There is a particular tone on the D string of my son’s violin that is pure lovely. A certain timbre. The odd thing is the string is old and should be replaced, so it suggests the timbre is coming from his bowing and playing of the string.
Another peculiar thing is how the ear can be attracted to and isolate the sounds it likes and yet for whatever undulating mishap in my brain I cannot read the notes very well on the D string, better than the G string which I cannot read at all. By rights my ear should be nesting with A or E sounds since I am familiar with them on the score.
There’s something “tunnel” or cylindrical is about that rich tone of the D string.
10.59 I am not reading Cortazar. I may be too tired to read Cortazar. This is a terrible pity. But I am keeping company with Mme Agnes Varda this late evening. And I may spend the rest of my life reading that Cortazar book. It’s the kind of piece it is. There’s a lovely biting cold in the wind this night. Sharp. The temperature has dipped and the daytime highs are daytime lows. I like it when the high becomes a low. The variety keeps me pondering. Plus there have been some good old gusts. The other night I woke in the middle of a moderate storm, but it being moderate failed to keep me awake, which is very unusual for a committed storm stirrer.
I ask about Asbestos because it is likely what killed Malcolm.
Basically it was a vicious substance that also killed Christie Hennessy the singer. It was ubiquitous in garage roofs when I was a child. I remember my mother commenting on it. She was terrified of it. I can’t visualize the actual roofs anymore. I think they were slanted. I can’t recall whether you could visually identify something as Asbestos by looking at it.
It will have killed many more than Malcolm. Anyone working on building sites or demolition may have been exposed. Asbestos became dangerous when disturbed.
3.41am Reading Cortazar. Hopscotch. Between segment 6 and 7 there is a shift in perspective to the I. There may have been one hitherto, but I never noted it the way I noticed this one. My head is full of rolling Philip Glass notes. And Cortazar’s words (another book theory/ all books were one-book-less) strangely or otherwise fit his notes, strangely in that they rose me from sleep at this early hour. Outside the rain is falling in a persistent rhythm. P’haps it was the rain that roused me. I always wake if there’s a weather event. I consider this a great achievement.
I was just noticing the journey of the two book marks in this book and how the one at the back travels further than the one at the front which tiptoes.
Philip Glass just put me on the moon. I went to see him with my favourite person in the world and was transported into the outer echelons of something, some other.
Thanks to Gma for the tickets, without which I never could have lifted off.
I wonder if he realizes that small ten year old ears were listening to him. Small ears that are distinguishing their own notes in the world right now. And middle aged ears that can no longer distinguish so much, but are available and up for and very much need transportation.
Rhotic 31
Thuig mé an t-aistriúchán, ag fágáil na mná féin, tá sé beagán de na síochána agus an suaimhneas. Cén fáth go bhfuil eagla ar dhaoine go bhfuil, ar bhean féin? Mná féin?