Or, The Acrudements Of Passions

When you are immersed in something, all aspects of it are a part of that whole, the whole of it that you love. In books it’s the scent of new books, the scent of old books, books to be read, books already read, stories of authors, stories of stories, manuscript pieces, marginalia. I have several moleskin notebooks. I have Blackwing pencils and a hand sharpener. I have good pens, used pens, old pens—those that perform well. And a trunk full of my own writing. All of these things, sacred.

In music it’s the same. Even the photos of music scores. I have my childhood music books and my current books. I have the flute my son used to play. I have an old manual metronome. Books about Glenn Gould. (Of course his records.) And here, above, is something I ran across on the internet, so I had to print it. I wish I had the real thing here, to hold in my hands and place on the piano stand. In the meantime, a photo will do. Isn’t it beautiful?

P.S. 1. There were more words attached; there were more posts and pages; Nothing Worked Right! Maybe later. I could not Save or Publish. But Titles to the posts published.

P.S. 2. I have no idea what the Likes were seeing.