It’s early Sunday morning, and I’ve been slogging away at Sir Christémas, always mindful that it’s got to be in the mail on Friday. I’m in that phase where it’s just dreck. I’ve posited a “Sing Nowell” interlude between the verses, but right now it’s just clunky and bad. I hate this.
Part of the problem, of course, is that I have no clear idea of the piece in my head. I couldn’t transcribe it even if I were capable of such a thing, because it’s not there. I’m just machete-ing my way through the randomness of the universe, hoping to hack out a path that makes sense. Right now it doesn’t.
In other news, it’s time to release Grayson into the wild again. Last year, you may recall, it was quite traumatic as we took him up to Guilford and left him. For us, of course; he was quite pleased with his new habitat and missed only his cat.
I’m a little better this time. I’m not freaking over what I will do without him. This year, all my angst is over whether or not he can survive auf Deutsch, since after lunch we’ll drive to Hartsfield-Jackson International and put him on a plane to Munich. For the semester. Ach du lieber. Ich beunruhige mich daß er hat der Sprache zur Genüge nicht gelernt.
I’ve given him a map of Hofvonstein and asked that if he can he go to our capital of Waldkirchen and take a couple of pictures. I’d love some pictures of Löwenhof (which the Austrians apparently call Bad Leonfeld), but I think it probably looked better when Karl Magnus was alive.