To spring

someone’s making paella in the kitchen and it smells awesome. ahh how can i kope some? i am pretty shameless but haven’t really reached riskid levels of sidling nonchalantly into the kitchen pretending to do my dishes and doing the whole “oh! what are you cooking? mmm it smells delicious *PREGNANT PAUSE + PUPPY DOG EYES = BIG HINT*” spiel.

alexandre tharaud today was bit of a hit and miss. his fingers looked so plasticky and.. botoxed. if one’s fingers can be botoxed. he did the scarlatti beautifully (but i hate scarlatti) and also the couperin but then he’s french. the chopin though was a whole other kettle of fish. the ballade was not intense enough and why on earth is he choosing such clichéd pieces if he can’t pull them off? even if you can pull them off, you only choose things like the g minor ballade or the Eb nocturne (seriously??) if you can claim to have one of the best interpretations. spose i am spoilt by li yundi.

but he made me feel like playing chopin again. not that i am not, am working on the ocean (what was incessantly running through my head in york even though i was nowhere near an ocean).

i wish for a communal piano. my communal piano. not a poky 50 yr old steinway in a poky dorm for common use; i want my piano, he that communes with me, that talks to me and i to him. he who has reached into the depths of my being and woven my memories into music without saying a thing-
but singing.
singing!
of inarticulable feelings, of old loves, of seasons of mist and mellow fruitlessness!

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