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Category: the days of C***mas

on the third day of C***mas

les-musiciens-1952

   “Les musiciens (1952) 

 

        Nicolas de Staël

 

           ___________

 

on the third day of C***mas, I needed to 

ready myself for the onslaught, I was 

hosting, yikes, for someone from out

of town

 

I thought I’d had it all figured out, but 

obstacles occurred, of course, to my, 

nearly cowed, consternation

 

needed help

 

I’d anticipated more violin concertos 

to get me going, but, among my 

several bookmarks, King Crimson

came up, a group I’d admired 

tremendously in my formative years,

the 70s, when freedom of expression

prevailed, in all of its innocent

expectations

 

they are tremendous, if you like that 

sort of thing, entirely progressive 

rock

 

you’ll think me eccentric if I relate 

them to Classical considerations, not 

only are they rigorous about tempo, 

tonality, and repetition, essential 

Classical components, but reach 

further into even tribal configurations,

their minimalism – later formalized by,

incidentally, Beethoven – of infinitely

repeated rhythms, like thumping, 

intoxicating, essentially, thrusts,

heartbeats meeting heartbeats, very, 

in other words, primitiveprimeval

 

add to that, later, their superimposed 

atonal riffs – Jimi Hendrix meets the 

jungle – a direct reference to 

Schoenberg‘s breakdown of the 

orthodoxy of the musical scale, and

cadence, and reiteration, you’re left 

with a history of our culture’s sonic

aspirations in a single incandescent

concert, despite a couple of egregious 

commercial interruptions in the

download, a 21st-Century, it seems, 

corporate roadblock

 

watch, enjoy 

 

 

R ! chard

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Munich, the application‏

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after a period of some indecision – 
the state of my health, an abysmally
low iron count that left me 
uncharacteristically unsteady, near
fainting, which I’d considered to be 
old age instead of something more
chemical, clinical, the distance to 
where we’d be going, time zones, 
jet lag, the difficulty of finding 
appropriate accommodations for 
the one month we’d be there, and 
at a reasonable price, none of which 
was a problem for my mother, 
incidentally, but which rattled only 
myself – it looks like the holiday 
we’ve envisioned will come to pass, 
my mom and I ‘ll be going to Munich 
for both the C***mas and the New 
Year’s holidays, with at least ten 
days on either end 
 
what clinched it was that not only
had my iron leaped from abysmal
to completely ordinary, though my 
thyroid is now acting up, you plug 
one hole, another one pops up, I 
told my doctor, one day the tide 
will roll in, inexorably, I proclaimed
 
showed up, we got for a song, 
something out of Hansel and Gretel, 
which, with the invaluable help of a 
dear friend in Germany, who was born 
in Munich, apparently we’ve managed
 
I am so happy for you, “Ich freue mich 
ja so sehr auf Euch, dass ich gerne helfe, 
damit der Traum wahr wird“, I’d be
happy to help make your dream come 
true, she said, like a very fairy 
godmother
 
we’re waiting on a response to our 
application
 
 
the house is of stone and wood, 
it has a wooden staircase along 
a wall of the living room going
up to a bedroom there under an 
attic roof, where the whole aerie 
is covered in red carpet, just, it 
would seem, what a poet ‘d be 
looking for, I think, take a look
 
downstairs has all the appliances
we’d want, including a wifi
connection, so I can write my stories 
about the art galleries and churches 
and operas and Bavarian dinners out 
we’ll delight in, the epiphanies we’ll 
cross in all that enchantment
 
a very fairy tale, I project, though for 
me it already is one, with me as 
Prince Charming, why not, and my 
mom as Queen of the Magical Realm,
why neither – your dream is what you 
make it
 
 
Richard