Music and Moving

I'm presently listening to a recording of the Cortot-Thibaud-Casals trio playing Schubert's Trio No. 1 in B flat major (I managed to read all this information from the spinning record label, hence the tiny headache I am now enjoying). On Side 1 there was Haydn's Zigeunertrio, which my great-aunt, uncle (a violinist) and father used to play together often until we moved to Germany when I was 10, and of which I had especially enjoyed the fastest movement. I play the piano part sometimes. Anyway, it was really a pleasure to listen to the recording; I kept on exclaiming internally how good it is.

As for my own humble musickings, they were definitely more interesting when I felt out of sorts during the last few days. I didn't find anything new in the pieces I played, but, for instance, I had a fit of impatience that enabled me to tackle the recalcitrant sextuplets in Mendelssohn's "song without words" for cello and piano. But when I played on the grand piano it felt as if I were wrestling with it and losing. My fingers seem to lack the strength to properly depress the keys, arm weight barely helps, and I quickly become tense and annoyed, especially because I'm playing so badly. This doesn't always happen, however; perhaps if I never played out of boredom or not knowing what else to do, I would have the willpower to play as I would like.

Anyway, I should give an update on our upcoming migration. The apartment we wanted in Berlin Schöneberg has felicitously fallen to our lot. It's 180 m squared and it has, I think, five rooms besides the bathroom (not quite Ritz-y, but large -- according to the photo -- and well-lit). The rooms are large, with white walls and parquet floors. They do mostly run into each other, which means that our bedrooms will not be all that private, but my mother plans to do wonders with our many bookcases. Anyway, the view down the doorways, with the large white folding doors, is reminiscent of a ballroom scene from a Jane Austen film (though the building comes from 1900). So evidently my expectations for the apartment are high, despite the possibility of disappointment.

In further relocation news, our grey minivan has been endowed with a "For Sale" sign, and an advertisement has been put in the local paper. The effects of my efforts at cleaning the car are still visible, though dust has resettled on it with discouraging rapidity. I went over each part of it at least twice, and spent many frustrating minutes trying to dislodge the grime from the nooks and crannies of the wheel hubs. For some reason the rear wheel hubs are squeakily clean whereas patches of rusty-tinted dirtiness spread out defiantly from the sheltered curves of the front wheel hubs. As for the packing, boxes and crates full of belongings have accumulated, and the little house has an unwonted airy aspect. A few minutes ago Papa discovered a box full of childhood possessions (like a self-made radio), and he happily unpacked it and showed the contents to Mama, as my two oldest brothers looked curiously on.