Brahm's phone, lyric, and meal

Went to the Brahm concert on Friday with my mom. It was good! We finally decided to sit somewhere other than the back, but ironically, we were so close that it was difficult to see the orchestra.  But we had a perfect shot of the conductor and violin soloist.  I failed to take any good pictures, but this'll give you an idea of where we were:

I could hear the bow slide freely across the strings, sometimes roughly, other times smoothly. And damn, that soloist was good in Second Symphony in D major (though I didn't enjoy his beer belly).  Best of all was the conductor, who was a mere 30 yrs old.  He's a European who did his thing back home, and began conducting on the world stage at 24.  Not only was he young, but you could feel his vitality in his conducting.  He was literally jumping around and swinging his arms fiercely across his body.  And best of all, he was having so much fun, like a youthful little boy.  He was so good he made headlines for his Smetana's Overture for Bartered Bride (so fun! - Imagine the young conductor moving his feet like a little leprechaun to this!).

I also gave in and finally ordered my HTC Thunderbolt.  I won't go into all my phone karma, but I've found it extremely difficult as a youth leader to do SGI activities without a good phone.  Constantly on the go and scheduling meetings here and there.  I should have done this a long time ago but I had determined to make it a present to myself for securing a job.  Instead, I'm going to use this for the sake of activities, and for those activities as my sincere contribution to kosenrufu.

Oh, and I've been addicted to Ada Limon ever since Heain informed me of her. I am NOT a fan of love poetry, with its its unnecessary romantic flairs, depressing endings and emotional implosions, but damn, she pulls this one off pretty well:

Maybe my limbs are made

mostly for decoration,

like the way I feel about

persimmons. You can’t

really eat them. Or you

wouldn’t want to. If you grab

the soft skin with your fist

it somehow feels funny,

like you’ve been here

before and uncomfortable,

too, like you’d rather

squish it between your teeth

impatiently, before spitting

the soft parts back up

to linger on the tongue like

burnt sugar or guilt.

For starters, it was all

an accident, you cut

the right branch

and a sort of light

woke up underneath,

and the inedible fruit

grew dark and needy.

Think crucial hanging.

Think crayon orange.

There is one low, leaning

heart-shaped globe left

and dearest, can you

tell, I am trying

to love you less.

I'll leave you with my go-to meal: