From Blogdriveinsanity.blogdrive.com
Name three musicians you want to hug, and one you don't want to hug.
not being a huggy person, I'll have to go with three members of one family
Stewart MacNeil
Kyle MacNeil
Sheumas MacNeil
Oh heck, I'd hug Lucy and Boyd Too...I don't know Ryan enough to know either way, having only spoken to him twice.
As for who i don't want to hug: Easy - Chris Andrews. I'd prefer to slit my own throat rather than hug that critter.
Hello everyone! The theme I'm going to use today is yesterday's - Accordion Day. Yes, Accordion Day.
1. Accordion - love it or hate it? Depends who's playing and what style.
2. What is your favorite accordion style? (Zydeco, polka, Irish, etc.) Cape Breton
3. Do you have a favorite accordion player? Can you even name one? Yup I can name a couple. My favourite is Stewart MacNeil.
Anyone Else noticing a theme here ;)
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Blog for Choice Day.
UPDATE I RENOUNCE THIS AND IRGE EVERY ONE TO SEEK OUT HELP AND NKT KILL YOUR BABY
Sunday, January 6, 2008
A Couple Of Memories I Iike.
A Barra's Memory
This is a memory I don't ever want to loose. It's when I gave the original Barra MacNeils angel cards. I found out recently that Lucy kept hers. :)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
And here's the second:
Like many of you on September 11,2001 I sat in horror and watched and listened as the events at the World Trade center, Washington, DC and Pennsylvania unfolded. While I had the news on, I was wrapped in a quilt that a great uncle had taken through WWI and an Aunt had wrapped herself in to listen to the reports of Pearl Harbour. I had some of my favourite music Atlantic Canadian fiddles playing up a storm - a storm of comfort and joy and hope. A dream was born that day out of the hate and despair. I decided that day that I would learn to play like the folks who gave me such comfort when the rest of the world was aching for it.
I told a friend of my dream. A few months later she bought me a fiddle and came over and gave me my first lesson. It was fun, but we both knew that we needed help to learn what we wanted to. Anne found a place called the Gaelic College in Cape Breton that had Adult only sessions and convinced me to give the place a try. ( Summer 2002)
Well, I gathered what little courage I had and we made arrangements to go. I am not a people-person to say the least, - terminally shy is a much better description and add extremely private to finish it off. I had even refused to fill out the medical forms they sent because I considered it an invasion of privacy.
Then there was my history with music teachers. Abusive was a good word for it. I still have a scar on my left hand from the eighth grade, where a teacher had hit me, and scars on my soul from other teachers. I was so scared that I lost 6 pants sizes in the two weeks preceding the trip From nervous conversations with me, Anne was sure she was going to end up going alone. She was sure that I would back out. But I am stubborn, and never more so than when my dreams are involved, so away I went, expecting two things - one, to get told I could not attend with out filling out those blasted forms and two, to get hit by the music teachers.
As we approached we heard a fiddler. Anne says there was also a bagpiper but I only heard the fiddler, his strains carried on the wind,bringing comfort and hope. I was allowed to register; to my amazement no one mentioned the missing forms. I tried to melt into the walls and Anne kept trying to tell me that all would be well. I was not as confident. After dinner there were some fellow students playing in the common area and Anne and I sat and listened. Actually I curled up and tried to become one with the couch. When someone approached and asked to sit next to me,I bolted, (literally ran from the room,) to shy to speak and too scared to do anything else. From my room I could hear the fiddlers and gathered my strength from their songs.
the next morning, I was so full of fear that I barely remember breakfast. The first class was a bodhran class. To say it did not go well would be a gross understatement. The rhythmically impaired should never try a drum class. I left in tears,almost flying from the room. I determined I would not go back . Weaving
class after that was a great relief, a craft, something I was good and gifted at. I took to it easily and did well. But I was still scared.
From the Weavers shed I could hear the other classes going on. The one that carried the easiest on the wind was the fiddle. It seemed to be wherever I turned, flowing on the wind, welling up from the earth, playing on the water and shining forth from the sun. Everywhere there were fiddles!
