Changes, poverty, cash poor, last of the available dollars spent. Hard choices ahead. Living lean. Asking for no favors. The clock ticking down. What will be the challenge of tomorrow? Das Schicksal ist mein Steuermann. I have no more illusions of control. What happens, happens. This is no longer a test. Skyscrapers the stalactites of humanity. A decadent indicator of overabundance ripe for collapse. Life becomes a decision in so many cases as to where you decide to spend your time remaining while waiting for tits end. For me, a French cafe in la place d’Republique. Some are born into the business of hatred of every other. Many find their stride later in life with much cause. I having very little to say on my own behalf for sinking to this level. Indulgence is what is left. The French may be terrible snobs with good reason. Maybe only a Caesar could account for this trait? It all coms down to the power of observation and how one wields it.
The Concert Begins!
Ah yes! The inevitable hair push back of one of the female musicians. No matter the amount of physical danger or possibility of derailing success those of the long hair must push it back. The assurance of continuing to look good good more important than death. Consider the two employees of the house. Both fuzzy-headed unabashedly unruly and stubborn in their own way. The African and the Hebrew, one a perfect protege of the other. Another long tone on the cello in practice on the stage. The best most interesting main attraction before the show being the audience. Old and garish in their style wearing things from their closet that should have been retired before they did. Mumbling their viral patter. All to the accompaniment of the viola and the violin. The scene building an obvious homage to Hitchcock’s genre where the hero must find the murderer in the crowd before the final crescendo. An old yellow shirted man collapses and is slowly pulled to his feet. A bad sign to the boneyard. Will he be the one to die at this afternoon’s performance? Another layer of added drama. So here I sit, the lone wolf invested in my coming fate of this week to come. A test of sorts to see what is endurable. Disconnected from the system of buy and sell for a week. I wonder what my dead parents would say if they now saw their little boy sitting here downtown in the auditorium by himself once again? So many decades past beginning the habit of a movie and a plastic model to show for each Saturday morning’s excursion.
Death & The Maiden by Schubert
An opportunity for women of all ages who consider themselves young at heart to hate their fathers for not making them the center of his life. The most important article of clothing for any of them being a long overcoat of sufficient elegance to cover hidden fashion flaws. The art of misinformation being in choosing words and sentences that can be taken to mean varying conclusions. The young men here in escort of the maidens have yet to understand that the modern female is solely in charge of Feng Shui. What a marvelous feeling to be bereft today of a phone that might start ringing or defective bowels that might rumble at the wrong parts. The auditorium around is barely filled with enough life considering the average age of this audience. This tight knit coven bound in some respects by the all too obvious prominence of their noses. Betwixt eyes beady and deep facial creases accentuating same. The communal expressions of dissatisfaction shared up to this point for eternity. Upon the forefinger of the observer the ink penned mark of the “Schwartzen Schmutzen.” The speaker in his own distinctive sense of self-adoration congratulating his own words that offer nothing but artifice. An adulterated high nasal tone that only offers support to the current continuum of the LGBT set. Insubstantial praise that evaporates as quickly as it is phrased.
The concert finally underway. one could generalize that considering the lavish nature of the walls and ceiling that this mode of music is most fit for play within a palace. And of course overly indulgent patrons with many guests to impress. The bulk of which could not discern it from dinner music dedicated to aid the digestion of a multi-course meal. The music is sweet, precise and academic. As are it’s players in being young enough to take Schubert smoothly as sherbet. The ensemble seems well-schooled in the requisite impasto of visual play. Yet still needing seasoning to fill up the hollowness with more fully explored instants. Intervening passages of music demonstrating he composer’s rude admiration of Beethoven as master in obvious lifts of melodies barely rearranged. The performers not playing with these arguments as of yet. Irresolution through constant confusing cliches rounded off outcomes followed by the vivacity timber of aggressive play. The legacy of the composer’s inner turmoil overlooked within the nuance of the post Napoleonic era and the fatal inclinations of German Romanticism. The maiden in question being lacking in self-awareness enough as her present day contemporaries fixed if you will on her timing but wholly unaware that she is amidst idlers offering only pretense. Tension provided in this segment by a slow and even bowing of the bass. Emotions posed by flighty interactions of violin and viola. Always returning to the safety of the solace as found within the salon offering the well measure notes of a Hayden. The perfidy of a dinosaur before the time of the guillotine. Appearance well-vetted in formal attire of clothing and notes. To look about the room and see the silence of this old Fontainebleau. A creeping oldness busily felling the trees en masse. The sleepy indolence leaking sap from fallen Douglas Firs. Lost passions fought off in sleep and belonging better in the ones as of yet unresolved by the decades younger musicians. All comes to the end with the usual cliches in patterns upon the scale announcing the final crescendo.