I thought I was through with my illness, but alas, the pestilence is still here, reminding me of the ghost of Christmas Future. There’s a lot of moaning and chain-rattling, with a Linus-like attachment to my fuzzy blanket. If the doctor’s office will ever call me back, I’m heading there for some antibiotics and whatever else they can pump into my miserable body. But this too shall pass.

I had a moment of light yesterday, emerging from my swaddling clothes mid-afternoon to practice my flute. I found there was enough oxygen to push out some scales. If you don’t practice, you go backwards, sick or not. Some of our new spring music was in the Google drive (Carrollton Wind Ensemble), so I printed it off and had a look-see. Of course, the music is impossible, but that’s nothing new. I sometimes wonder if composers just hate flutists, because it appears so. All the squiggly noodles from the lowest to the heights belong to us. One consolation is that maybe this brain and finger work is delaying the decline of my synapses. You never know. There was a gorgeous piece, long, sprightly, full of flute zippity-do-da, and an awesome Benny Goodman compilation. My problem with that will be trying to keep myself from dancing off the stage. Who doesn’t love some amazing Big Band tunes?

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