The Fredösphere

I spent an hour composing at a Caribou Coffee shop.  I'm rather pleased that I was five minutes into my work before I noticed the music playing in the building.  I considered leaving, but decided to stick it out.  I almost believe it helped me, by forcing me to concentrate.  My mind wanders more in silent environments.  However, my need for intrusive noise is not absolute.

A young man, maybe college age, walked in with his mother.  He wore a black sport coat that could have been velour, or at least a very plush corduroy.  With it he wore black knee-length shorts of that nylonish material they make tents out of, plus a pair of black flip-flops on his feet.  Hey, black is always in good taste, right?!  People, people,  please remember the rule:  check with me before getting dressed in the morning if there is any question at all of the appropriateness of what you have picked to wear.  If you don't call me, I absolutely cannot take responsibility for any fashion disaster that eventuates.

My week of quotes here at the Fredösphere ends with a whimper.  I started without a big plan; that I chose mostly quotes about mysticism, or that it all happened during Holy Week, was just the way it turned out.  Thanks to those of you -- all three of you!  A big shout out to George in Omaha, Otis in Macon, and Wilma up there in White Cloud! -- who stuck with me through this strange detour.  As you noticed, we have resumed our usual stream of what passes around here for consciousness.

How appropriate that my attempts at sourdough bread making should achieve an apotheosis on Maundy Thursday of all days.  Just when I was about to give up.  Turns out I really need to use less water than the recipe calls for.  Oh, the agony and ecstasy of mastering a tricky skill.

Speaking of keeping to the topic of the day:  I was rummaging around in my basement, where I keep my Rubens and that Soft Loud instrument I've been tinkering with forever, when what did I discover but an old music manuscript.  It's a Passion, and judging from the handwriting, it one of J. S. Bach's long lost.  In fact, the title says it is the believed-to-be-unrecoverable Passion of Our Lord According to Saint Judas.  What a find!  Is this the best luck ever, or what?!

Okay, okay, I'll end the week with one more quote, just for consistency's sake:

I refuse to spend 150 bucks for something in a restaurant that doesn't contain alcohol.

John Fisher, co-worker