Some time ago I swore a private oath I wouldn’t post about old age. And here I go – reluctantly, I admit – breaking that private oath.
Today is Monday, the beginning of another week. You want numbers? It’s the 4576th week of my life. A meaningless figure but not a meaningless day. Since January 2016, 8.30 on Monday morning has signalled Singing Lesson! the reaffirmation of a late yet very positive phase of my long life. Gilded gates opening on a difficult but rewarding activity which had previously seemed as impenetrable as the rationale of logarithms, a willingness to accept the fictional existence of Bilbo Baggins, or a defence of the British royal family.
Singing lessons started in my eightieth year and all of a sudden I realise that was some time ago. In the interim I’ve got older and feebler. Never has the passage of time been so evident as when I struggled to get out of bed an hour ago. The creaky structure that is my body whined and groaned.
Today, even the prospect of singing lacks encouragement. In the way of things V and I will be tackling my most difficult song yet, Der Neugierige, sixth in Schubert’s Schöne Müllerin song cycle. Yes, yes, I know. There’ve been other “most difficult” songs and now they’re merely part of the repertoire. Eventually I’ll crack this one and all will be well.
But the effort to do so will be just that little more demanding. As was getting out of bed. I re-focus on my life and see it as a race against – What? – oblivion, of course. I need to achieve and go on achieving. Until the lid on the grand piano is lowered and the stage is empty.
On. On. But more slowly. Uh, uh… On.
POST SCRIPTUM. Disregard the old-age pessimism above. V was in top form with Der Neugierige, planed out the difficulties and I sang loudly and confidently. Music is the GREATEST specific against death's imminence. I feel no more than seventy-five.
Lessons usually end with V "warming me down" (ie, familiar easy phrases). Not today. She said, "Let's just end with memories of the Schubert".
There is something amiss with your math. Either you’re 94.7 years old or you’ve been taking singing lessons for longer than stated.
ReplyDeleteMikeM: Well spotted. I confused the number of weeks in the year with my house address number. Just like Poor Ol' Joe. Now corrected. But haven't you anything else to add? This post has gone a week without response and feels shorn to the wind.
ReplyDeleteI tried to add that your postscript was a relief to read. Forgot to hit “post” I guess. I’ve felt for years that Joe is too addled for the job - and that the Dems were digging their own grave running the Biden/ Harris combo. Another good chance to be beaten by Trump - or come close enough for him to foment violence that will make Jan. 6 seem like a flash in the pan.
ReplyDeleteI'm happy that you have music, singing, and a stubborn disposition. Honestly, when you write about old age I find it interesting. It is, most certainly, something we all both hope for and dread.
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