When you write a controversial, progressive new love song like "Damn, You Big, Bitch," which I spent the morning doing, you have to accept that not everyone is going to love it. I'm just kidding. I did not spend the morning writing a song called "Damn, You Big, Bitch." Has a ring, though.
But I did start a new story, which is going to be a special one, called "I Big Girl." Horror story. But so much more. I couldn't ever have one thing just be one thing.
About to run stairs. Starting over with some things today. I haven't been doing a good enough job with anything, save my work, and frankly, there is no one else seeing any of that--I mean the work that most matters--at present. For too long I've been a spectator in my own life, in that I've not been a full-fledged participant. That means fighting, doing what must be done, dealing with things I don't want to deal with, bad people, people I have no respect for, evil people, incompetent people, thieves, holding people accountable, not putting things off. I'm too bunkered down and at too much of a remove. And even if rivers of blood must flow, I need to be stronger and more involved and front and center.
The week before this past one I only ran 13,000 stairs, which was poor. This last week I ran 24,000, which is mediocre (days of 5000, 10,000, and 3000). Nothing for two days. That won't work either.
Today is the nine-year anniversary of my sister's death. Thinking about her, of course. And my mom, whom I'll call later. Hopefully she gets out and sees the kids today.
Yesterday I went to the Paul Lewis 1:30 matinee performance with the BSO at Symphony Hall. Had to sit through whatever Woke garbage piece first, before the good stuff, but the former wasn't long, at least. Then Lewis did two Beethoven piano concertos, one before the intermission, and the other being the entire second half of the program. Is he good. Wow. How many people have ever been able to play piano like that?
What you notice at these concerts, though, is just about everyone is over seventy, unless they're a student or a musician. But I'd say ninety percent of the audience at a BSO concert is over seventy. That 1:30 Friday crowd is the oldest one, but the idea holds true no matter the day or hour. Doesn't exactly bode well for classical music, does it? Who is listening? Who cares, besides people in the field? People recognize the names of the well-known composers, and they know it's "good for them," so they'll go from time to time. But who cares a lot? To whom is this an important part of their lives, besides other musicians and composers? What happens when these people all die off?
Called my mom after because on Wednesday she was finding out if she could have surgery on her other eye in early December to remove a cataract and have a lens implanted and I wanted to see if she was able to book that. The kids were over with my sister, so then I had to FaceTime them as I walked along Mass Ave. and then down Boylston on the way to the Trader Joe's. Said FaceTiming essentially consisted of watching Amelia slowly eat peanut butter from a spoon.
I need to be more active in these pages, too, and there is so much to get to, but I must break off for now. As we say here, stairs don't run themselves.