My last 3 classes of the day were fiddle. At lunch, I met up with Anne and we compared notes. Anne told me about her fiddle teacher from the morning class. It turned out that he would be the one who taught my first fiddle class. She told me he was nice, and that I could relax. I didn't really believe her. How wrong I was!
I walked into the class and there were two men there, one seated, one standing. I threw out to the room, "Are you Ian? and the gentleman standing up replied yes. I told him my name and he proceeded to ask what I knew - scales?, how to read?, what? I told him the only thing I knew was enough to be afraid - very afraid. He reacted as if I had hit him with my words. I could see his stomach draw in, shocked. But he only said You don't need to be afraid. (The man in the chair said, Hes a fiddler, I'm a fiddler, you're a wanna be.get over it, girlie, and he walked out.)Ian came over and sat next to me and I got my first clear look at him.
Barely 21 or 22, he still had the apple dumpling cheeks of youth and soft
blue eyes that gave away the gentleness of his nature. He spent 50 minutes a day for the next week teaching me , encouraging me and trying to give me the basics of music. He taught the same thing over and over again with out complaint, never showing how frustrating it must have been for him. He was always willing to go back and re-explain and re-demonstrate and always he had encouragement for me.
Sometimes I would ask him just to play for me. When he played there was joy and laughter and fun. He taught me to love the music and the instrument. When he played, the fiddle became a friend to converse with,rather than an enemy to fight. He loved the fiddle and he made me love it too, made me see that music is not a torment but a joy and made me want
to excel at it.
He was supposed to give me music lessons,What he gave me was much more. Gentleness, compassion and confidence. Confidence in my abilities and in the people around me. With him, I was able to make it through the week. Through him, I met folks who aided in my healing - Ian's buddy, Mac, whose gentleness came through in everything he did. Talking, dancing or just walking around, Mac greeted the world as if everyone was his friend . And there was Wendy, who taught both Anne and I and gave us much laughter in the process. And who can forget the mother of one of the men who inspired me and the staff and students who never stopped reaching out to me.
But it was Ian who taught me the most; that the gift of self and the
gift of kindness can make a world of difference to even the most hardened
of hearts. I know he made a difference to me.
This is a memory I don't ever want to loose. It's when I gave the original Barra MacNeils angel cards. I found out recently that Lucy kept hers. :)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
And here's the second:
Like many of you on September 11,2001 I sat in horror and watched and listened as the events at the World Trade center, Washington, DC and Pennsylvania unfolded. While I had the news on, I was wrapped in a quilt that a great uncle had taken through WWI and an Aunt had wrapped herself in to listen to the reports of Pearl Harbour. I had some of my favourite music Atlantic Canadian fiddles playing up a storm - a storm of comfort and joy and hope. A dream was born that day out of the hate and despair. I decided that day that I would learn to play like the folks who gave me such comfort when the rest of the world was aching for it.
I told a friend of my dream. A few months later she bought me a fiddle and came over and gave me my first lesson. It was fun, but we both knew that we needed help to learn what we wanted to. Anne found a place called the Gaelic College in Cape Breton that had Adult only sessions and convinced me to give the place a try. ( Summer 2002)
Well, I gathered what little courage I had and we made arrangements to go. I am not a people-person to say the least, - terminally shy is a much better description and add extremely private to finish it off. I had even refused to fill out the medical forms they sent because I considered it an invasion of privacy.
Then there was my history with music teachers. Abusive was a good word for it. I still have a scar on my left hand from the eighth grade, where a teacher had hit me, and scars on my soul from other teachers. I was so scared that I lost 6 pants sizes in the two weeks preceding the trip From nervous conversations with me, Anne was sure she was going to end up going alone. She was sure that I would back out. But I am stubborn, and never more so than when my dreams are involved, so away I went, expecting two things - one, to get told I could not attend with out filling out those blasted forms and two, to get hit by the music teachers.
