You are viewing jenny_jenkins

Jenny Jenkins
10 May 2015 @ 02:02 pm
There are moments when love feels like walking on the edge of a precipice, waiting to fall off. Risky. Painful. Wondering how it might end. Wondering why the pain, the longing and the fear is worth it – until joy overwhelms me at the sight of you and reminds me why. For years before we met I dreamed idly of something that I couldn't believe could ever be true. I dreamed of you. I longed to find my place – in your dreams, in your heart, and in your bed. I wanted your warmth before I felt it. I saw your morning eyes a hundred times before you opened them for the first time to smile down at mine. In dreams, our lips met – a phantom version of me, a phantom version of you. I spoke with you for hours; my head rested on your shoulder; I ran my fingers through your hair. I imagined your laugh, your smile. Longing for you, waiting for you.  

And so I knew you when I saw you.

Hope and trust overwhelms me. There are moments, at least, when my fears seem almost abstract. Because in fairy tales I might ask a fairy, or an elf or a sprite, or some magical all-knowing crone of the stories we were taught as children, for uncomplicated happiness, for health, for contentment, for certainty above all – for the things I thought I wanted more than anything when I thought you couldn't exist outside of my dreams.

Certainty would still be nice. But grant me a wish, and I could try to ask a fairy for all that – or stoop to another stratagem to deceive her by asking for too much - for the moon, and the stars as well. I might even feel for moments that it could be true that I might want the things I used to think represented happiness.

But if I did ask, I think she'd smile. And put her finger at her lips to shush me. And point at you.
Jenny Jenkins
27 April 2015 @ 11:48 pm

You'll soon be back permanently, and I realize now that I wouldn't need a calendar to remind me. I re-read and ponder and fret over every line you send and have noticed that you've stopped your occasional, quite gallant and correct, reminders that I'm free. It was a delicacy I always appreciated even as it irritated me; but you weren't going to ask a much younger woman to wait most of a year for you based on one chance meeting in October, 100 letters, three weeks in December, a few days snatched here and there, and the more than 300 letters that have passed between us since January. There have been visits so brief I received fewer minutes from you than letters I'd send between meetings. And I didn't care.

But I also take that as a sign you've finally realized (or are willing to admit) that I haven't been free since my eyes first glanced into yours. And I hope you spoke honestly, but with a type of confidence all at once. Because I think you always knew.

Jenny Jenkins
10 March 2015 @ 12:31 am

I remember the day before Christmas Eve.

"If someone had told me a few months ago I'd be here with you, looking out across the water..."

Nothing travels faster than light. The light of a candle travels as fast as an electric light; the light from Port Angeles travels as fast as the light I've been told travels across the water from Victoria. Light always travels at the same speed.

And recently the view from the other side was described to me by a visitor to our city. If Port Angeles is a faint collection of speckled lights on the horizon, Victoria is beautiful across the water. "You glow. It's so bright. And when it's foggy, it's like a bright haze through the clouds..." It was a description that had me wondering, imagining people across the water, staring back at us. Maybe they're in love too.

And there are no night-terrors, there's no unhappiness. Because there's no space left for anything but light and happiness when my head is tucked under your chin.

"Now I know why they call it Port Angeles..."

Jenny Jenkins
04 March 2015 @ 09:08 pm
Why does it hurt, loving you? Distance, mainly. And by that I mean the space between us, not the time that has passed. Because time isn't curing my love for you, dearest, while the space between us throws up anxiety. But I feel it as intensely as the moment I first looked into your eyes - and you were a stranger to me, then.

You wrote to me for months, and I responded, on the strength of that moment.

You've remarked that it's a "strange time" to be in love. True, because you are so often so far away from me and at least a dozen letters have passed between us since October for every time I've been able to meet you since then.

But I'd write a thousand more in payment for the moment your lips first touched mine.

You are never out of my thoughts. I search for your reflection in the glass, I see your face in every cast of the dice as I play backgammon, I hear your footsteps on the stair as I round a corner. I feel a warm hand that isn't really there take up mine as I walk.

Why does it hurt? I don't care. I'd suffer anything for the momentary, overwhelming joy loving you occasionally brings me.

Jenny Jenkins
16 February 2015 @ 08:39 am

I write to you, I speak to you, but I'll tell you anyway, in the language of flowers.

Red tulips for love.
A pink camellia to say "I long for you."
And dandelions for faithfulness..

