From 72063902ed3eb922edf84966450eee22e2525bd1 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: Madison Scott-Clary Date: Fri, 16 Oct 2020 23:08:17 -0700 Subject: [PATCH] update from sparkleup --- writing/sonata/choir.html | 1 + writing/sonata/index.html | 4 ++-- 2 files changed, 3 insertions(+), 2 deletions(-) diff --git a/writing/sonata/choir.html b/writing/sonata/choir.html index f49d7a6d2..1f5ac90aa 100644 --- a/writing/sonata/choir.html +++ b/writing/sonata/choir.html @@ -24,6 +24,7 @@

It came so much easier to me than did any other subject, too. I could dive into choir unlike Latin or history or biology. I could dive into it and be completely subsumed. He would be riding on the subway or writing formulas on the blackboard or having a meal or (as now) sitting and talking to someone across a table, and it would envelop him like a soundless tsunami, yes? I would be sitting in my chair, folder tucked down alongside it, and I would be holding my music, and my chin would be far, far too high up in the air — a fact I would not learn until later — and it would envelop me like a soundless tsunami. It would wash over and through me. I would be hollowed out and reverberating like a pipe.

It was work, I do not mean to minimize that. I would scribble notes in the music, and stammer, and get sick, and never, ever drink enough water. I would have bad days. I would hate my conductors. I would refuse to practice. I would plug my ears. I would blast Alamaailman Vasarat rather than listen to choir music. I would curse the alarm waking me up for the before-school sectionals.

But it always came so very, very easy to me.

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I flowed through the years of choir languidly. I flowed from choir to choir. Freshman choir. Sophomore year: the show choir and the madrigal choir. Concert and madrigal the next year. Concert and jazz my senior year. I flowed from one to the next with an effortless ease that maddened at least one of my friends. Maddened more, I’m sure.