Time does not stop. It is empty at the moment and full at the same time. Empty because it does not seem to indicate the direction of my life, full because, obviously, without my making an effort, without me being able, in any case, to fight against this fact, time is running out between my fingers.
Second singing lesson yesterday. I was certainly going with a lot of enthusiasm, even if some fears were coming up. A first experience often comes close to the epiphany, a revelation that ignites a fire that is often asleep for a long time. But when it comes time to continue the first effort, the pitfalls, the problems may call you to order. If it is easy to launch the first primary sounds, it must then be possible to be able to go beyond them.
He sits next to me at the choir rehearsal. He's a big guy from Central America, or from the South, I don't know anymore. He smiles at me; I ask him how he is. He takes the time to open his music bag, sighs, says to me in a sad voice as he shakes his head: "I lost a great friend this weekend."
I closed my eyes, swelled my stomach to store the air firmly, and sang. We were still only at the so-called global warming stage. The director is at the piano and leads us, from half a step to half step, to sing higher and higher. As I was still struggling with the last jolts of my cold, my voice clung to the cluttered walls of my larynx.
The day, covered with its morning greyness, appeared with more beautiful colors, early. The sky turned blue like spring. In the evening, the rehearsals of Ganymede were resumed, with Claude Debussy's Beau Soir and Paul Pierné's Les Pins, sweet melodies, marked by these delicately encoded vapors, which in no way foreshadowed the horrors of the wars to come.
She welcomes you with a beautiful kindness at the church door and climbs sharply in front of you to the organ perched very high, at the second rood chamber. She sits in front of the Casavant, rummages through his many papers, makes jokes, adjusts his flowery scarf.