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rejectomorphOnce again, I must make an apology. I recently stated that the planet Mars would crash into Earth, and we would all be killed. Apparently, I was misinformed. I am sorry for any distress this may have caused. I know that most of you were undoubtedly looking forward to the apocalypse, and are heartily disappointed that it failed to arrive. Had I read <http://"www.livejournal.com/users/frank/">the entrails of a goat, rather than depending on the ravings of the "scientists," I would not have falsely raised your hopes. Mea Culpa. (That's Latin for "my bad.") I promise in future to give only accurate forecasts of disaster.
While rooting through a Big Box o' CD's (one of many in my possession, as I lack space to keep all of them out) I came across something I'd forgotten I owned; Volume 2 of the complete works for solo piano by Claude Debussy, played by Jean-Yves Thibaudet. (I wonder if I also own a copy of Volume 1.) So, I've been listening to Debussy's airy, yet oddly disturbing, music, and it has put me in a mood. I know, I know: When am I not in a mood? But this is somewhat different from my standard verge-of-romantic-melancholia or pissed-at-the-perversity-of-the-world moods. This is the rarified damn, but dissatisfaction is fun mood. I look around for things to be unhappy about, just so I can enjoy them. Hey, life is crap! Isn't it great? Good thing there's no absinthe handy. I'd be quite ready to wallow in utterly self-destructive dissipation. I've come to the realization that Debussy is like one of those charming and attractive thugs with whom some people have a propensity to fall in love. My ears are probably full of the musical equivalent of spirochetes. Perhaps I ought to listen to some astringent prophylactic such as Stravinsky before sleeping, that I might not copulate with nymphs and fauns in my dreams.
While rooting through a Big Box o' CD's (one of many in my possession, as I lack space to keep all of them out) I came across something I'd forgotten I owned; Volume 2 of the complete works for solo piano by Claude Debussy, played by Jean-Yves Thibaudet. (I wonder if I also own a copy of Volume 1.) So, I've been listening to Debussy's airy, yet oddly disturbing, music, and it has put me in a mood. I know, I know: When am I not in a mood? But this is somewhat different from my standard verge-of-romantic-melancholia or pissed-at-the-perversity-of-the-world moods. This is the rarified damn, but dissatisfaction is fun mood. I look around for things to be unhappy about, just so I can enjoy them. Hey, life is crap! Isn't it great? Good thing there's no absinthe handy. I'd be quite ready to wallow in utterly self-destructive dissipation. I've come to the realization that Debussy is like one of those charming and attractive thugs with whom some people have a propensity to fall in love. My ears are probably full of the musical equivalent of spirochetes. Perhaps I ought to listen to some astringent prophylactic such as Stravinsky before sleeping, that I might not copulate with nymphs and fauns in my dreams.
