Poop soup
I added a MIDI version of my favorite song, "Les Barricades Mysterieuses" by Francois Couperin. Couperin is one of my three muses (the others are Sherlock Holmes and Terpsichore), and all four of us love sunsets. This song is a sunset put to music.
This is funny.
A very sated wren sang @ 09:06 p.m. on Sunday, February 23, 2003.
By the way . . .
It's extremely hard to blowdry one's hair when one is wearing a high-collared tuxedo shirt. At the concert I'm going to chew gum, wear striped toe socks, and stick my thumbs in my pockets.
A very aesthetically displeasing wren sang @ 12:40 p.m. on Sunday, February 23, 2003.
Damn.
Green Eyes
Every night
A black curl of woodsmoke
Shoved his way into my quilted cave
To act as a vibrating weight
That kept me from
Flying off into the stars while I slept.
Occasionally he kissed my hands.
"January is the jet lag of December, March wishes it were April, but February is its own month."
The really sad thing about our concert outfit is that I like it. It is a white tuxedo shirt with a black bow tie, a black shin-length skirt (wide in the hips so the cellist can spread her legs a bit), black knee-high socks, and shiny black shoes. This is a nerdy getup. There is no denying that. But I am a nerd in the areas of music, literature, and technology, so I fit right into it, and I look damn good in it. That's truly sad.
We're playing two bourees (easy), Eine Kleine Nachtmusik (eh), and a Bloch concerto grosso (instant death in a can, to quote Katie). I am fine - super, even - on the prelude, but the fugue . . . oh, the fugue, an exquisite piece of music, leaving me air-bowing and scraping out uneasy chords. I have to use a school viola until I either inherit the one my great-great-grandfather made or procure a fresh one from Masterhand. The one I'm using has such a rough, chalky sound and is absolutely covered in tiny chips. When bowing off the string it squeaks. Better a horrible viola than no viola at all.
I wonder what my father will think of our Bloch.
A very apprehensive wren sang @ 12:10 p.m. on Sunday, February 23, 2003.
Psyche
The first thing I have to do on Monday is to thank Mr. Wadington. I dream of Greek mythology. A green land has pirouetted its sweet way into my mind. Things are more real in their world, because the people always use fountain pens, never electronic notebooks. When will engineers stop making things all the same, and let the author's breed long for its parchment and ink? We've read books that are golden, foreign, and fair. Someday we'll write our own.
It's a live night on the local classical station so I curled up with some ginger ale to listen to the most horribly touching song I've ever heard. How can a person live . . . without language? I am made of words. Not everyone is, I know, but within my sphere of awareness, it's impossible. So after a day of nothing but mindless IMing and Spodek's History of the World, I'm going to drink my ginger ale and dip my deprived soul into The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. It's a well-deserved break, even though I love my friends and India.
Clone High quote time.
Gandhi: "That looks soo good! What's in it?"
Tyler: "Great question! Have a t-shirt!"
Gandhi: "Dude! That totally answers my question!"
A very contemplative wren sang @ 7:53 p.m. on Saturday, February 22, 2003.
Poop soup
I added a MIDI version of my favorite song, "Les Barricades Mysterieuses" by Francois Couperin. Couperin is one of my three muses (the others are Sherlock Holmes and Terpsichore), and all four of us love sunsets. This song is a sunset put to music.
This is funny.
A very sated wren sang @ 09:06 p.m. on Sunday, February 23, 2003.
By the way . . .
It's extremely hard to blowdry one's hair when one is wearing a high-collared tuxedo shirt. At the concert I'm going to chew gum, wear striped toe socks, and stick my thumbs in my pockets.
A very aesthetically displeasing wren sang @ 12:40 p.m. on Sunday, February 23, 2003.
Damn.
Green Eyes
Every night
A black curl of woodsmoke
Shoved his way into my quilted cave
To act as a vibrating weight
That kept me from
Flying off into the stars while I slept.
Occasionally he kissed my hands.
"January is the jet lag of December, March wishes it were April, but February is its own month."
The really sad thing about our concert outfit is that I like it. It is a white tuxedo shirt with a black bow tie, a black shin-length skirt (wide in the hips so the cellist can spread her legs a bit), black knee-high socks, and shiny black shoes. This is a nerdy getup. There is no denying that. But I am a nerd in the areas of music, literature, and technology, so I fit right into it, and I look damn good in it. That's truly sad.
We're playing two bourees (easy), Eine Kleine Nachtmusik (eh), and a Bloch concerto grosso (instant death in a can, to quote Katie). I am fine - super, even - on the prelude, but the fugue . . . oh, the fugue, an exquisite piece of music, leaving me air-bowing and scraping out uneasy chords. I have to use a school viola until I either inherit the one my great-great-grandfather made or procure a fresh one from Masterhand. The one I'm using has such a rough, chalky sound and is absolutely covered in tiny chips. When bowing off the string it squeaks. Better a horrible viola than no viola at all.
I wonder what my father will think of our Bloch.
A very apprehensive wren sang @ 12:10 p.m. on Sunday, February 23, 2003.
Psyche
The first thing I have to do on Monday is to thank Mr. Wadington. I dream of Greek mythology. A green land has pirouetted its sweet way into my mind. Things are more real in their world, because the people always use fountain pens, never electronic notebooks. When will engineers stop making things all the same, and let the author's breed long for its parchment and ink? We've read books that are golden, foreign, and fair. Someday we'll write our own.
It's a live night on the local classical station so I curled up with some ginger ale to listen to the most horribly touching song I've ever heard. How can a person live . . . without language? I am made of words. Not everyone is, I know, but within my sphere of awareness, it's impossible. So after a day of nothing but mindless IMing and Spodek's History of the World, I'm going to drink my ginger ale and dip my deprived soul into The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. It's a well-deserved break, even though I love my friends and India.
Clone High quote time.
Gandhi: "That looks soo good! What's in it?"
Tyler: "Great question! Have a t-shirt!"
Gandhi: "Dude! That totally answers my question!"
A very contemplative wren sang @ 7:53 p.m. on Saturday, February 22, 2003.