So ... More Calls

I sometimes wonder if the patrons of Caffé Nero are permitted to add milk to their coffee.
I dreamt that I invented a cocktail and dubbed it The Jump Start. Mixologists may be disappointed, in that the only ingredient I could recall on waking, is a wheat grass liqueur.
Porridger’s Almanack (Breakfast of Ganglions)

When they demand to see your papers to “prove” you are who say you are, it’s actually to signal you don’t belong.
That’s the racist heart of birtherism. It’s never about getting to the truth, because they don’t care about truth.
It’s about who is presumed American. Call it out.

— Geo. Takei (who spent some of his boyhood in an internment camp)

I wrote a week and a half ago that I would forgo submitting some scores, allowing the entry fee to be an obstacle. Since then, someone near to me who is always both supportive and optimistic underwrote the entry fees, and so I have submitted both extracts from the Third Symphony as well as the re-scored Surfing an Earthquake. To yet another call I submitted Intermezzo I from White Nights. And I got word from a choral music call I had forgotten about that mine was not one of the pieces selected. Separately, and more immediately musically: The k a rl h e nn i ng Ensemble is gathering anew this Monday evening.