I randomly pull one of
his yellowing LP record jackets
from the stack on top of the
filing cabinet flanked by
the gray ones. I blow the fuzz
from the needle, turn the knob
from off/ to /on, adjust the volume,
and tinker with the speed for
this old 78. Too trilly? Violins
too slow? Is this what Robert Schumann
sounds like? Pure romance in music
literature. An 1841 piano fantasy,
a quiet reticence of snow and fire
rising and falling in freshness,
tenderness, and profundity? A happy
specimen of freedom of expression,
pathos and passion ending way too soon
pooling in a loop of static space.
Pooling in a loop of static space.
A technical difficulty– I remedy
by picking up the arm and placing it
a hundred tree rings back, so I
can hear the orchestra play it
again before the students file in.
Before the students file in.
Prompted by Poetic Asides