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went to hear one of my favorite orchestral works last night—verklärte nacht, performed by one of my new favorite orchestras—brooklyn philharmonic, conducted by one of my old college professor crushes. so strange to see him on stage and remember what power i felt from him before, when i was a lowly second clarinet in the orchestra. i remember rehearsing sibelius' third symphony and him knowing my unimportant part, making thrilling, terrifying eye contact at my cue.
the second piece of the night was der cornet, a setting of rilke's die weise von liebe und tod des cornets christoph rilke ("the lay of the love and death of cornet christophe rilke") by frank martin (1890-1970). from the program notes: "... the surprise, pre-dawn attack of the turks, in which cornet rilke charges bravely, madly into the midst of the enemy, his flag aflame, and thereby loses his life in spectacular fashion."
11. resti got home, slept, woke, had sex with a nice jewish boy (although lately i want it guttural and grunting, and can't figure out how to convey this), and cracked open the book i finally got off back-order from amazon, brutal by pornstar aiden shaw. it's kind of good, actually, really raw and filled with the nihilism of the drug-doing and fucking subculture that i've touched half-ass but never groped/grasped. still, there's a part of that self-destruction that i can't deny romanticizing and pushing myself into at times; sick dreams of being down and out, wondering what it would take to get me in the habit of waking and not knowing where i am or what day it is. immature and privileged and bratty, yeah i know, but it's there.
rest! to be a guest for once. not always oneself to supply one's wishes with scanty fare. not always to seize things, enemy-like; for once to let things happen to one and to know: what happens is good. courage too must stretch out for once and at the hem of silken covers turn over on itself. not always to be a soldier.