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.

Motivations

Maybe F. sends some goons to his daughter's house (as a way to ensure that his son plays along).

Maybe it's the same goons who start the film . . . so we know they are dangerous.

F.'s move can be revealed later, when F. shows his hand, and can also be a reason that F.'s daughter ultimately turns him in.

It's his game, but she wins . . . and, as a result, someone gets a girl and a life.

Chess, checkers, poker. The threat of real loss foreshadowed.

Or it could be something simpler like: as F. weighs his options, he is attacked by creditors.

Or he flips a coin, something whimsical.

Gets bedbugs. Flees.

Nearly abducted by horror movie film production unit--
it moves into the hotel
he calls home. He doesn't like horror,
as a genre, on principle,
so he flees that movie and ends up in ours.

Cicada's predicted; he's allergic.

A giant cockroach moves in. Won't leave.

A baseball card. Very rare. Lost and then found.

Something he loved as a child. Lost then found.

A giant cockroach moves out. Won't come back.

His grandmother's meatball recipe: salvaged.

The blueprints for his childhood home, long since demolished: salvaged.

Recordings of his mother telling stories or singing.

The images stay,
then fall apart without . . .

Wait, I wanted to,
I wasn't dancing

in the back room.
Someone is stabbing a grapefruit.

Handle the bleeders,

kid's stuff. That's
the best stuff.

I've been busy in a way that shouldn't even be moral.

Perhaps it isn't moral.

Hmmm.

I Paid

that tax collector and the other guy.
The electric and gas at 39 Cherry are cut off
and the mail all forwarded,
even the junk. You would think . . .
but why bother muttering
too soon. This is just getting good.

We have what couldn't be better --
new windows, new household music.
Each day our boy stalks the halls
of a new school, dancing
when he wants to, becoming known
on his own, his very own
whims and refusals scattering
like a story that will be told
by a good or bad teacher one day
to another good or bad teacher
until he wants to forget his homework
just to remind them
to forget him.

As we get wiser, we get older. I think I'd rather be
dumber and younger
always. Let's drink more wine. Some of this
is just so rich
it pummels. Wake
from an afternoon nap
having forgotten your own name
and you know what I'm talking about:
Where you are, breath, where you aren't.
What you have, breath, where it's going.