On the ninth day of spring, just yesterday, I attended the first footy game in a big stadium in Australia-at York Park in Launceston. I had lived in Australia for 36 years and two months--nearly 60 per cent of my life by then; I had watched parts of several games on small ovals across Australia and, of course, seen dozens of parts of games on TV. But I donít think I had ever watched an entire game.
I was married to a big football fan and having a son and two step-daughters who
Chopin(1810-1849) composed in obedience to inner promptings, dictated by his own musical instincts, tastes, feelings and predispositions. His first composition was in 1817, the year of the birth of the Founder of the Bahaíi Faith. Chopin infused new ideas into known forms. The Ballade, for example, which had formerly been a vocalized poem, he cast into an instrumental mold. This afternoon, February 15th 2006, I have been listening to Chopinís Ballade in G Minor Op. 23. Its opening phrase creates
Updated 02-25-2012 at 12:39 AM by RonPrice
(to add some words)
Memory is life. It is always carried by groups of living people and, therefore, it is in permanent evolution. It is subject to the dialectics of remembering and forgetting, unaware of its successive definitions, open to all kinds of use and manipulation. History is always the incomplete and problematic reconstruction of what is no longer there. Memory always belongs to our time and forms a lived bond with the eternal present; history is a representation of the past. -Pierre Nora, 1984--in The
Updated 02-25-2012 at 12:31 AM by RonPrice