Another Curable Syndrome

Seldom do I willingly repeat myself on this blog, although it must happen. My favorite time of the day tempted me once. Coffee Girl (my dog) and I had finished a nice outing in the morning. After taking a shower, we did what we've done so many times: lied down on the bed for an early afternoon siesta. I wanted to write about it, but surely that would be repetition. What is so bad about that?

Where did I get this sick idea that one is supposed to think of something new, new, new all the time? I ridicule the Constant Travel Syndrome -- and its puerile infatuation with novelty -- at every opportunity. Perhaps it is time to choose a new pinata; call it the Constant Thinking Syndrome. How much good has thinking ever done me? Maybe it's over-rated.

Ironically there was something new about this siesta; completely new for me. I was actually enjoying some violin music for the first time in my life: Beethoven's Romance #1 (opus 40), Romance #2 (opus 50) and the famous violin concerto. Of course we've all noticed our tastes change over time, and it's quite rejuvenating for an old boy to suddenly flare up with a new enthusiasm.

Certain changes in musical tastes are explainable. (Didn't I just say that I was going to stop this?) A lad might be exposed to classical music on National Public Radio at State U. They usually only play symphonic music. But if he learns to love it, his taste might improve soon. (For years I had no interest in Mozart because those blockheads at NPR only played his "Jupiter" symphony. It wasn't until I saw the movie Amadeus that I thought about his operas and concertos, which is where he really shines.) In symphonies there are simply too many instruments washing each other out. Learning to appreciate opera is also explainable since the human voice and life-situations are capable of expressing great pathos. It is also explainable why the female voice is superior to the male, or why adagios are more moving than allegros.

But violin music? I had no explanation, nor did I care to think one up. During the siesta the air in my RV was still disappointingly chilly; outdoors it had felt almost warm with all the sun and exercise; there was a subtle hint of spring out there. Then I felt my dog's hot breath against my cold skin. How nice that she honors the occasion by sleeping on the bed during these sacred siestas. (She refuses the bed at night.) I couldn't really think of anything old or new; you need a brain to do that, and "I" was just skin, ears, and relaxed muscles, feeling her hot breath on my arm, listening to Beethoven's violin music, and relaxing into a head-to-toe stupor.