Friday, January 18, 2013

Sonata

Call me a nitwit (I am a card carrying member) but I'd forgotten about music. It's transfixative power for the good. The last time I sat on the floor among albums was 300 years ago in high school making a mix tape to make a boy like me. That was how powerful it was. It could make you a boyfriend.

Sure, I "listen" to music, on my phone, as I take my walk daily over the fields, stopping for photos of interesting frost formations and whatnot. That's half-assed. But then I came in from the cold, and said to myself, Why on Earth shouldn't I have some Schubert?

Well holy crap! I was pinned to my sofa like a butterfly in a museum's fabulous Morpho collection. I've been like a cave man and I re-discovered fire.

The hearth, round which everything warms their hands, is music. Especially piano sonatas by the Romantics, for me. They are indescribably good. I thought it was chocolate cake. That was a misstep. What's really nourishing is a cascade like a stream flowing out of a gigantic curved piece of wood strung with wire that's banged on by hammers.

I only pay bills listening to Beethoven's Pathetique now, because anything less is barbarism.

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