M! Polo!

Ma! Pol!

Mar! Po!

Marc! P!

Marco STOP it you are DROWNING ME!

in-class exercise 04.02

It took an infinity for my mother to tell her children that the gateway to hell was in the dishwasher drain. She had dealt with this condemnation for years. Protective and bitter over the flames and sulfurous spit vomiting out when she removed the plates and cups, occasionally a casserole. One dinner party, when she felt particularly high-spirited, she gathered the three of us in a white room with four walls and a cockroach, and told us in all composed sincerity the bizarre truth to why we were never allowed to help out with the dishes.

in-class exercise, 04.03

Even his thoughts became as dull, as perfunctory, as the coarse change in his pockets. His thoughts were pale. No embarrassments, like the time his fly was unzipped and he had no underwear on. His thoughts, his situation, broke none of his mother’s precious vases. He was just lusting after his client’s wife after she had given birth to his child.

Bookle-Duck of course was there, wriggling her stupid tale. His client called him, still unsuspicious, about some contracts. Underwear from his top drawer were on his person, and his suit fly was still zipped. Ten years from now, he’d still be kicking Bookle-Duck and the baby would be in the hands of some family. He’d take his guilt to the Pacific islands. As for now, the adoption advertisement would be placed with such ease, such glib ease, and sometime later they would receive that call, so unbusiness like, so blase, looking for a white anglo-saxon newborn. Then she’d lose the weight, return from her hike in the himalayas, which he was stupid enough to believe. Bookle-Duck had too large a tongue to articulate adultery, and if he could, her husband would probably

See above

Marco, Polo!

Marco, Polo!

Marco, Polo!

Marco, Polo!

Marco, Polo!

Marco, Polo!

STOP IT, YOU’RE DROWNING ME!

Extraordinary – Ordinary

I have had to write this, if only to keep the warship knot of my personal life from becoming ordinary. Adultery is a very ordinary thing, just a series of clever impulses that wind through dinner parties, blocking out childhood memories and college flings. Simply another fear of getting caught, the likes of which you would find on any street ignoramus. Now I’m walking along the perimeter of the sidewalk, all the necessary papers in my unobtrusive, rudimentary briefcase. Knock, knock, I walk in, sit down on their sofa, pull out the papers, kick their stupid pet when no one is looking. Then it rears up on me with its enormous, cumbersome tail, pointing at me like some great fluff of a scorpion.

“Now Bookle-Duck,” he says. “Hey hey, stop that, yes, that’s a good girl.”

He fed the beast a Bound cookie and scratched its rabbit ears for a few, far too long, minutes — the sentimental behavior of a man bored by life. You can always catch the team players, the omega dogs, by how much they resemble their pets. He looks like the cross breed, the way his hair uncontrollably bounces with every silly movement he makes. Bookle-Duck squealed a bit, sauntered into the kitchen where I assume she was — was she as nervous as I? — I got out the contract, feeling like some Gestapo Mefistofeles.

“Your boss is a rich woman.”

“Which Roman?”

“No, no, rich woman. A rich woman. She is a rich woman.”

“Oh yes, of course, delighted, as always.”

He brought some cookies from the kitchen, force fed them to me and then let Bookle-Duck growl at me in jealousy, occasionally batting me on the head with its huge tail. I could not tell if it smelled like onions or body odor. I left without talking to her, absolutely no suspicions, my nervous task victoriously, nonchalantly accomplished.

That in-class exercise

A snowstorm paints the candy canes, the huts, the barrels of toys. The dead salesman, who died in some play, was in search of his father. So he materializes out of this snowstorm and finds himself knocking of Father Christmas’ industrial-revolution era monstrous edifice. After receiving an exhaustive pat on the back, his childhood memories shirking him away, he’s sent back into the snowstorm. The candy canes disintegrate, the Christmas temples are buried in white. And out of that numb nothingness, an armchair, the posts of his bed, the four walls, the circular window, even the stuffed animal frog embraced by his arms rise from his eyelids.

It kind of works, except what kid would be reading death of a salesman?

