Nimble Tread

Where in the World

I'm sorry about the woefully sporadic blogging, and offer as an excuse my extreme youth.  I've gone to several great concerts over the past couple of weeks, but have also spent some time engaged in a less wothwhile pursuit, namely the Berlin Phil's online Cello Challenge, which, like the instrument itself, is virtually impossible to manage with a Mac track pad.  A more rewarding internet offering comes in the form of Radio 3's broadcast of Jonathan Biss' most recent Wigmore Hall concert, in which he played Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 27, op. 90, Schoenberg's 6 Klavierstücke, Op 19, and Schubert's Sonata No. 20, D.959.  It was a terrific performance, and you can find it here.

Vitameatavegamin

People are saying Airborne's a load of hooey, and that's put me on the brink of despair since the stuff's saved me from more than one cold.  I don't care if it doesn't work, so long as I don't know it doesn't work, if you catch my drift.  It's a fact that sometimes the "secret" in a secret formula is the user's brain and its fondness for psychosomatic trickery. 

So now that half my medicine chest's been called into question, I need to find a new brand of snake oil, and where better to start than black-and-white television.  Leave it to Lucy to have the answers to life's little conundrums.  There's a reason everyone loves her, you know.

Hark! the Robin!

Lines Written in Early Spring

I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure: --
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

-Wm. Wordsworth