“To me, the greatest pleasure of writing is not what it is about, but the inner music that words make.”
- Truman Capote
Three things done on a Sunday:
1. A morning drive with Friend S. from a sunny day in Halifax into a wall of mist at the mid-point of the bridge spanning the harbour. The mist led us along the Darmouth side of the harbour, where we caught occasional glimpses of sun shining on the water. We stopped for awhile and zipped our jackets against the cool air, and watched the mist rippling across the grass, creating its own opaque tide.
2. An all-Tchaikovsky concert performed by this orchestra. As they played through the Romeo and Juliet Overture, the hairs on the back of my neck lifted and remained at attention for the next two hours. I imagined the entire tragedy unfolding to the music; could see Olivia Hussey’s huge green eyes from the 1968 Zeffirelli film. On to the Tchaikovsky Piano Concerto, where this musician walked onstage grinning like a kid about to have the most fun of his life. He then proceeded to drown out the orchestra in the first movement (thunder), and at the end of the last movement he stood up from the piano bench for the final passage – thunder, a coastal hurricane and the space shuttle lifting off all at once. The audience howled their appreciation. As if that weren’t enough, Tchaikovsky’s 6th Symphony, conducted by one of the great Tchaikovsky interpreters, who held the final, tragic silence for so long and so beautifully, the air crackled with electricity and emotion.
3. A magnolia blossom carefully snipped from my tree, curled in a blue china tea cup, waiting for me when I arrived home from the concert. Surrounded by its own fragrant mist.