We begin our Saturday evenings toilette with ruminations on a strange craving for caviar, on toast points, with crumbles of egg, please. Where this is coming from, I do not know. I like the way you can savor one tiny bubble between your tongue and your upper palate. You roll it with a slight pressure and then, it opens and you taste the sea. One tiny marcasite gem sets a sense memory in you that will never vanish. This afternoon, as I was driving and the day looked impossibly beautiful, they played Albeniz Asturias and I remembered my mother, on fire, at the piano. Wed be upstairs, right above her and she didnt care. We better not get any fancy ideas about sklunking into each others rooms but she didnt exactly make the falling asleep easy. Still, we did fall asleep. We fell asleep to Chopin mostly but this I remember because I learned it. I liked how worked up she got. Chopin sometimes made her cry. But this, this made her forget the cigarette in the ashtray and the piano bears those scars but then, arent our scars the most poignant things in the whole world? youtube/watch?v=ibT0iR8NquY
Posted on: Sun, 19 Oct 2014 02:45:42 +0000
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