I haven’t written anything here since last week. So I’m making up for it now with this, just an update and a ramble of sorts, really. Like, for good measure? Yes.
The music-writing is — how can I put it? — a bit infuriating. I could say that I’ve written a whole song. And I have: there is left-hand piano part, and a right-hand piano part; the words have their place; and at the end, it feels like it’s ended. But it sounds so obscure, and I need to completely rehash it before I see it as fit for consumption. Not to worry. I think there’s something to be salvaged. It has a hint of originality, if not a music befitting the lyrics. To be continued, I guess.
I’ve just gotten into watching Season Four of The West Wing, a U.S. political series that dramatises the fictional Bartlet (a Democrat) administration of the eponymous White House’s West wing. It’s quite gripping, is certainly funny but also intense, both emotionally and (moreso than the average television series, at least) intellectually, at points. I’m enjoying it, while using the sitting-down time to finish –wait for it! — knitting my Ravenclaw scarf. (That is, the same Ravenclaw of J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter.)
Oh yes, my friends. I started this bad-boy over a year ago, back in February ’09. I’m fairly sure it’s been untouched for an undissected year of that time, but now having finally resumed it, I’m on the final quarter of its length, and I feel that soon, it is ready to be worn (although I predict the weather will hardly be permissive, it being very almost sunny enough for shorts). Nevertheless surely soon, also, it is to be posted here, in a blog-post. No doubt late at night… laced with words inspired by an overdose of caffeine; accompanied by low-resolution photographs, stained by the sepia of dim artificial light, by which the ravenous grasp of my fist around the scarf’s neck is eerily illuminated by a timely bolt of lightning. Or none of that. But you know, those are the joys of life that we all/I live for, those nights of ecstasy when the only two flickers of life for miles/a street or two around are one’s own, and the unabated lights of the computer beneath one’s loving, gently penetrating gaze… when one feels that one has accomplished something so great, the computer absolutely has to hear about it, and I mean right now, not in the morning when the sobriety of belonging to a spent day may afford perspective to the triviality of one’s attainment. Those are the words my brain finds to feel to fit, anyway.
Back to work for now, Oliver