Win Some

Decided the best possible use of my morning was to finish painting my bedroom, did it and bloody hell the stain is still seeping through (fourth coat, including sealer).

All I can say is that it is looking better. Better, not perfect. At least I was listening to Brahms' 2nd Piano Concerto, for no reason at all I feel intimate with it, I hear self-awareness in that music, and play, except for the finale which takes on such a different tone, like an enforced happy ending. I don't want to know more about it because I could easily be wrong, like Songs of the Auvergne, which when I finally read a translation deflated all my expectations, being as they were, "There is a shepherd on the far side of the valley, wayoh wayoh wayoh, there is a shepherd on the far side of the valley, His flock eat the grass."

Maybe it is the same with any lyrics. Carmina Burana certainly.

Not the Last Four Songs, or Ode to Joy. To me they are perfect, the music said it in perfect accord with the words.

In Sussex I would stack my favorite CDs and work through the day in my wonderful vaulted room, perfectly happy, even elevated, although I saw no-one. I often finished those days perfectly refreshed even if I had been working twelve, fourteen hours, as I was towards the end. Frustrating that I moved here just as I was getting good-sized contracts, snakes and ladders. I do love to be near my children.