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For some reason, despite the perverse spasmodic refusal of my Mac entry-posting client to connect, the little thoughts I have persist in being compulsory to post tonight. Huf.
Unreasonable, rebellious anger manifested in a pounding rendition of the Pathetique (or at least the pathetic three pages that I can play), started after the first verse of my own personal melancholy-song was interrupted by my mom's untimely return from rehearsal. But soon she left. And I finished, though, while listening objectively to myself sing, I have to wonder it the training is wringing out the expression. It's still in a bad range for me, Memory. But then I got to be inchoately incoherent with the pounding B section of that incessant obsession, the creation of Mr. from the Beet garden (that's his name, y'know, old Ludwig).
Wow, my mad ravings have reached a new level of unintelligibility. I had Nia's poem translated by Sunday, but the I spilled water on it so I have yet to fix it and post it where she deserves to see it, let alone write down the little Middle-Earthy tunes running around in my head for it. Mrr.
Unreasonable, rebellious anger manifested in a pounding rendition of the Pathetique (or at least the pathetic three pages that I can play), started after the first verse of my own personal melancholy-song was interrupted by my mom's untimely return from rehearsal. But soon she left. And I finished, though, while listening objectively to myself sing, I have to wonder it the training is wringing out the expression. It's still in a bad range for me, Memory. But then I got to be inchoately incoherent with the pounding B section of that incessant obsession, the creation of Mr. from the Beet garden (that's his name, y'know, old Ludwig).
Wow, my mad ravings have reached a new level of unintelligibility. I had Nia's poem translated by Sunday, but the I spilled water on it so I have yet to fix it and post it where she deserves to see it, let alone write down the little Middle-Earthy tunes running around in my head for it. Mrr.
