caustic primavera
Had an awful dream last night, in which Emma Marlowe had been born with the same type of eye cancer as the little girl in my novel; of course I felt responsible. On the plus side, she was already speaking in complete sentences at seven days old.
Our family always used to celebrate Easter by eating a lot of ham. I don't know what's on the table this year; my dad's in charge. Probably some kind of vegetarian Trader Joe's meal out of the freezer, which is all right—nothing was sadder than the Christmas where my dinner was a pizza I made myself, in the toaster oven, from string cheese and a bagel.
Happened to find the complete works of Anton Webern used at PDQ; it's easier going than I expected. Everything the man wrote in his lifetime, or at least everything he graced with an opus number, fits on three CDs. The pieces are minimalist in the sense of actually being minimal, as opposed to the four-hour Philip Glass organscapes. The individual notes mean a lot more; texture rises to the forefront, and the phrases are compact, symmetrical, and enigmatic, like I Ching hexagrams. It's music to contemplate.
