destruction and rebirth
Feb. 25th, 2018 07:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
yamamanama22 days until the Vernal Equinox
Saying "get fucked by a blind bear" in Albanian may not put me any closer to achieving my New Years resolution but damned if it didn't feel great. Hopefully she didn't notice or maybe thought I was cursing fate or a god or gods or the Adjustment Bureau. Speaking of which, I'm finally reading a Dick novel. Lauren would be proud. The Man in the High Castle is a novel about people in an America where the Axis powers win and split the country in two halves wonder what life would be like if the Allies won and their take on it is quite different from our reality. Italy still switches sides, of course.
Barry knows someone who can draw people in minutes.
He thinks he looks sad in his portrait while I think he looks contemplative. He has a thick Irish accent and the train was old and rumbly so I couldn't make out what he was saying half the time. He said something about getting on an Ashmont train and what the feck is that about.
Anastasia has never heard of Tori Amos. That's like being named Isabella and having never been to the Gardner museum. She appreciates the fact that I drew her earrings, which are vivid grass green striated stones.
Her friend was Jessica. Since we were at Downtown Crossing, I didn't even attempt to draw Jessica.
Connie has big brown eyes.
One of the woman in front of her has mesopelagic blue hair held up with a bead hairclip and has a shirt with a stormtrooper helmet with a David Bowie lightning bolt on it and her girlfriend has a jacket with a fuckton of pins and patches, including one of The Mayor, a guy with a top hat, a choker of silver skeleton hands, and ankh earrings, a pierced septum and nasal bridge, and her hair and eyebrows are abyssopelagic black and heavily stylized.
I had The Ballad of Guiteau stuck in my head and was desperately hoping I'd make it to my stop with time enough to eat. And thankfully I did. Just a shawarma, though.
Overture to Khovanschina: it sounds like birds singing and the sun rising over the river Moskva.
Prokofiev, piano concerto no. 3: He wrote it on a train journey from Moscow to Vladivostok and then from there to San Francisco and then to New York. It eventually premiered in Chicago to much jeering and rambling about dissonance and Bolshevism. Sometimes the orchestra overpowered the piano. I'm sure if you pointed that out, he'd be like "I'm Sergei fucking Prokofiev. What are you going to do about it?"
It's a homage to Rachmaninov, played with the occasional wrong note.
The encore was a work by some Georgian (the Georgia under partial Russian military occupation, not to be confused with the US state that voted for the Russian-approved candidate, and not to be confused with South Georgia, which Russia no doubt has their eyes set upon) composer I can't remember. And probably wouldn't have heard. It ended with him reaching into the piano and plucking the strings with his hands.
Tchaikovsy, symphony no. 4: This is the one with the movement I expected to hear in the 5th. It has a fate motif, much like Beethoven. It also has a whimsical pizzicato and march scherzo. The third and fourth movements have no metronome markings because he didn't have access to one, and the last movement is played fast because that's tradition. Also, I realized that Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky looks like Philip K. Dick.
This pretty much parallels a concert I heard a few years ago, consisting of the overture to Ruslan i Lyudmila, a concerto by Prokofiev, and a symphony by Tchaikovsky.
The woman nearby's parents (or a parent) came from a village that was part of Czechoslovakia and then part of Hungary and then part of Ukraine. She doesn't remember the name and it may have been Mukachevo.
The timer was either out of sync with the trains or one of the trains wasn't being acknowledged so it showed up when it said the next Lechmere train would arrive in 10 minutes, after I was already waiting for 10 minutes.
Lizzy is not an artist. Liana is, and she's a slow painter who prefers oil paints because they take longer to dry than acrylics and will draw portraits with photographic references but prefers still lives because they don't move around and wax fruit never decays. I'm assuming her name is spelled Liana, like the woody vine. As Barry the unstoppable killer cyborg would say, I'm allowed to assume, you're already an ass. I told her that I want to photograph the next sketchbook and post them soon, even if Robert Mugabe is going to live to a hundred, but every day's been cloudy.
There was a guy dressed as a cow, with some kind of jeweled headpiece under his hat. I told him he was the reason I bring a sketchbook with me.
Seantel seems to be named under the impression that the name is Irish and not Occitan. I've met at least four people with that name and they all spell it differently. She makes jewelry and was wearing two stones wrapped in wire. She was watching a video with instructions on doing magic tricks with coins and writes poetry and studies architecture, which makes her an artist of sorts.
Anna has her phone clock on 24 hour time. My table clock is set to 24 hour time because I couldn't figure out how to change AM and PM and now I can't figure out how to get out of 24 hour time without unplugging it.
She's not an artist.