Old notebooks

will return to later

My skewed stranger studies

Metronome Practice

I used to practice I used to practice wrong notes right notes I When I was little I used to I used to think the wrong notes were prettier than the right ones. But this predilection has been chiseled out of me, and I am happier more content hungrier because of it. Eventually the fog Eventually the mist Eventually the wrong notes would be lifted from Berg’s Sonata op. 1 from my Viennese tone-poem and every note would be placed with accuracy with dangerous accuracy. But presently But a few months ago, when my back was to this desk and my eyes were on the sheet music, my thumb smudged the octaves and I avoided my very useful fourth finger voices were not carefully considered. I practiced over over again over and over again to get every note every rhythm just right. Berg, no My God was rolling in his grave Austrian grave.
My thoughts were on the competition, in which I would have to perform I would have to perform three recitals, one for each stage one for each level of the competition one for each stage. A fourth The winner’s recital was an inconvenient concerto, of which I thankfully had two prepared I had two concerti thankfully prepared for the winner’s recital, an inconvenient concerto. One day in beat with my smudged octaves One day in beat with my metronome One rhythmic day One day, in beat with my metronome, came knocking. A well-dressed old man An old man in a button down shirt and a plush sweater told me his name. I was eager to dismiss him I was eager to dismiss another one of those loiterers looking for a free awkward free and awkward concert for an awkward concert. Then he apologized for interrupting and told me the Viennese tone poem was in his opinion the greatest late-Romantic composition the latest great Romantic composition the single greatest masterpiece of late Romanticism and he would pay me he would compensate me compensate for my instruction.
I said “I can’t teach it to you, I can only tell you what is wrong with your playing,” I said. When this was agreed to politely agreed to, I said, “You know it is difficult You know it is uncomfortably annoyingly frustratingly bafflingly You know it is difficult?” He said he understood.
Our first lesson was My first instructions were futile. The old man The man had no sense of rhythm!. His wrinkled freckled hands quavered over quivers quivered hopelessly over quavers. When I asked him just to play the notes just to play not thinking of rhythm at all (this is an exercise no teacher no conservatory teacher would condone) it seemed he understood the harmony the harmonies It seemed he could play the notes. The notes were all in place like a flock of deer emerging from hibernation The notes were all in place but they were played like some unintentional dirge They were played badly because they had no rhythm He had practiced but it wasn’t quite right He played. I noticed a smile that cracked from that cracked all of his wise sinking face.
I live in a difficult building I live in a building full of hipsters I live in a difficult building with loud rebellious neighbors. It was only a matter of time It was only two weeks of his rhythmless playing before we received a death threat from the drummer next door. “You snobs are going to fucking get it” the note said “You snobs are gonna fuckin’ get it with your racist with your black and white keys,” we heard him chanting. Through the taut crack in the wall of my shower I noticed him sitting on the toilet reading some fascist pamphlet reading some inflammatory conceptual art magazine sitting on the toilet not reading anything just popping out atonal popping out a beat from his puckered lips.
“What’s that all about?” the man the old man asked.
“Oh I don’t know Oh just an old lover Oh I live in a difficult building,” I replied.
I thought he would say He said He could have said, “oh you kids with your shoes with your sodomy with your cheap rent” He didn’t say anything, he just smiled frowned and continued attempting to follow the metronome follow the tick tock not a clock.
Around this time Around May Around springtime Later I achieved the polish and dramatic intensity needed in my own playing. I found myself in a certain harmony in a certain rhythm whichever you like in a certain counterpoint between between between intensively practicing and doing practical tasks practicing practical tasks. Then I passed stage one Then I passed all the stages Then I passed stage one, stage two, stage three and finally I won stage three not without a few permissible mistakes. There is no such thing as a concert as a work of art as a story as a performance without mistakes. I won money Money in my bank account Lots of money later the old man and I bought bottles of champagne champagne and we blew bass notes from our bottle that got microtonally deeper and deeper deeper in chromatic microtonal shades As the bass note got microtonally lower we got drunker. The horizon was aflame and we were tipsy The moon was milky and we were drunk. In this state of blissful intoxication blissful thirst the crazed drummer next door and the rhythmic incompetence of the man the old man’s playing created a something pleasing synthesis pleasing counterpoint. I was not drunk enough to declare myself a genius It sounded nice It sounded pretty, their fused playing their obfuscating their playing.
I awoke from momentary dozing from a momentary doze to my door being smashed down to bang bang bang. The old man was up up and about was walking smoothly walking urgently to dusty light where the door used to be and the hipster the thrilling hipster the drummer stepping into the apartment in his purple sneakers with chips of wood on his shoulder. With an angry grunt the old man and the drummer and the two of them fell to the floor fighting. The old man did not fight The old man fought The old man represents harmony he didn’t fight The old man defended The old man Rhythm  fought the old man The two of them wrestled for a while and I felt inspired I felt like practicing like writing a story like practicing.

Non-fiction wrap up

creative-non-fiction-wrap-up.doc

draft of abandoned non-fiction project

A Transcription of Un Ballo in Maschera
or
Operation, as in “Opera”
or
On-fiction non-fiction

Because of censorship Giuseppe Verdi was forced to change the time and setting of the story based on factual events. In an absurd stroke of genius the censors chose Boston shortly before the Revolutionary war. I sympathize with these censors, whoever they were — their art also speaks to me.

