Back from California, listening to Sch�tz's Musikalische Exequien, which is dark chocolate filled with sweet communion wine. WB is upstairs grunting and panting to TMF: he's moving the rest of a year's worth of schtuff out this weekend. Bon voyage to Vanuatu, Mr. B! He and I went out for drinks at Ch*rl**'s last night and got glared at for bouncing a lot. Screw them. EN's at JT's; he is less interesting than interested-in, -- vaya con d�os, EN. You're playin' with fire, there. JT really Fichte with my head and I happen to think I'm a pretty good judge of character. I don't trust him.
KP came into my office yesterday. "So, A," he said, "wonder what happened to those big piles of files that were in your office?" "No," I responded, "I'm just happy they're gone."
The harpsichord suite I'm writing based on tunes from early Magnetic Fields is going well; I finished the Courante (it's more of a corrente, though, really) and am working out sketches for a gigue-fugue-lour�e on with whom to dance, unless the concurrent sketches for a Sarabande on the same song play out better. Might arrange it for trio sonata when it's all done.
SP, my erstwhile muse, is in town for keeps. CG helped him drive his U-Haul up from Ph*l*d*lph** last weekend. SW (on whose name be cheese: I don't want to offend anyone!) is moving. MCH is moving to Maryland. SB and IC are already in C*l*f*rn**; WB's going to bleeding P*l*n*s**, for the love of gods. It's like everybody's contract is up.
welsh rarebit,
a