Appreciative, apologetic ramble

Wednesdays are rehearsal nights, and afterward I usually go out for a drink with a few members of the Chorus. I know I must be tired when alcohol doesn't interest me. Tonight I had cranberry juice and ginger ale.

The Chorus is getting off to an exciting start, picking up new songs faster than it used to. The group has improved a lot in the past couple years, and it's up to nearly 50 voices, the largest it has ever been. It's exciting to think that at least four LJers I know (dakoopst, bigmacbear, gmjambear and blueeyedbear (hmm, there's a pattern here)) will hear us perform at the GALA festival in Montreal next July.

Having Ray come back has strengthened the bass section. Last season Mark and I were the only ones singing bass, and we're both only low baritones.

Ray and I became good friends seven years ago but then our relationship became strained for reasons I don't need to explain, hardly can explain. Those reasons seem to have drifted into the past. I can't predict whether we'll become that close again, but the uncomfortable tension is gone. He's an interesting person, a professor at University of Waterloo. He studies enzymes and environment biology. We have many other interests in common, and I'm glad we're getting to know one another again.

I didn't plan to start writing about Chorus, but it relates to my original purpose for this post.

I have had trouble keeping up with my friends' journals the last few days. It bothers me when I don't have time to read and comment, particularly with those who comment on my journal faithfully and the few who have started nudging their way into my life outside of LJ. Sometimes, like right now, I feel like I'm getting out of touch and will never be able to get back. But eventually I always get a handle on my time again, and the feeling passes. I tend to worry about what I might have missed, but there really isn't any point.

It might seem silly of me to worry at all. Do you think I'm taking it too seriously? I don't think so. This community of writers has done more than I can express to inspire and motivate me. I do take it seriously.

At the same time I need to keep it in perspective, and not let it overrun my life.

My words are sounding more and more maudlin and disjointed. And now I think I need to go to bed.

October 2

In Guelph, fall colours have hardly started to show, except in the sumacs, of course.



This is late.

In Ontario, it is election day, and I still haven't decided, but I know who I'm not voting for, and hope we see some colours changing.

Fall reading

Months ago I bought Timothy Findley's The Headhunter, his most important novel that I haven't read yet.

For those unfamiliar with Canadian Literature, Findley was one of our most cherished living writers until he died last year; he was gay, out of the closet, and my hero. I wrote to him years ago while I was still living the straight life, after reading The Pianoman's Daughter. He sent a warm and generous reply, which I kept. If I had had the guts, I believe we might have started a correspondence. This is one of my life's regrets, that I didn't write back. By the time I met him in person four years ago he was sick and frail and I had lost my chance.

Anyway, I bought The Headhunter, but someone told me it's like a sequel to Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness, I should read that first. Of course I didn't have it, and never thought of picking it up on the rare occasion I entered a bookstore with money to spend. So Findley waited on my shelf for a year or so.

Yesterday afternoon at The Bookshelf, I saw Heart of Darkness on sale for $6.99, less than half price. It was in the same bin where I picked up The Columbia Anthology of Gay Literature a few weeks ago for $14.99, a quarter of the price of the hardback copy elsewhere in the store. I couldn't justify passing up bargains like those.