Sunday, May 18, 2008

"Chala, your mother sounds like an ice cream truck."

Whereupon My daughter comes around the corner into My office, studies Me for a moment, and reports back, "She isn't nearly rectangular enough."

As the Æsir and Vanir are My witnesses, the preceding incident actually happened about half an hour ago.

You see, it all started when I decided to do some intensive work on the E flat study I'm preparing for that exam in June. It's a bouncy little number, the love child of a polka and a brisk marching tune. (Think dotted eighth note with a sixteenth note chaser.)

And, as fate would have it, tonight I worked on a small section of the piece... Playing it over and over and over again. (Think lots of arpeggios in that dotted-eighth-plus-sixteenth pattern, up and down and sideways through two and a half octaves.)

I had been doing this for about five minutes when I had the ice cream truck vision. This is the season when those accursed vehicles come out of hibernation, then rampage slowly up and down suburban streets playing their siren songs... Never-ending snippets of "It's a Small World" or "Dixie" or a Mozart sonata gone terribly, terribly wrong.

Yes, I have become what I fear most: A vanilla soft-serve with rainbow sprinkles. On wheels.

But the voices in My head prefer spumoni.

(pours Herself a snoot of Glenfiddich, then cues up some Blind Guardian)

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