Tra la la, tra la la la .. I bought it at a charity fete. It’s missing flats and a few majors too. It’s made of porcelain and when gently and correctly tapped, the bars of the xylophone make a lovely reverberating chime like church bells. It’s quite a lovely sound for a kids instrument.
The dilemma is that I feel a slight ping of contrition when I play them. Perhaps its because of what I wrote about yesterday, in that they are a /kids/ instrument [and I ‘should’ be getting serious and ‘more adult’ about things at my age]. Perhaps it feels like it’s because I’m playing basic songs [and the thought of practicing like I was forced to when I was a pre-teenager seems painful and constricting]; or perhaps its that the authoritative father voice still lingers after all these years telling me to do something more productive with my life. I think all of the above.
And so, I end up bringing out two book shelves hubby made to house the copious unread books I have accumulated over the years. I place a selection of Computer Arts magazines and books on typography and colour into them.
This seemed like a better and easier task to set myself than to play bad chimes on the xylophone. However, the choice of which books and magazines to put into the book shelves almost caused me a melt down – another one! I wondered how it could be that a grown woman can not only move book shelves and books in and out of a room several times [in any given month] but be at odds with which books to select for that manoeuvre to the point of a melt down!
When I’m like this, it’s as if I’m viewing someone else from above. I nod my head as I review the feelings that arose as they happened. Feelings of “what the hell am I doing this for again?”. Or,“why can’t I leave the book shelves and books as they are, in the one spot, period?”. And “what the hell, Luise! This is the third time this month you’ve moved these books in and out of the spare room into your studio. For Christ’s sake, paint, create, write, do something!”
So, that’s what I did. I came and wrote about it here. Lately, I’ve found an increasing desire to release my internal dialogue onto a page [of writing, not paint unfortunately]. Something is calling me to write down the crazy insights, the weird musings and just general boring information my subconscious acknowledges no one would likely want to read but for the sake of my existentialistic needs, I’ll do for the heck of it anyway.
I’m hoping that this somewhat aimless writing at least, will be good for a woman’s mid-life, unproductive-life crisis.