Jenny Jenkins
14 February 2015 @ 04:13 am

Samuel Pepys's diary entries for February 14 were always my favourites. Which lady was his Valentine? How many gloves or handkerchiefs did he gift her? Which gentleman was wooing his wife on the day and what presents did she receive?

Parted from you, on a night I can't sleep and through which I'm looking for some ersatz-sunshine and happiness by staring into the faces of the sixteen daffodils I've put in a vase in the main room, I find I've little enough to write, plenty to imagine.

The way you tilt your head at table.

The way you look down at your shoes before you put your arms around me.

The kindness, gentleness, patience and generosity of every little thing you do.

I've tucked my heart into one of your pockets, where I know it's quite safe; you'll not drop it. I still look into every colour of a changing sky and think of you.

Current Mood: lacking
Jenny Jenkins
29 January 2015 @ 09:52 pm

There are moments, usually just before waking, or between waking and sleeping, when I have the fanciful impression I could touch you if only my fingers could reach out a little further.

I think of you before sleeping, and hope I dream of you. And there are times when I do.

I bend down to wash my face, and feel you behind me - a real and physical presence. But when I glance up at the mirror, there is only one reflection in the glass, and it isn't yours.

Jenny Jenkins
12 January 2015 @ 11:41 pm

Current Mood: Contemplative
Jenny Jenkins
11 January 2015 @ 10:12 am

Fall in love with a professor on sabbatical -

"Not an ideal time, I'm sorry."
"No, dearest. The best."

- and life enters a curious rhythm. Visits, letters. More letters. And all this curious and shifting vulnerability between us.

You've left again. But you'll be back. And it gives me time to reflect on how we met, so many months ago, and the woman I was then - she'd forgotten how to feel, or what her now very full heart could tell her about herself, or those she loves. I remember you walking into a crowded place, and how our eyes met and how I prayed, for the first time in years, that you would speak to me. I remember how you oriented yourself in the room, always facing in my direction. And you're not insensitive. You'll have realized that was easy to do when the woman you've noticed finds she can't turn away and watches you, at every moment, through her eyelashes.

But it's not fate, my dearest one. I'm not dangling by a thread, with the three old crones of the ancient myth measuring out my life's path on a spinning-wheel, taking decisions for me as they cut randomly into the thread that represents my life. I choose - and I choose you. I love - and I love you. I've decided to trust, and I trust myself and I trust you - entirely.

Current Music: Tracy Chapman Crossroads
Jenny Jenkins
22 December 2014 @ 01:56 am

It's speculative, you tell me - this multiverse you say you believe in. You've done the abstract equations; you say there are 11 dimensions.

I'm intoxicated enough by you to believe anything you tell me. And if this beautiful idea could be true, I wonder if there could be a parallel existence anywhere where I wouldn't breathe in your scent with every inhalation; or taste you in the water I drink.

Anything is possible in an infinite and expanding and vibrating universe filled up to the brim with the love I feel for you.

But that one thing, somehow, seems impossible.

Jenny Jenkins
13 December 2014 @ 05:47 am

"I dreamt we were in a store filled with cards. You picked one up and handed it to me. It already had something written inside. And you smiled even though I'm not sure you knew what it said. 'A mí también me duele.' (It hurts me too.)"

I did know though. And in the real world, not the magical one of dreams, I would have asked for a translation anyway - a question, not of sympathy or the imagination, but of language and nothing else.

What hurts you gives me a physical pain. The things I feel for you do you no harm. To wake up to any letter, even one that relates a dream that left you pensive, is the happiest feeling on earth.

Jenny Jenkins
04 December 2014 @ 06:47 pm
I'm too old, probably, to receive love-letters the way I do. Sent from the place I am from, in a strange coincidence I've decided to place at Fate's door. Like a young woman in a storybook feeling things that I never believed in until the past few months.

I touch every inch of every page hoping my fingers touch where someone else's have. I scrutinize the clear, legible, science teacher handwriting on the page (blue ink). Ponder the endearments, plot my replies.

I love you. I'm sure of it. And it's the most beautiful feeling.
Jenny Jenkins
16 November 2014 @ 09:18 pm

I write to you, and have long since noticed that when you respond you unrealizingly repeat back to me the words I use: kind, vulnerable, enchanting, lovely, love - those words are mine, but they are becoming yours.

