Music for Solo Piano

The place I found out about

Gordon Mumma,

that beautiful album cover,

is called On an Overgrown Path.

That came from somewhere

else, something sparked

something. Pretty nice, this trace.

Anyway, some of what I've read there,

On the Overgrown Path, seems to bring us

full circle: craving "classical" music and some of the

writing about "classical" music. I think, now,

this is just a time of the season,

just a weather pattern I'll look forward to,

forget, and then smile into when it's about.

I should add "some classical music,"

I'm craving some classical music,

some writing about some classical music.

It all has to be just so, just right.

Still can't listen too much to Cage, for example,

but find almost anything written by him

for books

or about him in books (even and maybe especially critical

essays about him in books) irresistible -- I read such sentences

in bed, if you don't mind

my saying so. That's a confession that contains

maybe the entire history

of my happiness. That

and the music of Mr. Satie, garlic,

a cold beer, coffee. Do you remember the time

I started buying up Satie books

in used bookstores all over New York City?

The best source was on 79th street. You could

almost taste the Westside Highway from there,

such an odd little resting place for a bookstore.

I've written to you about it before,

about the record player

and couch, the almost godly softness

of the music, the curmudgeon

who works there,

his soul rusted by perfect sound.

You probably don't remember the books,

most certainly don't remember the voyages

to get the books. I was alone when I found them. You

merely saw them, maybe thumbed through them

on one of your visits, laughed at me once

because one of them was all in French.

I think I crave all this --

the music, the talk about the music --

because it maps a

geography less cruel

than the one we've got. Or maybe just

because it's finally nearly October and soon

will be. Music for Solo Piano.