While trying to catch up on my New England Journal of Medicine tonight (now ten issues behind and digging a deeper rut every day), I happened to select a collection of Aaron Copland's greatest works from my music library. This particular set was copied from a compact disc that I bought long ago and listened to quite frequently. I am quite sure that I have not listened to Aaron Copland in at least the five years. The eighteen year old self who lives inside my thirty three year old body disapproves. The twenty year old self who lives inside my thirty three year old body is disgusted. The twenty five year old self who lives inside my thirty three year old body might have predicted this fact.
My thirty three year old self thinks all the others selves should mind their own businesses. But my thirty three year old self can't think of a good reason to have five years between Copland appreciation nights. My thirty three year old self also thinks that my fifty three year old self might do well to either learn to play a musical instrument or barring that, should use his resources and privilege to help others who might not otherwise have the chance to appreciate Copland to appreciate Copland.
Mmmmmm, beef.
My thirty three year old self thinks all the others selves should mind their own businesses. But my thirty three year old self can't think of a good reason to have five years between Copland appreciation nights. My thirty three year old self also thinks that my fifty three year old self might do well to either learn to play a musical instrument or barring that, should use his resources and privilege to help others who might not otherwise have the chance to appreciate Copland to appreciate Copland.
Mmmmmm, beef.