First Synopsis of Opera, then my…

Transcription

Act one. Since arriving in Boston, Riccardo finds that the only diversion from politics was womanizing. The unmarried Earl leaves the discussions of adulterous fishermen and violent Indian ghosts to woo the ladies of higher Bostonian society. He is delighted to read that a yet un-chartered conquest by the name of Amelia will be attending a masked ball given for his birthday. He is pleased too that previous subjugations, spouses of Sam and Tom, will also attend. Lots of lovers. He thinks of blushed cheeks while staring aimlessly at the guest list. Blushed cheeks and foxy stares.
Standing beside Riccardo as he reviews the list in interminable silence, save the creaking of pews, is anxious second, Renato, who looks over the faces of present officials with a grave forehead. He pokes Riccardo’s side, then speaks into his ear: “There is a conspiracy afoot.” Riccardo looks around his congress, creaking chairs, nodding naps. How could that sullen patch of farts afoot a conspiracy?
The arrival of cheerful young Oscar the page. “There’s a witch who’s leagued with the devil. She predicts the future, and has the harbor enthralled with her wild braided fantasies.” An old man calls out, “Dismiss her!” Oscar defends her. “Exile her,” another blue geezer shouts. “Well,” Riccardo says, bringing silence to the hall with his palm. “We shall visit this witch. In disguise we shall visit her, to prepare ourselves for the festivities of tomorrow. We will also be able to judge objectively.” In a swell of merriment the politicians rise to their tippy toes and don their peasant clothes and skip off to the harbor.
Ulrica the witch sees through the fishmonger disguise of Riccardo, who beats the old farts to the chase. She accepts Amelia’s visit, and the two act like they don’t notice Riccardo’s conspicuous enormity. Amelia complains of her infatuation with the Earl, and Ulrica suggests she swallow a drug that grows at a place of execution. Amelia waddles off and Riccardo’s congress enters through the front door. Riccardo has his fortune taken. Unfortunately, the next person who shakes his hand will kill him. Lo and behold, Renato comes out, shakes his hand. The pair laughs it off and Ulrica laughs in a different mode.
Act two. Resolute Amelia comes to collect the magic weed, inversion of whatever Tristan and Isolde drank. Riccardo lurks out of the bushes and the two sing of their mutual love. Amelia turns to the audience and wails a high note while her corset is slyly unraveled.
Renato has witnessed the conspiracy coagulate, and jumps ahead of the small, fugal mob to warn Riccardo. He comes out on stage, deaf to the gasps of audience members, and fails to recognize his wife, herself blinded by an impractically practical veil. Riccardo suggests, quelling his own chortles, that Renato take the woman back to town. The married couple walks for a bit in silence, but they run into the mob that Riccardo escaped from. In the hurly-burly, the veil slithers to the ground and Renato is publicly humiliated by his wife’s implied infidelity. He asks Tom and Sam to meet him at his place in the morning. Sure, in the morning.
Act three. Ulrica’s fortune mechanically conceiving itself, Renato thinks of different ways of executing his wife. Craftily, Amelia reminds her husband of their son, who might as well be George Washington, why not. He gives in to her maternal plea with a shrug, resolved now to drain Riccardo of all life’s pleasure-juices. Renato Washington, to prove his allegiance to Sam and Rom, pledges the life of George. They, like gangsters, shake hands. Their names (including Amelia’s name) are written on cards and one is drawn. Wouldn’t it be terrific if Amelia’s name was drawn? Of course it is Renato. He will do the deed, lunge the dagger, take the blame. Cellos surge, and they head off to the masked ball.
Amelia ignores the ballet. Pierrot is drunk, twirling a ballerina. Passing through dancers, Amelia finds the disguise; a red cap. “Riccardo,” she sighs. “Amelia,” Riccardo says, astonished. “Perhaps now is not the best time,” (eyeing the skinny dancer) “What?” Amelia asks, bemused.
Thud, thud, Renato approaches.
“Amelia, as I said, perhaps now isn’t the best time. I don’t want to talk to now.” “What?” she repeats. “What do you mean you don’t want to talk to me? I’ve risked my marriage for you. The least you can do is talk to me.” Thud. “I’m simply not attracted to you any more.” Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.
Why not have Amelia grab the knife from Renato just before he plunges it into Riccardo, then do the honors herself, atoning for her near adultery. The music ends with a congruous cadence, crash landing on a shattering c minor triad.

Then Historical Epilogue