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.
-
- rejectomorph (
flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind
Mood
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.
-
52/60-61: Things Fall Apart
Getting lost in time again, distracted and muddled, and realized I never wrote about Monday. I had been unable to have groceries fetched before the…
-
52/59: Sizzle, no Steak
So Sunday brought some rain, and now and then some wind, and for me some sleep again. No one was about, or I saw none, and after all the hours no…
-
52/58: Norm!
Friday was devoured, leaving no trace. Thursday night I slept surprisingly well, and when morning came I was repeatedly lured back to sleep by the…
- Post a new comment
- 4 comments
- Post a new comment
- 4 comments