Ungkaharla
K., darling: nothing cut and pasted here!
. . . and watch me blog despite all. It's 10:30. Frankly, I've had a coffee cup full of oat and honey cereal and half a glass of partly frozen Gatorade. And this is an improvement over the heaviest ten-dime bag of BBQ corn chips and the darkest Guinness I can find. And my armpits smell like stale onions -- both of them!
But I tease you: I've been rawkin' out! What you do, see, is hop on that F-line and get off at Van Ness, stroll into that Conservatory, say hiya to Manny, and cruise on up to the fifth floor. Just for kicks, let those window seats go -- those grand pianos with a view of the setting sun -- and take the Schimmel in the practice room with the support pillar.
Take out your Ravel and try out that third movement you started Saturday morning. Damn, girl, those notes are setting up house in your fingers! A month ago there was no Ravel. Then there was a Modéré. Then there was a Menuet. Then there was an Animé. Voilà: une sonatine.
Last night in a dream I fell upon my piano teacher: "This is my piano teacher," I explained. "I love him!" and I hugged him like a tree. After my lesson (in the recital hall) I found a large classroom with a beautiful piano and worked some of the new ideas into the Ravel, then tried out the complete Beethoven sonata (Op. 10, No. 3) and the two Rachmaninoff preludes.
I also awaited a reply from the East:
East: "Have you made right by the master of might today?"
Me: "Love is sharing."
East: " . . . "
Did I break the pattern? Was there a specific answer to the East's question? Certainly there is a response to my statement . . . but where is the East's reply? Tomorrow perhaps.
. . . and watch me blog despite all. It's 10:30. Frankly, I've had a coffee cup full of oat and honey cereal and half a glass of partly frozen Gatorade. And this is an improvement over the heaviest ten-dime bag of BBQ corn chips and the darkest Guinness I can find. And my armpits smell like stale onions -- both of them!
But I tease you: I've been rawkin' out! What you do, see, is hop on that F-line and get off at Van Ness, stroll into that Conservatory, say hiya to Manny, and cruise on up to the fifth floor. Just for kicks, let those window seats go -- those grand pianos with a view of the setting sun -- and take the Schimmel in the practice room with the support pillar.
Take out your Ravel and try out that third movement you started Saturday morning. Damn, girl, those notes are setting up house in your fingers! A month ago there was no Ravel. Then there was a Modéré. Then there was a Menuet. Then there was an Animé. Voilà: une sonatine.
Last night in a dream I fell upon my piano teacher: "This is my piano teacher," I explained. "I love him!" and I hugged him like a tree. After my lesson (in the recital hall) I found a large classroom with a beautiful piano and worked some of the new ideas into the Ravel, then tried out the complete Beethoven sonata (Op. 10, No. 3) and the two Rachmaninoff preludes.
I also awaited a reply from the East:
East: "Have you made right by the master of might today?"
Me: "Love is sharing."
East: " . . . "
Did I break the pattern? Was there a specific answer to the East's question? Certainly there is a response to my statement . . . but where is the East's reply? Tomorrow perhaps.
posted by Paul G. McCurdy at 12:01 AM
2 Comments:
Vaerdeeee Intaaaah-vvvvesting!!
Just in case anyone is confused by the title of this posting: ungka'arla is also an acceptable spelling.
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