Work in Progress (Uncanny Silence and Loss)

Preface I grew up listening to Bach played on period instruments. Such was the vogue, I suppose, at the time (late '80s - early '90s). The fourth Brandeburg concerto (BWV 1049) was, according to instructions in the score, to be accompanied with "continuo," which meant, in Bach's time, the harpsichord. BWV 1057, for those who know and care about music, was intended as a re-write, so to speak, of the earlier piece, but still -- modern tempering of the piano was long in the future, at the time Bach lived, and so we still find ourselves listening, from the smokey distance of imagined memory, to the harpsichord tinkling out those glorious notes. Why does this matter? Simple. I am surrounded by barbarians. My only refuge is the recondite ... the knowledge of obscure matters pertaining to music, poetry (Did Faust really exist?), and philosophy (knock it off, with your foolish prayers, christian!) ... My escape is accomplished with the aid of the old greats, each of them unique, but united in one thing: the maintenance of Western culture. So why is this important? and what has it to do with Bach? Again, simple. The Baroque style, (and the word 'baroque' means, simply, an irregularly shaped pearl. Ha!) the containment of overwhelming emotion in the variegated contours of a unified structure, is conducive to revelation, confession of the things that we do not want to actually TELL others ... These things bubble to the surface, and among sophisticated people these things become works of art, not raunchy bar talk, nor sad puppy-dog-eyed professions to some slut at a park at two in the morning, after downing a half-gallon ... I am surrounded by barbarians, and like Rome, I will soon fall, if no grace comes my way. It is nice to stand in the midst of a bunch of academics and feel at home, when one has a paper on the program, and especially if one is a key note speaker ... It is especialy thrilling if one is sharing this thrill with one's unfaithful shrew of a wife ... It is especially galling to feel the weight of responsibility alight upon a light moment ... It is especially irksome to want to kill the very thing you love the most: yourself. Especially: guides, mentors, amanuenses, tailors, ribaldry, cloaks of black, heavy metal, storms, lightning, silence, peace, justice, hatred and the truth of the human condition. Hatred is easy to foster, love is the stuff of legend -- a bad legend, foolishness, yet the colorful chords of Bach resound in every corner to give us a sense of humanity not as it is but (yes, Aristotle) as it OUGHT to be. Air flows through unaided, as the 'block flutes' of Bach's great concerto ... Unaided: Who wants to be such? I. Make not my glad cause cause of mourning. ~ George Peele Happiness makes me want to drink beer. When lovely Barbara called me, suggesting a date, I was so happy that I downed a fifth of gin and then proceeded to sample all the beers at the local bar. Undone, I went home, to find that Barbara was no longer a possibility. Oh so glad, glad, I was crying ... yes, drunken tears ... An acrobatic mind takes such things and translates them into noetic corpuscules as he listens to Bach. Somehow, the flute sounds lonely in Bach's concerto, a poor little guy, striving to get his warbling voice heard amidst the din of dull, block-headed instruments making only sound, not MUSIC. Genius is comforting. Bach had it, Shakespeare, the great (and my favorite) Lord Byron, and recently, Plath and, well, as much as I hate to say it, Cormac McCarthy. When the head spins it is often correct to say that genius has caused the spin. An open chord descending quietly to something diminished but lovely: such is my life. An open chord frolicking in the grass around a contrapuntal stream: such is my wish. A power chord (Townshend-style) crashing upon the shore of my now-isolated brain: such is my wish. Botticelli. How is beauty born? Ask that guy. Deception is the order of the day for many .. and you know what? I am stopping. Academic time is upon me. I know nothing of the stove the faucet The clarion call of the amphibian Swollen beyond recall Taken by claws of a goddess Taken by nature's sweet rlease Taken when I least need it Taken when I want to remain Taken when I need a vacation Taken Optimism and music sing together Sing like silly finches on a branch Malebranche and word-association Hegel and eagle and finch Somewhere I am thriving And she knows it Somewhere the style persists The lungs cough smoke and New Orleans The lungs cough New York and cheapness The lungs cough poverty and South River The lungs cough smiles and handjobs The lungs ask for a small room where the BRAIN Can write. II. Success is counted sweetest By those who ne're succeed. ~ Emily Dickinson The inner life is our judge. If I go to Facebook and see some photos posted by an ex-girlfriend, photos in which she seems to be revelling in life, embracing a most unsavory fellow, embracing nothing but a cock (pardon me, but it's true) ... If I witness such things, is it acceptable for me to pull out my Glock and let light shine? Of course not. Is she happy? Not without me she's not!!! I am the key to EVERYONE'S happiness: I am the god who walks the deck. No. I am the demon who lurks below, finding solace in subtle, intellectual, ironic torture. I am damned good at it. Something positive this way comes. Memories. They are more fierce than the Conqueror Worm, more potent that any draught (I cannot drink away my memories) ... At the beginning of October, I warn the masses: Edward walks now. Come to me.