The ladies all made a cake last night. There is a big square cack on the bottom and a circle-shaped layer on top. One layer is pink and the other shape is chocolate. It is smothered in sparkles and occupies the majority of the first floor of the refrigerator like a determined protestor. The shape resembles some sort of North Korean architecture, intriguing, but dysfunctional and a bit repulsive. No one seems to have eaten any which is weird.
Rhumba on the River is about the sounds of Kinshasa and the sounds of Brazzaville and all the remarkable interplay that happened during the time since western interpretations of African music from Cuba and elsewhere, were reintroduced back into Congolese sounds. I learned about the names of a dozen new performers. Many of them are there on Spotify, remarkably. All of these vintage tracks delicious, like discovering a new strain of tropical fruit.
Amy Beach certainly looks Irish. I love the familiar twinkle I imagine staring out from her eyes. She may have been Polish for all I know but she did write a symphony called The Gaelic Symphony written in 1894. This performed that year in Boston, was the first symphony written and performed by a woman in America.
I have it on as I pedal past the apple orchard today. Overcast. I’ve caught up with one friend who I hadn’t spoken with for a while. I notice. I don’t much want to call people and check in these days or quarantine. A quick ping on wechat, certainly. But somehow it's all too much to chat about just now. I let a suggestion for a catch-up call go slip for one week and then two. I don’t mean any harm. It’ just overwhelming to consider reckoning with everything just now. I hope everyone is OK out there in their own isolation.
Sunday 4/05/20
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