The Fredösphere

I'm listening right now to Messiaen's Chronochromie, and I find myself turning against him.  This piece is a perfect example of what musicologists refer to as honk - splat - tweeet! modernism.  This stuff leaves me cold.

And now, dear reader, a warning:  I'm about to go deep into doting parent territory.  Those of you with weak constitutions may need to check out at this point.

The Maharincess completed her first class in pre-ballet at Peter Sparling's dance studio.  On Saturday we joined the throng of parents who crowded themselves into the studio to see the students strut their stuff.  The Maharincess was completely, utterly in her element.  She dazzled the audience with a face illuminated by the biggest smile I've ever seen anywhere.  When the instructor called for first position -- to "open the book" of the feet -- the Maharincess noticed her little friend was not listening, so she bent over and spread the girl's toes by hand.  This would not be the last time in the five-minute exercise where she drew a chuckle from the audience.  The wifeösphere, sitting in a place where she couldn't see well, asked me if it was our child who was amusing everyone so.  Who else?  She was asked to go first in every demonstration; the wifeösphere suspected it was her enthusiasm, not necessarily her technique, which won her that honor.  Four years old, and already her destiny is plain as day:  she will be a performer.  May God have mercy on her soul.  And her mother's.