Chopin was born 213 years ago either today or March 1 depending on which calendar you use. You'll neither gain nor lose seven days either way, though some will be happy, some aggrieved, depending. It's my blog so I declare today an Egoslavian High Holy Day because (a) there's another birthday maybe-or-not Egoslavian High Holy Day scheduled for March 1 and (b) thanking my mother for piano lessons and (c) piano practice and (d) forgive me, Glenn Gould, I love love love Chopin, especially the Nocturnes. Love.
Yeah, I saw it, I said at Thursday Night Pints, it being the Charles Pierce failed attempt at Obamapostasy - it's not Obama who's bad, it's POTUS that's bad, suddenly inevitably, constitutionally bad. (And Pierce subsequently posted a boilerplate snark against McCain, in case you think his life had changed at his hush-voiced fake apostasy). I said, his argument suggests Obama has no agency just months after scolding me Obama's agency was .06% better than Romney's, my argument that Obama's agency was WAY BETTER than Romney's ability to advance MORE shittiness dismissed by Pierce as dangerously naive and silly. L said, Fuck, you hold a grudge. In December 2012 I bet a pint against ridiculously priced Amber Nyquil I'd not type .06% on this shitty blog in 2013. Oops.
Two musics washing over me, and morning asks,
which loneliness comes closest to the inky
chromatics inside you? How can I answer?
The cricket in the tarantula's cage
chirrs the next world.
Meanwhile, scraps of Chopin float
up the stairs on my wife's trilling fingers
which played me whole
worlds ago, last night, when I was buried in we.