On the telephone, you laugh; but only when I do. You say my voice is beautiful and I believe you are sincere that you think it is. Fresh and youthful; crisp, cheerful and charming. (Your words, for once. Not mine.)

Time zones dictate a few patterns. I write in the afternoons, you write just before sleeping.

"I love the way you write." That's good. I happen to love the way you write.

I've re-read Newton's Opticks to contemplate prisms and the colours in the sunlight. Because I want to understand why the sky is blue - or why we perceive it as blue. The explanation is beautiful - the diffused light of sun beams and the limits of human visual perception create a beautiful illusion. And now I understand red skies at night and in the early morning, too.

I look up into every colour in the sky and I think of you.

You say: "I'm going to the Pinakothek tomorrow. I'll choose the best postcard, one I think you'll like, and send it to you. Do you like that sort of thing?"

Turns out I do.

Current Mood: contentcontent
Jenny Jenkins
24 October 2014 @ 11:59 am
I am, actually. I'm in love, and looking up at the sky.

And I walk for hours through the city at night, to avoid going home. I walk along the water and stare back out at the city across the harbour. And it's beautiful and fragile.

And I'm unhappy and happy. And I'm vulnerable, and I'm feeling strong. And I feel able, for moments, to be the best, most courageous, the most patient person I can be.

To the person who told me that - thank you. Thanks to you, I'm looking up and not down. A change of perspective was so important. And all you had to do was appear.

If only you were here. But you will be soon. You claim you are thinking of me in the place I am from - and I believe you.

Jenny Jenkins
05 October 2014 @ 10:49 am
Living space is interesting.

When you are cramped in with other people or with someone else (or feel cramped in - perhaps that is the important thing) your definition of what it means to be alone changes.

When I want to be alone, right now, I leave and go outside to cry. Because I'm more alone in the street than I am in the place where I live. That's strange.

I need. Something. I feel like this a couple times a year. It usually lifts. It's day 9 of the worst migraine ever (it's always the worst migraine ever) and I wish the sun would come out.
Jenny Jenkins
"Be like the kettle and sing..."

Thank you, Vera Lynn.

Jenny Jenkins
Beautiful, beautiful video. So well done.

Current Mood: Proud
Jenny Jenkins
I opened a new book today, purchased during one of the Victoria Day used book drives. I read the first one and a half paragraphs and thought: "Something is dreadfully wrong here. I should be this heroine."

Dorothy L. Sayers: Have his Carcase

Chapter I

The Evidence of the Corpse

'The track was slippery with spouting bloody.' - Randolph


The best remedy for a bruised heart is not, as so many people seem to think, repose upon a manly bosom. Much more efficacious are honest work, physical activity, and the sudden acquisition of wealth. After being acquitted of murdering her lover, and, indeed, in consequence of that acquittal, Harriet Vane found all three specifics abundantly at her disposal; and although Lord Peter Wimsey, with a touching faith in tradition, persisted day in and day out in presenting the bosom for her approval, she showed no inclination to recline upon it.

Work she had in abundance. To be tried for murder is a fairly good advertisement for a writer of detective fiction. Harriet Vane thrilled were booming. She had signed up sensational contracts in both continents, and found herself, consequently, a very much richer woman than she had ever dreamed of becoming. In the interval between finishing Murder by Degrees and embarking on The Fountain-Pen Mystery, she had started off on a solitary walking tour: plenty of exercise, no responsibilities and no letter forwarded. The time was June, the weather, perfect; and if she now and again gave a thought to Lord Peter Wimsey diligently ringing up an empty flat, it did not trouble her...

Walking tour, detective fiction, money, and a love-sick, titled and likely very wealthy man ringing me up like a devoted puppy while I take my time over rejecting him or giving him a chance?

Bonus: time-travel to the nineteen-thirties when fashion was beautiful and servants were cheap?

Fuck me! Why isn't this my life???

Current Mood: Perplexed
Jenny Jenkins
Thanks to hadesgirl we now know how!

On the livejournal homepage ( and possibly on the friends page too, there is a blank square near the top-right of the page (for some it appears blank, for others it has a question mark) that you can click on.

It will allow you to switch back!

You're welcome!

Jenny Jenkins
07 April 2014 @ 02:14 pm
Non! 19 years all feels terrifyingly relevant.

When Manning had (some) hair: The Unity Rally, 1995 -


What are they doing?

