Thirty years ago I joined the Connecticut Writing Project and haven’t recovered yet. Since then, I've tendered my drafts almost monthly in a writing group of other recovering CWP teachers. There’s a closeness among us we get nowhere else, as we share bits and pieces of our lives — our trials with truculent pianos, unpredictable children, and failing parents. Part is honing our craft, part is shaping our experiences, part is understanding who we are.
Mozart and I sit in my van. I drive.
We listen to Figaro, Bryn Terfel singing lead.
Somehow we converse — his English has vastly improved
since he died. I say only “grüß Gott,” “bitte”
and “Weißwein,” but these he likes —
my poor German, his white wine.
He does look curious in wig and doublet, large
head on short frame, a little bug-eyed at the concert hall
in this old mini-van. He plays with the controls — fast-forward
auto-reverse — and tells me in his day when audiences heard
an aria they liked they called for encores right away
right then and there — instant rewind.
Then after a while he dozes — or composes --
it’s hard to tell. Clavier concert for mini-van
in A dur? Perhaps it’s Eine kleine Vanmusik
or the “Dodge” Symphony KV 627
with the Köchel numbers up and running again
after a sleepy two hundred years and change.
On the cusp of the millenium, Mozart’s back.
Sonata form regains air-superiority
and the Age of Enlightenment is making a come-back
on this Zauber spur of interstate here in Connecticut.
©2017 William McCarthy
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