OK, so I have an appointment with my new psychiatrist this afternoon. He's from Somalia. I hope he's not a pirate. I've been seeing psychiatrists since 1977--can you believe that? Readers of my posts may wonder what I gain by seeing a psychiatrist. I'm on the fringe, mentally speaking.
Last night at about 3:00 a.m. my neighbors in 135--speaking euphemistically--got frisky. Very frisky. They live across the hall. But I could still hear their antics through their door, across the hall, through my door. It's really annoying. I wish my neighbors were geriatric. As it is, most of my neighbors are in their 20s, and very "frisky."
Yesterday afternoon I experienced something poignantly nostaligic. I was listening to the radio, and the station broadcast a selection of piano pieces by Franz Liszt. These are the same pieces that I used to play when I had access to a piano, thirty years ago. I hadn't heard the pieces in 30 years. I became lost in the music. It brought me back 30 years or more. There was one piece, a Hungarian folksong, that I remember playing on the evening of June 29, 1976, the night before my father underwent major heart surgery. My father died the day following the surgery, on July 1, 1976. The music was very moving for me.