And the current madness was always there, wasn't it?

Jacques Parizeau on the night Quebec voted non:
C'est vrai, c'est vrai qu'on a été battus, au fond, par quoi? Par l'argent puis des votes ethniques, essentiellement.

Edit: Oh look! There's 0:50 seconds of video of the moment that ended his career!

Jenny Jenkins
22 February 2014 @ 09:57 pm
I'm not watching Bergkamp's highlights tonight.

Instead: Thierry Henry. The best documentary on him I've ever seen.

Jenny Jenkins
04 February 2014 @ 07:25 pm
I caught a glimpse of footage this evening of the 1986 Oscars and I was thinking about how, almost 30 years later, I can't remember a single gown from the 1986 Oscars. If you were wearing some tasteful, off-the-shoulder black number I don't remember you.


But I remember this - and look how beautiful it is! Entirely and completely iconic. The beautiful, stunning, amazing Cher in her absurd, wonderful look -


In '86 I was a reactionary child. I couldn't see her beauty. My simplistic, childish, bourgeois tastes were offended.

We all grow up eventually. I'll never be Cher. I'll never show up to an event in anything other than a tasteful black gown. I haven't her courage. But I can stand back and admire it - and her outrageous beauty.

I'm reminded of Helena Bonham-Carter (another unconventional and stunning dresser at events) remarking to a journalist asking which "designer" had made her gown: "This isn't a gown. I'm an actress, not a model. It's a costume by a friend who is a costume-designer."

Oh Cher. You'll always be one of the most beautiful women who ever walked the earth. Watching footage of you this evening in an Oscar memorial television event made me tear up at the memory of your beauty and your daring. My eyes were opened.

Take a bow, darling. Take a bow.

Current Mood: nostalgicnostalgic
Jenny Jenkins
27 December 2013 @ 09:01 pm
I was made aware last year of the non-official, unauthorized fandom biography: The Msscribe Story - linked here - and lovingly retold by an anonymous observer with a memory like a steel-trap. It's about a single fanfiction writer and an army of sock-puppet accounts. The sheer energy required to keep this lie alive boggles the mind.

I was an avid reader of fanfiction (and omg - you have no idea how hard it was to find Remus/Sirius fic in the early days! NO ONE was writing the most obvious pairing in the history of ever) but I never wrote and did not "belong" to LJ. Back then, you needed to be invited and I wasn't interested in blogging in my early twenties - in fact, I could barely type. But I liked reading.

Rereading it: holy fuck is my main reaction. It touches on the infamous plagiarism wank which khalidarkmoon will remember very well - it involved the work of one of her favorite authors, Pamela Dean.

Claustrophobic reading, experience but fairly riveting.
Jenny Jenkins
24 November 2013 @ 05:41 pm
For me_moose, in particular - Everybody loves Santi Cazorla...but you knew that already...


Jenny Jenkins
So there I was, walking innocently down Yates St. to check out Odeon Theatre movie timings when I happened upon the place you dream of being locked up in as a child - if you knew it existed, which I didn't.



YES. It's a THING. Or, more properly, it's a PLACE. I opened the door, the warm, sugary air wafted into my face and I poked my head through it. There was a girl sweeping the floor. "Are" "Yes! We're new!"


Sugar-shock warning...Collapse )

Jenny Jenkins
05 November 2013 @ 10:15 pm
T. is very literal minded. Never more so than when he's watching a movie he's really into and can't remember it's not actually happening in real time to real people.

I was reminded of this while watching Dr Zhivago just now (we're about to start the second VHS as soon as the kettle goes - yes, I still have those - you can't watch Dr Zhivago in HD, it's immoral). I've watched it dozens of times. It was his first though.

It took T. (because it's alluded to slightly delicately in the film at first - though really, not that delicately - T. can be remarkably unobservant) 10 minutes longer than it should have to figure out Lara is having an affair with evil Count Kamerovsky. In fact, I had to tell him. "He's seduced her, sweetheart. He's no longer interested in her mother."

T. may be 20 years older than me, but the wide-brown-eyed look he gave me would suit someone 20 years younger. He actually sat up on the sofa and stared, outraged, at the television.

"But deeeeear! [T. has a very lingering way of of saying "dear" - his Persian accent is still quite heavy] That's not possible! She's only 17!"

