The last week or so have been dark and dreary, mostly shapeless passings of time in which I have (variously) bemoaned the accumulated years, the myriad little failures, the utter lonliness of my world, blah blah blah.
Today I hung my windchime back up. Good thing.
It's a lovely thing, a Grace Note, tuned in A minor 7/11, which is perhaps an odd chord to make me feel better. We took it down before Frances paid her visit and it's been in the front entry ever since. A minor 7/11 (you can work it out on a piano) is a favorite chord -- it speaks of sadness, as do all minor chords, but there's a wistfulness and a flavor of hope, too, probably in the 7th. It's an honest chord that sings about life's losses but tosses out good things as well. Like an Irish melody.
If you survey traditional Irish Music, you're bound to discover (sooner or later) that all Irish songs are about Love, Drinking, and Death, either singly or -- more commonly -- in some combination. You can somehow manage to write funny songs about Love, Drinking and Death, but I suspect you must be Irish to manage it. My genes remember just enough about Ireland to help me appreciate that fact, but not enough to make me drink much, which is probably just as good because I'm sure the German genes floating around with them would make me drink beer, and I can't stand the stuff. But I do like Riesling. Go figure. With my fried potatoes, thank you very much.
I've another chime that hangs in the back yard, a huge one, the longest pipe almost as tall as I am, with a more sonorous sound and a chord I can't remember without running back to check. It plays "Nyannie nyannie boo boo" when the wind is right, which can be irritating. When we clean up the back patio I'll hang it because when the wind blows the other way it sounds like church bells.
I joined a new singing group last night, a small ensemble from the Chorus who work very much like my old Ren Faire group did -- you make it up as you go. I can get into that. AND I CAN SING SOPRANO. I am so much NOT a first tenor.