I miss singing

In the past, when unable to write, I made mosaics, played the clarinet, or sang, and if not all at once then at least two. (If you`re actually reading this I will leave you to figure out the permutations.) Today I am getting back to the idea of being and doing those things I love.

The big red flag ( re missing myself) went up the other night, while watching the BBC Proms. I experienced Shostakovich in a way it would be ridiculous to ignore . The 7th symphony, `Leningrad`, moved me in in a way I can only hope all magnificent art shifts anyone ... not in a simple fashion, but by grabbing hold of whatever best imitates a collar these days, and rattling it so that the stupid skeleton goes into overclack. I sat on the edge of my seat during the first movement, and laughed, as I laugh when inexplicably airborne on a particularly cruel fairground ride which wont stop. After appreciating the humour of the composer`s Stalinist repressed but anyway gall or somesuch, I found that the violins in the fourth movement pulled me to and fro to tears, and then during the finale pushed me to a kind of terror of the soul at the idea of war, if that isnt wet being second-hand as an experience, which it may be.
Last night I played my clarinet for the first time in months. Tonight I listened to Mikis Theodorakis` musical (choral) interpretarion of Neruda`s `Canto General`, and I felt an exuberance put on hold for some time. I dunno why. Life gets in the way of remembering goodness perhaps.
The upshot of which - I miss this kind of engagement with the world. When I used to sing with the choir a kind of all-health came over or upon me, and I want that again. Engaging with music on any level is absolutely good for you. Being in/side it, is as good as this life gets.

p.s. click on the post title ... it`s a link to something beautiful and bigger