I woke up cold; my thin cotton blanket proved insufficient against the fall night - turned on my left side, picked up the Stephen Mitchell's Rilke, which I keep in the pillow of books next to my head, and read these lines from "Autumn Day" again:

Whoever has no house now, will never have one. Whoever is alone will stay alone, will sit, read, write long letters through the evening, and wander the boulevards, up and down, restlessly, while the dry leaves are blowing.

[1] You know something is really screwed up, in the head and everywhere else, when finding that one of your online (social networking) "self"s has passed the muster of a reasonably articulate (erudite vocabs, check; good grammar, check) "other" (of the XX type) makes this other "self" (this must be the same "self" that was nominated for the "Bhatakte Atma" award back in college) break out into joy.

[2] The Wharton (I am always tempted to say Warthog) Business School is over rated. If elementary numerical problems that take silly fiddling with spreadsheets to finish are the hardest (as claimed) that can be lobbed at the brain, some thing is wrong. But wait, you must recognize that the brain of that "self" has been trained in mathematical arcana such as the use of logarithmic tables in order to solve problems dealing with "Mole Relations in Balanced Equations". And then isn't most business schooling primarily in the art of how to suck up (or maska-fy)? O, how that other school "self", who tried to maska-fy the teachers into making him their pet (with failing results - no one, even then, loved geeks), needs to be urgently resurrected!

[3] Why is this "self" wasting time here instead of swallowing a few more pages of Carson McCullers's "The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter"? Let me tell ya, pure jealousy. How can a young woman at twenty three write so brilliantly about the human condition! Heart burn. Heart burn.

They saved your manuscript From becoming butcher paper.

So now, some three hundred years later, As notes lift off the bow and the bridge

I catch each one, and in each one wrap My bloodied and bruised state knowing

This would keep the blood in my fever-brain From spilling through my ear as I nightmare.

...

I was too late after the call in getting to the concert hall. So while I did miss Bartók, I got Bach's Violin Sonanta no. 1. It - in particular the second movement, the fugua* - cut the top off my head, I think. And I walked out into the half-moon night (which was suprisingly cold in a thin t-shirt), nearly tearing up.

Here is the Wiki entry for Bach's Sonatas and Partitas for Solo Violin. Here young whiz Hillary Han blazes through the fast fourth movement, the presto. And this is some kid playing, pretty well, the slow first movement, the adagio.

*Or fugue. To understand why Bach is a god consider what a fugue is: