Senstive days

Listening to music is not the same every day of life. Some days seem better for it than others.

Who can tell just why? The air-pressure or humidity affect the brain one way; alcohol and nicotine another. Just the right amount of sleep; just the right amount of stress (key: manageable); perhaps a little beet salad in the afternoon; a coffee intentionally not taken; some stroking of the skin, preferrably by a beautiful woman but a stiff breeze off the bay will do in a pinch. Who knows what else?

But there are days when one finds himself especially sensitive to music; then Ivo playing Chopin preludes, or Emerson playing Shostak No. 8, or Argerich the Prokof toccata work a specially intense magic and one is breathless, gasping, amazed, lost in the intense, confusing solid gold brocade of sound, writhing with strong intellectual pleasure. These recordings are always good, of course, but it is only at times like tonight that I get into this stuff this much. Luckily - or perhaps unluckily - these days do not happen too often: several times a year at most. Good sex -- for all I am inclined to say about the quality of commonly available sex -- seems easier to arrange.