The music to come.
[LAUGHING]
Mr. Robert.
Off you go, horse.
[GRUNTS]
Tired?
The whole day with the 12 tone Germans,
then called Madame Callas for a chat.
You know, what's-your-name, my bad eyesight alone made
for effective touches and performance.
Those sudden reeling backward half a swoon in Tosca
at two, causing hearts to stop came
from when I stumbled on a prop in dress rehearsal.
Little things like that.
Now tell me Tom, Dick, you're returning soon as a composer?
Interesting.
You will write for the stage?
You don't say?
Wonderful.
With a good part for me?
I forget.
Once and for all it's here that one retires.
Making night glimmer with short sighted tears.
This relieves us, since the fête at nine
there's been no mention of your music, Robert.
Much of it over your heads, I fear, and mine.
Even as we talk I'm separating the tones
in a double glissando.
A full year could be devoted to each one's least
vibrations, Then exams: compose 500 variations on three notes.
G-A-D, say, ring in my mind and must
be linked first their frequencies in Western music.
Schumann, Bach, Josquin, then the vibes of color and emotion.
G minor a blue green sublimity.
Why only three notes?
Three for those of us who share the Western oh well genius,
is as we know nearly unbreakable mold.
A-B-A or major minor major.
DJ.
But Schoenberg.
Yes, he grasped the mold breaking idea,
yet left us with the old.
Innovation only strengthened it while many a listener
clawed his chair and prayed: let oh
let the lid fall on that hand.
Steinway collapse and break those wretched knees.
Put oh put an end to that career.
The prayer has been answered?
Now sir, if you please I'll use the instrument.
First lesson, dear Mr. X, there are these things called keys.
He talks a while about the music, the kind of music
they want him to write.
We notice however, that the cup is
moving in a rather slow, sad way and remark
that it is an awesome task to undertake, a lonely one.
I don't rush off with glad cries like our friends.
I shan't like them belong to Queen mom's crystal set.
Then, too, you see.
A deep breath.
I'm to be crippled.
Dear God, why?
Why not?
Confined and slightly set apart, slow love,
forced to get on with it, make sense of it,
make my report to God.
Robert, from birth?
Yes, joining the club (foot).
But hasn't modern surgery by now?
Please, I had to reject too many bone implants
before the doctors let me be.
At least a fine Byronic head?
This time, dear Mr. Robert, no distractions.
Who wants love must earn it-- so my slight melancholy,
but I'll get out of gym.
Miss Jane.
Plus two doting parents, Mr. R, and oh that
shy fond sister, no marriage for her.
No, no.
There she'll be, tapping at your studio,
such an attractive set up out in a barn.
Brother dear, your lunch.
Forgive me, lads, but time is pressing if not here
below in the red matrix.
Go.
We understand.
You'll see me next through a faint haze.
Five ceremonies on as many days begin tomorrow after which,
alas, down to Earth I spiral like
a leaf who would gladly stay.
But no, fond as I am of Uni, one cannot say nay to life.
Sirs, he was laughing when he left.
Trot in there, Uni.
Try following that act.
Sirs, Mr. R is my shepherd.
When he speaks my world goes green.
He shows me skills.
Shall I say a poem?
One of yours?
Dear creature, by all means.
I stand each day by the school room door from which
came murmurings before.
I stand and wait to greet our friends
and summer ends and summer ends.