Poor Cromwell is too clever to make the mistake Wolsey or Boleyn made. He is still fated to the Tower. Yet, his awareness came across. At no point did he assign more importance to steeples than to what actually made churches.
I think I have made the mistake, often, of assuming that the steeple makes the church. When it is all hunky-dory, I suppose this is an easy mistake to make.
Small graces abound. I am spared the Eastern winter. I might wind up on the East coast in April, to greet a dear lady fresh from her travels.
A quarter-life crisis is how I wryly refer to the current state of affairs when discussing it with friends. There is thinking going on these days, of a different sort than the usual, because life requires me now to step outside and think.
Sometimes, I feel that I am in Melville’s land, though I am not sure whether I am Ahab or Moby Dick. Time will tell.
Spent an evening trying to navigate the wretchedness of Hayes Valley to get to the Symphony. Had been looking forward to an evening with Brahms. It is high time I figured out the city’s public transport to avoid this hassle of parking, or getting to the parking. It seems a very long time ago that I walked up the dirty stairs of the Market Street BART station to see the skyscrapers, the fog, and a girl bundled up against the evening’s cold winds.
This week has had unusual helpings of Pink Floyd. It must be the weather.