As we approached we heard a fiddler. Anne says there was also a bagpiper but I only heard the fiddler, his strains carried on the wind,bringing comfort and hope. I was allowed to register; to my amazement no one mentioned the missing forms. I tried to melt into the walls and Anne kept trying to tell me that all would be well. I was not as confident. After dinner there were some fellow students playing in the common area and Anne and I sat and listened. Actually I curled up and tried to become one with the couch. When someone approached and asked to sit next to me,I bolted, (literally ran from the room,) to shy to speak and too scared to do anything else. From my room I could hear the fiddlers and gathered my strength from their songs.
the next morning, I was so full of fear that I barely remember breakfast. The first class was a bodhran class. To say it did not go well would be a gross understatement. The rhythmically impaired should never try a drum class. I left in tears,almost flying from the room. I determined I would not go back . Weaving
class after that was a great relief, a craft, something I was good and gifted at. I took to it easily and did well. But I was still scared.
From the Weavers shed I could hear the other classes going on. The one that carried the easiest on the wind was the fiddle. It seemed to be wherever I turned, flowing on the wind, welling up from the earth, playing on the water and shining forth from the sun. Everywhere there were fiddles!
My last 3 classes of the day were fiddle. At lunch, I met up with Anne and we compared notes. Anne told me about her fiddle teacher from the morning class. It turned out that he would be the one who taught my first fiddle class. She told me he was nice, and that I could relax. I didn't really believe her. How wrong I was!
I walked into the class and there were two men there, one seated, one standing. I threw out to the room, "Are you Ian? and the gentleman standing up replied yes. I told him my name and he proceeded to ask what I knew - scales?, how to read?, what? I told him the only thing I knew was enough to be afraid - very afraid. He reacted as if I had hit him with my words. I could see his stomach draw in, shocked. But he only said You don't need to be afraid. (The man in the chair said, Hes a fiddler, I'm a fiddler, you're a wanna be.get over it, girlie, and he walked out.)Ian came over and sat next to me and I got my first clear look at him.
Barely 21 or 22, he still had the apple dumpling cheeks of youth and soft
blue eyes that gave away the gentleness of his nature. He spent 50 minutes a day for the next week teaching me , encouraging me and trying to give me the basics of music. He taught the same thing over and over again with out complaint, never showing how frustrating it must have been for him. He was always willing to go back and re-explain and re-demonstrate and always he had encouragement for me.
Sometimes I would ask him just to play for me. When he played there was joy and laughter and fun. He taught me to love the music and the instrument. When he played, the fiddle became a friend to converse with,rather than an enemy to fight. He loved the fiddle and he made me love it too, made me see that music is not a torment but a joy and made me want
to excel at it.
He was supposed to give me music lessons,What he gave me was much more. Gentleness, compassion and confidence. Confidence in my abilities and in the people around me. With him, I was able to make it through the week. Through him, I met folks who aided in my healing - Ian's buddy, Mac, whose gentleness came through in everything he did. Talking, dancing or just walking around, Mac greeted the world as if everyone was his friend . And there was Wendy, who taught both Anne and I and gave us much laughter in the process. And who can forget the mother of one of the men who inspired me and the staff and students who never stopped reaching out to me.
But it was Ian who taught me the most; that the gift of self and the
gift of kindness can make a world of difference to even the most hardened
of hearts. I know he made a difference to me.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Happy New Year
Happy New Year a bit late. Better late than never, I guess.
Not really much to say. I finished a card for Mac.
I hope he likes it.
As I started this post I was talking to someone I thought was an old friend. She jumped on me for NOT lying to her. Fine and Dandy. I've never lied to her, I don't intend to start now. Just because someone else is playing games with you don't take it out on me. Remind me not to bother with humanity anymore.
I don't feel like writing anymore.
Happy Fucking New Year
Not really much to say. I finished a card for Mac.
I hope he likes it.
As I started this post I was talking to someone I thought was an old friend. She jumped on me for NOT lying to her. Fine and Dandy. I've never lied to her, I don't intend to start now. Just because someone else is playing games with you don't take it out on me. Remind me not to bother with humanity anymore.
I don't feel like writing anymore.
Happy Fucking New Year
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