Saturday, March 31, 2012

Memo on a dulcet man





You were my best man, we agreed it over quenelles de brochet and Corton. You thought it unexpected, and accepted so gladly, I was pleased. Do you remember, when we could hear Böhm conduct Fidelio at the Met or Serkin in the sonatas, that we chose Carnegie Hall? It was natural for us, for Beethoven's bicentennial; like sorrel soup in May out in your garden. I fear you must have known, it was an explosion of resistance that saw my father take your place, on the pretense, he'd expected it: the ladies of the moment were disturbed. In the way they read my Ansel Adams of the farmer behind a screen door, and made me take it down - her care-drawn face so beautiful in the filtered light - your mild and quiet elegance frightened them as if a property of mine, as if reproving them. Yet another signal to abhor what I admire, as I did, them; not done to show me weak, but then to what effect? Why should they want the promise that was left?





Now I am not free to praise your quiet soul, your brave and   sparkling intellect, still far from you, anonymous, without   remembered shame. Oh, show to me your sketches, my best man.









Martin Conte



8 comments:

  1. Replies
    1. Thank you for your comment. This entry found me counting blessings, which are numerous, uncatalogued, unrecognised in part and often misconstrued. One could never misunderstand this one, and I'm grateful that your comment recalls to me a great gift.

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  2. Replies
    1. Thank you for coming on Christmas, good fellow!

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  3. Replies
    1. Possibly, the king of the crickets has it ?

      Merry Christmas & cozy mocs!

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  4. After having spent all the excitements of the preparations for today, one becomes aware that the day of Christmas has something sacred in reading this.
    "Comfort ye," yes, done.


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    Replies
    1. something sacred, you capture, cher VL, so comfortingly

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