Burning Question: the sun is getting dim, will we pay for who we've been?
Saying "get fucked by a blind bear" in Albanian may not put me any closer to achieving my New Years resolution but damned if it didn't feel great. Hopefully she didn't notice or maybe thought I was cursing fate or a god or gods or the Adjustment Bureau. Speaking of which, I'm finally reading a Dick novel. Lauren would be proud. The Man in the High Castle is a novel about people in an America where the Axis powers win and split the country in two halves wonder what life would be like if the Allies won and their take on it is quite different from our reality. Italy still switches sides, of course.
Barry knows someone who can draw people in minutes.
He thinks he looks sad in his portrait while I think he looks contemplative. He has a thick Irish accent and the train was old and rumbly so I couldn't make out what he was saying half the time. He said something about getting on an Ashmont train and what the feck is that about.
Anastasia has never heard of Tori Amos. That's like being named Isabella and having never been to the Gardner museum. She appreciates the fact that I drew her earrings, which are vivid grass green striated stones.
Her friend was Jessica. Since we were at Downtown Crossing, I didn't even attempt to draw Jessica.
Connie has big brown eyes.
One of the woman in front of her has mesopelagic blue hair held up with a bead hairclip and has a shirt with a stormtrooper helmet with a David Bowie lightning bolt on it and her girlfriend has a jacket with a fuckton of pins and patches, including one of The Mayor, a guy with a top hat, a choker of silver skeleton hands, and ankh earrings, a pierced septum and nasal bridge, and her hair and eyebrows are abyssopelagic black and heavily stylized.
I had The Ballad of Guiteau stuck in my head and was desperately hoping I'd make it to my stop with time enough to eat. And thankfully I did. Just a shawarma, though.
Overture to Khovanschina: it sounds like birds singing and the sun rising over the river Moskva.
Prokofiev, piano concerto no. 3: He wrote it on a train journey from Moscow to Vladivostok and then from there to San Francisco and then to New York. It eventually premiered in Chicago to much jeering and rambling about dissonance and Bolshevism. Sometimes the orchestra overpowered the piano. I'm sure if you pointed that out, he'd be like "I'm Sergei fucking Prokofiev. What are you going to do about it?"
It's a homage to Rachmaninov, played with the occasional wrong note.
The encore was a work by some Georgian (the Georgia under partial Russian military occupation, not to be confused with the US state that voted for the Russian-approved candidate, and not to be confused with South Georgia, which Russia no doubt has their eyes set upon) composer I can't remember. And probably wouldn't have heard. It ended with him reaching into the piano and plucking the strings with his hands.
Tchaikovsy, symphony no. 4: This is the one with the movement I expected to hear in the 5th. It has a fate motif, much like Beethoven. It also has a whimsical pizzicato and march scherzo. The third and fourth movements have no metronome markings because he didn't have access to one, and the last movement is played fast because that's tradition. Also, I realized that Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky looks like Philip K. Dick.
This pretty much parallels a concert I heard a few years ago, consisting of the overture to Ruslan i Lyudmila, a concerto by Prokofiev, and a symphony by Tchaikovsky.
The woman nearby's parents (or a parent) came from a village that was part of Czechoslovakia and then part of Hungary and then part of Ukraine. She doesn't remember the name and it may have been Mukachevo.
The timer was either out of sync with the trains or one of the trains wasn't being acknowledged so it showed up when it said the next Lechmere train would arrive in 10 minutes, after I was already waiting for 10 minutes.
Lizzy is not an artist. Liana is, and she's a slow painter who prefers oil paints because they take longer to dry than acrylics and will draw portraits with photographic references but prefers still lives because they don't move around and wax fruit never decays. I'm assuming her name is spelled Liana, like the woody vine. As Barry the unstoppable killer cyborg would say, I'm allowed to assume, you're already an ass. I told her that I want to photograph the next sketchbook and post them soon, even if Robert Mugabe is going to live to a hundred, but every day's been cloudy.
There was a guy dressed as a cow, with some kind of jeweled headpiece under his hat. I told him he was the reason I bring a sketchbook with me.
Seantel seems to be named under the impression that the name is Irish and not Occitan. I've met at least four people with that name and they all spell it differently. She makes jewelry and was wearing two stones wrapped in wire. She was watching a video with instructions on doing magic tricks with coins and writes poetry and studies architecture, which makes her an artist of sorts.
Anna has her phone clock on 24 hour time. My table clock is set to 24 hour time because I couldn't figure out how to change AM and PM and now I can't figure out how to get out of 24 hour time without unplugging it.
She's not an artist.
Burning Question: the sun is getting dim, will we pay for who we've been?
