Have you ever tried one of those painting by numbers kits?
I wonder how it would work for writing, poetry in particular,
but also whether it would be possible to write music that way
or if there’s more to composing than meets the eye—the way
living goes beyond being simply alive.
I don’t do Christmas gifts—or Christmas itself, for that matter—but if I did,
an Etta James record and a box of soft tissues would be plenty, I guess,
so I’m not a high-maintenance man, yet neither a good girl nor a bad one
writes my name on the tag attached to the wrapper with the Santa motif,
and not even because my solitary life has grown on me after a few years,
or my last date thought I’m a bore and didn’t hesitate to say it to my face,
but because it’s easier to cry to ‘At Last’ than muster up trust once again.
The day I forget how to spell my name will be like a violin playing
a violinist—somewhat unexpected, but not overly dramatic, calm even,
except, I guess, it’s better to embrace the little drama of the present
with backaches and cooking dinner for one while listening to Lisa’s song
played in a loop and leave the whole spelling affair as it comes
to a letter cutter.
Do you remember that feeling
when you finally find out what the melody is
that has been haunting you for months,
after you’ve heard it just once by chance,
only to be played all of a sudden
by the violas and cellos—an ostinato
carved into the black vinyl—as a farewell
to the kind of reserved innocence
you often only begin to savour
when it’s already too late? I do.
If only you had realised then
that you could survive on a single act
of desperation.
While watching the film Clara by Akash Sherman today, I heard a fragment of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata on the soundtrack, and I felt like listening to the whole piece. Later, in the evening, I chose a random performance, but the first movement was played so flatly and emotionlessly, like a chore, that I quickly turned it off. It was just painful to listen to. Beethoven was probably turning in his grave, speaking figuratively. However, I did not give up and found a recording of Claudio Arrau’s concert from 1970, during which he played this sonata. You could hear the difference immediately. It’s hard to believe that both pianists had the same score in front of their eyes. But this should come as no surprise, given that Arrau is considered one of the greatest pianists of the twentieth century.
If I taught myself musical notation, would I be able to write music even though I can’t play any instruments? One might say, What a completely ridiculous idea—it’s like asking if, once you learn the alphabet, you could write Long Day’s Journey Into Night, In Search of Lost Time, or The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. But is it really? I know, I’m not a bloody Shakespeare, and I wasn’t suggesting that I would attempt to write a new Hamlet. The thing is, there are times when melodies come to my mind, and I hum them to my internal pleasure, but they are gone soon after. If only I wrote them down to be able to come back to them at a later time, who knows what they might evolve into? After all, even though I’m not even remotely close to being at the level of T. S. Eliot, I managed to write a few fairly decent poems. Of course, assuming I don’t have dysmusia.
I like Monday blues, pure peppermint tea,
and the smooth touch of piano keys.
I make flatbread using my own recipe,
find washing dishes by hand calming,
and respect the spiders living in my bathroom.
I buy books in second-hand bookshops
for the dedications and random notes
left inside by previous owners.
If there is a film that particularly appeals to me,
I watch it over and over again,
even several times a day if time allows.
I also never treat music as background noise,
and if I feel like listening to something,
I make sure to pay it full attention.
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night
or can’t fall asleep at all, and if that happens,
I get up to write a verse or two.
In principle, I could say that I quite like myself
and my life if it weren’t for the thorns
of everything I hate. It turns out that the door
to someone’s soul is in the shadows.
Too many words, too few hours of sleep with music imitating the lasting sounds of the street,
or the other way around, and breakfast like the last supper rehearsal, goaded by the mere fact
of my undeniable mortality—all of that made me feel as if I had forgotten someone’s birthday,
when in fact it was the birthday one who sabotaged my every effort at making birthday wishes.
Who would have thought cruelty could be effortless?
hidden pilcrow 