04 October 2018

Curious, I halt, and silent stand

—a face nor child, nor old, very calm, as of beautiful yellow-white ivory;
Young man, I think I know you—I think this face of yours is the face of the Christ himself;
Dead and divine, and brother of all, and here again he lies.
— Walt Whitman, “A Sight in Camp”

One of the signs of the changing seasons in the more northerly cities of the US, is the dissonant combination of the sandals which those ladies wear who are determined, subconsciously or not, to deny that the weather is cooling–the ladies’ sandals which are a stubborn hold-out from now-departed summer, and the annual re-emergence of the pumpkin spice thingummies over which these same ladies squee with exuberant delight.
Porridger’s Almanack (Breakfast of Ganglions)

By now, I’ve lost track of the increasing number of 2018 calls &c. to which I have submitted work, and from which I’ve only received a “No, thanks.”  (I ought really, I suppose, to send out scores enough, that I do lose count, every year.)  The latest arrived overnight.

The call for which I sent Unsteady State (Grand Lullaby) had already received 300+ scores a week before it closed.  One does not confuse the highly improbable with the impossible, of course.  But, neither shall I hold my breath.

Yesterday evening, I chopped out the very-straightforward arrangement of “The Call” (“Come, My Way, My Truth, My Life”) which I had promised to my choir.

Nine years ago today, I was modifying the trumpet solo Ur-text of The Angel Who Bears a Flaming Sword.  To my knowledge, it has never yet been performed (as a trumpet piece).

And, as if to remind me that I need to be practicing now, too, I see that four years ago today I was practicing both The Mystic Trumpeter and just what everyone was expecting.

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