Burns Day

In honor of the Poet of all poets:

O wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us,
An' foolish notion:
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us,
An' ev'n devotion!

Indeed.

-B.

Finally back, and it's the middle of the night

Hey, bud. Been having this monumental case of insomnia the past two weeks, which is especially bad since late night television is so rotten lately. What happened to all the movies? It's just lousy infomercials and poker. Anyway, here we are again, 2 a.m. or so, not feeling like reading. What I am doing, however, is listening to that old CD in the cardboard sleeve of Schubert's Unfinished Symphony, the one I've had since we lived in the suites at Moravian. I can't remember the last time I heard it, but god, listening to it through headphones in the middle of the night with a case of unspecified anxiety is trippy. And wonderful. Those low strings are incredibly moving, and ol' Schub always could write some nice clarinet lines... Maybe I should do this every night? Not that it is relaxing, but it acknowledges the beauty of unhappiness (or something like that--maybe I'm just full of crap and it is stupidly late and I'm stupidly bored).

I hope your own psyche is in a more peaceful state, and that you see this sometime soon. I don't know how often you check this, but I obsessively do every so often, with a sense of guilt for letting it go so long, of course. I trust all is well down there in the big city; I certainly pray so, anyway.

I suppose that is all for now: I'll try to read one of these books after the second movement ends. I also brought my Bartok string quartets upstairs with me, but I doubt that will lend itself to concentration.

Take care of you and yours,
B.