Scooted over to Livejournal for some time, decided to come home again. What’s up with Google owning everything from Blogger to Picasa to whatever? WELL, so anyway:
October 17th, 2004
02:35 a.m. – Vengerov the boss — 2004
The first time he left me in tears, this time he left me in peals of laughter. From the very first note, the first pull, I remembered that my heart could sing. My heart could sing in tune with the delicate, robust melodies that this musician creates with bow and string, that old Stradivarius who has met its match. Beethoven, Beethoven, did you know how good your music could sound? But that’s diminishing, turning you into a Gershwin.
An old friend and a surprise for the encore(s)! Good old meditation, the pull again, then a childhood cartoon pops out onto the screen that MV has constructed, projected — that placid brown bull with a yellow flower behind his ear. Moo! Madrid! Twing! Twang! Smell the flowers!
And up close, he is gentleness personified. A singular man.
But first, the music! I remembered how my soul has a door, but the kind with hinges that work too well, the slamming, closed-up, don’t-like-what-I’ve-become-so-ignore-it-all kind.
So now, the music. Let it in. Matchless music. Mona Lisa Music. E=MC squared music. Soul music.
October 9th, 2004
08:56 p.m. – Horrible Thing for the Day
Bush’s mystery bulge.
Perfect. Who could have written such sordidness in our reality?
12:06 am – Huzzah
Yay, six minutes into Saturday, glorious, golden drop, beautiful Saturday,where no one and nothing can touch me, no one and nothing at all! Except where I choose to be touched, I suppose. No, not in that dreary way.
But, six minutes into this Saturday, where a night wind laden with the promise of rain is mixed with the bandit calls of crickets, six minutes in — this comes in: Ken Bigley is dead. [Update: A sad end.]
A pox on you, maggot-ridden politicians, louse-infested criminals. Fools, all. Those who live by the sword, die by the sword. Those who rule by hollow words, fall by the shallow graves they make — and shall answer for every lie-gored wound, every nail-shredded child, mother and father in a sure and fearful time to come. BEWARE, selfish leaders, who have forgotten their true places as servants.
October 4th, 2004
08:36 p.m. – One for the road
Here’s a charming little ditty I composed for my iBook, oh, eons ago.
To my beloved iBook SE 466 Graphite (Firewire):
I love thee for thy curvy lips, thy handle that yields security;
I love thee for thy keyboard’s softness of touch, and thy touchpad’s virginal vulnerability;
I love thee for thy beauteous screen, gleaming treasures with power and poise;
I love thee for thy Airborne ways, appearing like magic all of my days.
Not perfect, not fresh, many a scratch and bump my love has had;
“Smiles, tears, of all my life!” it’s true �
“and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.”
For some reason, things got a bit hot under the collar! But honestly, no slimey intent meant. But most shamefaced apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning. And I still think my four-year-old iBook is one of my Best. Decisions. Ever.
To go see what hole I dug to pitch this in, have a gander at “To my iBook: How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.”
October 3rd, 2004
09:52 p.m. – Before I forget or forget to bother
The wee owl on the left is an example of the burrowing owl (vood ew coll-eet “l’hibou creusant”?), or Speotyto cunicularia. No more than 20 cm (eight inches) tall, they’re tenderly cutesome and despairingly endangered. And they live in holes. This is what reading gets you — more things to worry about. All right, a mildly mouldy joke on my part. Thanks be,rather, to “Hoot” by Carl Hiaasen. The book was … oh dear, a hoot.
I’ve really gotten into this whole children’s literature gig. (1)The books are a heck of a lot easier to swallow than bl**dy”Nightwood”. (2) Real skill is involved — you can spot pretension, ignorance or sheer bad writing a mile off. Not always easy with that old “adult” hackery. Sometimes expected to exhibit all three delightful qualities to be thought of as “serious” stuff. All these bl**dy quotatation marks. (3) They’re half the price of them general/reference/trade books. Cheep, cheep.
So, hurrah for quality stuff for chillun of all ages!
And thanks to the First — Enid Blyton (the original Naughtiest Girl?). And then to the Second — Diana Wynne Jones (Stories R Moi).
09:10 p.m. – Horrible Thing for the Day
Sell your neighbour
This makes me angry. There was always this unarticulated consciousness of how things were different for men and women in everyday going-ons. Fine, everyone is different. But aged thinking and a module in feminist literary and language theory gave speech to thought, great sadness and great awareness. I don’t think that women should be militant about their and their children’s rights. But women should in the very least know what these rights are, that there is a life beyond the castle walls within which they wallow or the ditches in which they toil. The myriad places in which they shed their souls. Be informed. Be wise. Be brave. Be shrewd. But be innocent of bloodshed and harm. There has been enough of that for all time.
October 2nd, 2004
09:08 p.m. – Horrible Thing for the Day
The People of Diego Garcia
08:46 p.m. – A hole in the wall
Is this where I want to be on 2nd October 2004? But I know I’ll still be in my messed up little world wherever I go (oh the things I should never have done, not done, I’m the only one, I’m the only one). I can’t feel anything that I haven’t felt before.