First snow

Frost and snow. Nothing to write about. Last night I finished and published two pages of a piano piece I had planned to do something more than my usual miniature style of. But it just wanted to end there:

Lady M pays a visit to a painter

After finishing that (the first inspired composing period for months) I have still a dozen books to read, cd’s to listen to, other people’s music to comment on, a diary and a novel to write, some “commisioned” music I have no idea how to start on (or if it matter at all to spend time on), and a house to clean and shirts to iron, and sewing projects, and more music to write and revise and prepare parts for, and I just sit here…

The normal state of the art(ist)

The frozen leaves –

if you are in the creative soul’s hell, you will see them:

all the mis-told stories, all pathetic poems, all the letters you wrote, all diary pages, all the lecture notes, grocery lists, excuses to your children’s teachers, silly postcards, and – all the music –

cold, still, looking strange, wrong, handled with or without care, and then re-sent – deep frozen.

(Our hell isn’t a warm place. We call it Nifelheim.)