"Darling. It was 1912. He's a bad man. And this is a movie based on a book. And I've read this book. And I've seen the movies. I promise you - they've done the nasty. But don't worry. No actresses were harmed in the making of this film."

"What an eeeevil bastard!"

"Yeah, well."

"...No wonder they had a revolution!"

Current Mood: Amused
Jenny Jenkins
spider_orchid - my darling!

Uh...I can't think of what to give you for your birthday so we'll go for what I would want because I don't have a very vivid imagination...


You like?
You don't like, I switch it out for whatever flavour you want, okay?

A of those musical ones that plays "Happy Birthday" I love those...
There"s a nearly-nude footballer in here jsyk...Collapse )

Current Mood: Happy Birthday To Spider!
Current Music: Happy Birthday Song
Jenny Jenkins
15 October 2013 @ 10:50 am
I love Harry Potter - I love Harry Potter more than I can say...

So on a low day, I can pull it out (courtesy of Susan - who gave me this exact edition during our last meeting) and have a good read...

...and think of Susan who deserves massive cuddles and kisses for finding it for me in German...


Luckily Germany play Sweden soon enough - for a game neither of them needs to win - so I can relax into that too!

Jenny Jenkins
This is a beautiful moment. The title of one of her books -Too Much Happiness - sums up this beautiful situation.


Current Mood: Happiness
Jenny Jenkins
It's been 25 years (at least) since I thought of or heard this waltz...

For the record, no one has driven logs since the 1940s

 photo 40js3_zpse50ac18e.gif
Waltzing down the river

Current Mood: nostalgicnostalgic
Jenny Jenkins
What the title says...


Santi...being adorable...Collapse )


The Santi Cazorla Chant:

Jenny Jenkins
21 September 2013 @ 06:37 pm
I just want this in my journal. Thanks to mapmakerscolors for alerting me!


Oh Christine! I love you...
Current Mood: Madly in love
Jenny Jenkins

I was in a drugstore recently and here it is on the shelf...anyone can just take it. And they have self-serve check-out at this pharmacy too...


Jenny approves.
Jenny Jenkins
28 July 2013 @ 01:46 am
Traditional Ghazal. Intensely hypnotic. The lover struggles during the hunt. Because in the features of every animal he finds something that reminds him of his beloved.

The singer is Canadian, of course :) Azam Ali - Persian-Canadian and based in Montreal.

Jenny Jenkins
25 July 2013 @ 10:48 pm

Current Mood: Loving my Gunners
Jenny Jenkins
12 July 2013 @ 09:10 am

Lottie, the Basset Hound <3

"Why can't I have your scrambled eggs?"

Jenny Jenkins
23 June 2013 @ 08:49 pm
I'd been reading Tarot Cards recently. Even more recently it stopped working.

My hands used to tingle as I shuffled the deck asking open-ended and frankly immoral questions (you're actually supposed to ask permission to cast on someone else - sorry everyone).

This week - no longer.


Thoughts on the subject. I'm Catholic and a feminist. My lucky numbers are the feminine 6 and 13. That I would read Tarot cards (and that it would even work occasionally) makes perfect sense. I am also fully aware that the images simply allow the reader (or the person casting the reading) to see things clearly; to recognize the things in one's life that really should be as plain as the nose on your face. The cards simply allow you to accept what's in front of you.

How to explain the tingling though? That's where the (collapsed, because lapsed never quite covered it) Catholic in me comes in, I suppose. It is superstition not magic, though sometimes I can sustain the belief.

It's always irritated me that in the deck I am the right-side-up Queen of Swords. I admire the Queen of Swords, but I'm struggling to live up to my card, so-to-speak. It's a little like not being a Hufflepuff had I been a character in Harry Potter.

But then perhaps the Sorting Hat would have said "you sound like a Ravenclaw to me..." and I would have said something like: "I refuse! It's my choices that make me who I am, God damn it!" and I could have got into Hufflepuff anyway.

Life is an exercise in hind-sight bias. I'm trying to combat this by no longer reading my horoscope.
Jenny Jenkins
(What could you buy with one crisp Canadian dollar in 1986 - this was one year before the Loonie came out? The famous part starts at minute 7:50)

You know you're Canadian when you remember this -

MP3 under the cut...Collapse )

It's possible you even know where you were when you heard it. They edited out part of it. It actually played for about a minute longer (the giggles) and an evil recording engineer let it run...
Jenny Jenkins
15 June 2013 @ 06:22 pm
There's been an election in Iran. I insisted T. telephone home to get news. He's taken no interest of any kind except to tell people he knows not to bother voting.

