It's funny that a nervous (cynical? depressed?) side of my brain contests the importance of writing every day. "not important--why are you doing it--no no no" flaps out of its sour mouth, ankles together, feet turned out. If I call it funny then I have control over it. If something is absurd, it's divorced from being a part of you, it's able to be rejected.
I have a studio class today. I'm working on a Brahms piece that has a theme suspiciously similar to a Christmas carol, the part in Noel that goes "on a cold winter's night that wah-as so deep." Brahms writes all these interlocking pieces of music, and apparently everyone discovers Brahms as an undergrad and gets mesmerized. I wouldn't say I'm mesmerized, just impressed. This is the guy that said something along the lines of, "I'm less shocked that I'm so lazy than that other people are so ambitious."
Here's a ridiculous Nazi conductor: "von Karajan treated his orchestra with aristocratic scorn. He conducted entire concerts with his eyes closed; and when he edited the films of the orchestra he systematically removed any shots of his players' faces. Asked by Roger Vaughan why, he said simply, 'Because they are ugly.'"