From the Ridiculous . . . (Lynn K)

. . . to the Sublime.

Well, sorta Sublime. But let’s start with Ridiculous, because that’s where I‘ve spent the worser part of the last two weeks. To define the location more specifically, let’s just say it should be emblazoned with a sign that reads, Abandon Dignity, All Ye Who Enter Here.

I already wrote about my colonoscopy, and I don’t intend to follow up by describing the follow-up test. Let’s just say the “prep” portion of the festivities was equally repellent, and it will require a Swat team to drag me to another medical test that involves drinking gallons of Vile Gunk and having tubes poked up my backside. Thus far, no negative results that I know of, so I remain optimistic while awaiting the final reports.

Meantime, I am awash in music. Not sure how this is connected to the recent ordeals, but after more than a dozen years not singing a note, not even in the shower, I’m trilling like a songbird on steroids.

The main event this weekend is Handel’s Messiah, for which the Pacific Academy of Ecclesiastical Music (PACEM) and the Tijuana Opera chorus are joining forces. Belatedly. We got together Wednesday night for the first time—the dress rehearsal—and it was like entering another dimension.

For one thing, the charming and no doubt gifted Mexican conductor is handsome and, um, diminutive. Almost none of us could see him. I was ensconced behind a bass player the size of an SUV, trying to catch a glimpse of the conductor’s baton through the small opening at the crook of the bass player’s elbow as he worked the frets.

Also, the tempo was nearly light speed. I like a fast Messiah, but this was beyond anything I’d ever experienced. At least we’ll get home early Saturday night. That’s when we’ll be performing in Tijuana. Tonight, under the baton our own choral director, we sing at St. Paul’s Cathedral here in San Diego, with a party afterwards. It’s much fun, really, and we all know Messiah well enough to go with the flow. I’m hoping a friend will take some pictures.

With most of week clogged up, wouldn’t you know I’d choose last night to join my local parish Loft Choir. It’s small, only a dozen singers at the rehearsal, but they’re good and do some interesting music. So now I’m singing on Sunday mornings as well.

And by Monday or Tuesday, my new guitar strings should arrive. I haven’t touched the guitar since 1984, and I never could play it worth beans. Yes, that's me in the picture, back in the day, singing (probably) "House of the Rising Sun" or "Quiet Land of Erin."

Now I’ll be starting from scratch again, even needing a buddy to restring the guitar and show me some of the basic chords. By July, I intend to be ready to torment my friends at the Romance Writers of America Conference in San Francisco. Lots of them claim to sing, including our own Sister Krissie (and she can). We shall see about the others. Hootenanny time!

Meantime, my neighbors will suffer. I’m a terrible guitar player with a really strong voice. They’ll just luuuuve me. Heh. Thea, across the street, says they won’t even hear me. Not over the beeping from the backing-up trucks at the Construction Project That Never Ends.

Oh, yes, they will. Certainly I’ll be considerate. I know how to live in a community. Nun-Life teaches you that. But when there’s been thumping and quarreling and screaming infants shooting me out of bed at 2am, well, Vengeance Will Be Mine!

And thus I make a U-Turn back to the Ridiculous . . .