"Deeeeear," he said. (T. was not moaning at me, for the record - he simply has a very lingering way of saying 'dear') "It's a racket!"

But I insisted, so he called. As it turns out, his sister wouldn't deviate from election-day tradition and wouldn't say who she voted for anyway. "Come closer and I'll whisper it in your ear!" We still don't know who she voted for last time around either, now I think of it.

Persians invented chess. This explains a lot.
They also invented algebra. In fact, they invented just about everything worthwhile.
Ask T. he'll tell you! At length!

We also discovered his mother has won a national lottery for a trip to Mecca. It'll be a group trip. Date as yet undetermined.

A horrified T. called her up and spent the usual half hour repeating the word for "fine" or "okay" (areh) to everything she said. He's such an obedient son/older brother it comprises literally 40% of his phone conversations home to his sisters and mother - who lecture him non-stop. There was one exception: he was quite insistent he doesn't want her going. He has two reasons: his embittered atheism ("She has better things to do with her time! She should go to Armenia! X., went to Armenia. It's wonderful! People can hold their wives' hands in public!") and a question of life-experience: "The one time she leaves Iran shouldn't be for an even more conservative society...she needs a fresh experience."

Well that's one view. I think she should do both! I'd tell her if I could, but my Persian never got far past "I love you."

Not that he's worried when it comes down to it. "She will never collect," T. informed me darkly after the telephone call was over. "The lottery's a racket too."

I asked him if the English were involved (Persians are notorious conspiracy theorists and the English are to blame for just about everything, actually). He laughed and threw the sofa cushion at me.

"But you know deeeear, if they hadn't overthrown Mossadegh..."

Something about cans and worms comes to mind.

Good luck to everyone there, I suppose.
Current Mood: Bemused
Jenny Jenkins
Tu pourras repartir au fin fond des nuages
Et de nouveau sourire à bien d'autres visages...

I love you
Jenny Jenkins
08 May 2013 @ 11:20 am
Current Mood: Black
Jenny Jenkins
29 April 2013 @ 07:33 pm
I stumbled on photographs online about an hour ago looking for my step-grandfather's address that are housed in the "Memory Project." They've spelled his name (slightly) wrong, but it's him.

I'm German, of course. One part of my 'memory' (if we can call it that) of WWII (which occurred long before I was born) is of my German grandfather - A man I still remember slightly, but who died of cancer when I was a child. He was drafted (18 years old in 1939), served in the Wehrmacht in the Ardennes and then on the Eastern Front as a radio man (he had played the piano, so they trained him in Morse Code) and he was captured just before the war ended and sent to a Russian Gulag until, I believe 1952.

A long, long war for him. He was a nervous, frightened man (even I remember that) in the shadow of his younger wife - my grandmother, who was VERY young during the war and still a teen when it ended and tough as nails to this day.

On the other side of the world in 1939, The Depression was in full swing and my Canadian step-father's father just wanted to get off the Prairies...

The Canadian grandfather on leave
at Fort Qu'appelle Saskatchewan.

He didn't know a bloody thing about Europe. He had no clear idea of what was happening. He just wanted out. Like many people in their late 80s or early 90s (he's 91, I think) the experience of the depression never left him. He remembers it as cold and hungry and dirty. War was an adventure.

On his first day of training his bayonet kept falling off his rifle. It really embarrassed him and he was scared they would send him home.

More pictures in black and white...Collapse )

Current Mood: Oddly cheerful!
Current Music: Vera Lynn - because why not?
Jenny Jenkins

They're local, of course. And their name (The Wailin' Jennys) is actually a tribute to Whelan Jeremy.
And they inspired suzanne410's nickname for me...
One more and a rant on the rankins and the fisheries collapse...Collapse ).
Current Mood: Feeling Especially Canadian
Jenny Jenkins
08 March 2013 @ 03:40 pm
I've been pushed into that place J S Bach (and Glenn Gould) send you into - a very bright, happy space that seem to open up in the mind - a little euphoria, a lot of clarity - and a little pain, maybe, but all in a good way.

You can hear him humming - just! I think he gave his recording studio a bit of trouble with this one.

Current Location: A Blissful Mental Space
Current Mood: Completely Enthralled
Current Music: The Well Tempered Clavier