Make My Face the Ace of Bass

I've started practicing again. The bass, I mean. I'm working on Franchi's Introduction and Tarantelle, and I filled my orange folder with old pieces to relearn. It's been almost three years since I practiced on a daily basis and took lessons. I used to practice 3 hours a day, 15 hours a week, sometimes playing the bass for 8 hours a day between personal practice, orchestra rehearsals, folk ensemble, and jazz. Why does that seem so impossible to me now?

I've decided to give a recital before we move to Portland. July 29th is the goal, before the Lambson's yearly excursion to Lake Powell. I'm so tempted to just bail and be a vegetable all day, occasionally changing Owen's diapers and taking him on lazy walks around the neighborhood. But now I have two obligations: copy for that South Carolina mortgage website, and James Robin, my bass.

I would like to train the laziness out of myself, but so far, I can't seem to practice for more than an hour before I get distracted by . . . everything. And anything. And now I worry I'm not passionate enough about music. I can sit in front of my bass for eight hours and look beyond it to watch Arrested Development. I practice for ten minutes and think about reading another chapter of The End of Overeating with my hand dipping into the almond jar.

Last week I had a new first lesson with my former bass professor, and it went pretty well, only I made a terrible comment (referring to the analogy no less that freakin' TWICE) and it was SO terrible that I've been SO embarrassed about it--so much that I'm not sure I can even face my teacher again. Alas, we have a standing appointment on Friday mornings, so I will go back and apologize and try not to play like dirt.

[What was once here is no longer here. I rescind. I repent. But I will leave the orange juice image.]

Hardee har har.