Impatience: "nothing is beautiful but man alone"

Listening, as I sometimes do, to my favourite thing in the world, my disc of excerpts from Bach's Art of Fugue performed by Glenn Gould (piano and organ), I was struck by the desire to stop waiting. There's a thing whose time has come. I want to be in Princeton and I want to have my speakers back. If there's anything as silly as an extended farewell, it's listening to the unfinished contrapunctus through laptop speakers.

Funny how the oddest things can make conflicts pass to the conscious mind. Every now and then I need someone to tell me: "You've lost perspective!" These things happen. It's not hard to enumerate some reasons why: Bacchanalia, denial, tree/forest distinction, absurd justice, allzumenschlich syndrome, clawlessness, whatever. Make your own list. Don't feel compelled to share it, except with yourself.

It's very late to me now, since I didn't sleep very well at all last night. I don't expect to sleep so well tonight, either, or tomorrow. I think I will try to eat as little as possible, too. That might make it easier on me.

Judging, by the by, by the stunned silence, I believe there was remarkably little interest in the byline on 37. This is OK with me. I think it is healthy to write, every now and then, on something no one cares about, so long as it is not a pathetic indulgence (see above list). It shows some independence, fortitude. Gut. So, in which category does the rest fall?