I noticed a minute ago that the word MOZART is written in faint faded blue ink on my left palm, so faded and faint it looks more like the jagged streak of a vein. For the life of me I can't figure out why. Everyone knows Mozart is not blue, but saffron. The rest is easy to interpret. It would seem to say I loved an Amadeus once, I pressed my hand to his heart, and I moved away, but still he is under my skin.
But today! Bach.
(I was always in love with a Composer. For a while I was not aware there existed anyone but Claude Debussy but then came Chopin, and Beethoven - with brief trysts before between and after with Mendelssohn Mozart Schumann Saint-Saëns Granados MacDowell and Brahms and him and him and him and now Bach. But I cannot say trysting with Bach. He was always a capital letter. He was holy. "OK and now the Bach Invention" and I would shrink under the piano bench because I had not practiced it and maybe even put a match to it. JSB was exercise.)
There is no transformation to write.
"No winging out the way of butterflies"
Since last week the Well Tempered Clavier has been on my Spinet, skin to skin with the Pathetique. The (slightly charred) Inventions I hadn't touched since I was 13 appeared today. If you ask me whence came this change of heart, I won't hear you, because I don't know, and I wonder too - I look at it and wonder how on earth my mind changes like it does.
I hear it and everything makes beautiful sense.
A sweet sun returned today. Autumn on her last days is singing me gently to sleep.