In the middle of our conversation, well their conversation, someone from the table facing us came over, handed me a note, and left. Eagerly, I opened it. My heart sank when I read the words: “Don’t Fucking Stare!”
My encounters with classical music through the ages (it feels like it, right!) have been a sort of muddle of awe and motor way-pile up.
If you think poetry is in the service of something I feel sorry for you.
Imagine, if you can, a record producer coming to his boss with an idea for a new album; a collection of children’s songs by a black man who has been imprisoned several times, once for killing a relative in a fight over a woman, a second time for attempted murder of a white man.
The swiftness with which such a proposal and its author would be dispatched today would set a land speed record for rejection of cockamamie ideas.
I got a free app to keep track of my reading. I don’t know, but I thought it might be helpful. It has a star rating system which I find absurd. Trying to co-operate, not my best thing, I decided the Bible and Shakespeare rated a 5 and anything else had to be no more than a 4.