My new slinkster boy is peaking his head around the corner, weighing the Great Dangerous Unknowns of the house against an unbearable need to bump his head against something warm and responsive.
I am a beaming fool.
2 weeks, and trauma boy is venturing down the stairs, willing and alone, looking for company.
When he grinds his forehead into my calf like this, I puddle.
In other news, the kitchen is transformed. 5 weeks—almost like overnight! From robin’s egg blue stipple, to bright orange plaster. And just like that, the cabinets make sense. Not so jarring anymore. Certainly not… hideous? Dare I say… charming?
(Aah, hesitant paws reaching for my lap. What bliss.)
New Glenn Gould on the stereo. Actually old Glenn Gould (his Goldberg Variations). I’ve no great ear for Bach, but somehow Gould still manages to make my chest go tight.
And the liner notes leave me in stitches.
Indeed, this noble bass binds each variation with the inexorable assurance of its own inevitability. This structure possesses in its own right a completeness, a solidarity, which largely by virtue of the repetitive cadential motive, make it unsatisfactory for the role of a chaconne ground. It suggests nothing of the urgent longing for fulfillment which is implicit in the traditionally terse entry of a chaconne statement; rather, it volubly covers so much harmonic territory that, with the exception of the three minor-key variations (15, 21, 25) where it is made subservient to the chromatic wont of the minor tonality, there is no necessity for its offspring to explore, to realize and intensify its constructive elements.
::starry eyed—or is that glazed?::
Yes, Mr. Gould, sir.
What was that about urgent longing?
(Oh! Right over the shoulder!)