Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Oil Change

I wrote a poem the other day, in pscychology. Rather odd, since no matter how wonderful I might find poetry, I don't enjoy an abundance of my own stuff. It's short--



I stake no claim on this land

yet I feel it drifting away

torn away with crimminal sweetness


It doesn't strike me as anything special now, but it does mean something to me.


Got good work done on the cello today. There is hope after all.


The deepest layer of hell is reserved for cowards. I should know, it says so on my ticket.


My fourth position is a little flat, I've noticed. When I go for a F arrpeggio, the top note is always off. Bothers the piss out of me, almost as much as the slight angle my soundpost seems to be at. It might be time to change strings, but I hate new strings... the ones in my case have got to be older than the ones I've got on...


I'm also talking more outloud, to myself, the cello, to people... I wonder if anyone's getting annoyed yet. The more that seems to come out, the less important my words seem to be.

The laundry room is lonely.

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