It’s 4 PM on a Spring Sunday - not the time to embark on a ponderous post. Especially since a thunderstorm woke me up last night, allowing me to already do my fair share of brooding before even getting up.
So let’s talk about Spring. And about how of all a sudden one finds oneself strolling around the countryside where bees are buzzing, flowers flowering , trees budding and everything is just being lively and lovely.
So with the slightest of efforts one can ignore the newer human settlements (with on average 3 gleaming cars in front, and each façade equipped with an ominously blinking security box). And basking in warm sunlight & country smells, one can rather swoon over the bucolic charm of ramshackle farmhouses, winding paths and cute little chapels ( I didn’t know we had so many of them, solitarily standing at crossroads or hiding under big old trees.)
In fact, enjoying the pleasures of nature & spring has come rather late to me, just as my appreciation of Mozart. Apparently my soul needed to age and sadden some, before it could surrender to sheer transient delight. But of course, neither Spring nor Mozart (1) are ever about sheer unalloyed pleasure... Both also exude the melancholy of ephemeral perfection and of , indeed, transient delight.
sounding a single note
(1) Erik Tarloff in “Haydn vs. Mozart”, an article ‘comparing’ sane & straightforward Haydn with ambiguous Mozart : “to music lovers, the adjective Mozartian, while always suggestive of exquisite grace, also connotes an umbral, aural world where emotions shimmer with ambiguity and confront their own opposites”