground if something went awry.
Meanwhile, I talked to the boss. They were all beguilingly handsome tree men. The boss was gruff, bluff, tough, yet he knew what a bassoon was. And he spoke French. And I knew about different makes of chain saws and admitted to speaking a little bit of French. Ok, so I thought a bit about him later when I was practising.
Because, he had first asked, “What do you do?” and I promptly replied, “I’m a musician.”
As I practised, I thought wondered what he would hear if I played this French music from 1740… I played it as if he were listening and somehow that made the music new for me again, took away the tiny doubts, and I played it as if hearing it for the first time. Well, not really, but I could somehow imagine the sensation of not having any judgement beyond the initial impression of the sound.
I am bone weary — my tone feels very heavy today, if I consult my previous notes, there is hope that this too shall pass.