Yesterday a freezing fog hung thick all day in our area. Every outline, from twigs on trees, to blades of grass and forgotten cobwebs was individually outlined in pure white frost. While lovely to look at, it was bitterly cold; the heat was off in the house when I got home from work and I never recovered from the chill. Even today I still have a little residual shiver. I think maybe one of my houseplants got frostbite; the poor thing wilts listlessly today. The daffodils rolled over and played dead, but in the slightly warmer temperatures today (compared to yesterday it's practically balmy) they are frolicking again.
Partner got me some French piano music from the turn of the twentieth century: Satie and Debussy. The word I use to describe them: Weird. Ok, even Bach can be weird but at least when he's not making sense, he's still sticking to form. These late French composers don't really have forms. Satie doesn't like key signatures, time signatures, tempos, or any kind of notation at all whatsoever. It seems more like rambling impromptu stuff rather than actual music written down for other people to play. And Debussy...don't get me started. He writes using three staves; I can't decide if the music is meant to be played by two people or a three-armed megamonkey. And I'm neither.
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