THE WINTER OF NINETEEN
SEVENTY-ONE
1.
Fall semester of
nineteen seventy-one,
the circling of the
academic drain
one disaster seemingly
after another.
The jury has gathered,
stern painted faces on
the
music professors
sitting in
a pool of spilled beer,
the aftermath
of a CST alumni
Christmas
party beer bust, tempo
markings meaning
nothing
to fingers stiffening
in the
path of air blowing
through
the opened windows’
hope
of removing the stink
of the previous night’s
alcoholic festivities
to the December cold
outside.
Allegros no more, con
fiore
a dream, as the
clarinet/band
professor
goose-stepping
around the hall like a
Nuremberg Rally
participant
peers over my shoulder
trying to perceive what
I’m playing, only to
confirm
that assholes in music
are
the worse of all
assholes.
Dare I say it to the
German
Musical Sphincter
looking
over my shoulder? My
common sense advises
that this is one battle
that is best to lose.
2.
I am a person dressed
in despondency this
night, hardly the
company in which
you had hoped to be.
Patiently allowing me
space in which to
wear my present
demeanor,
you perceive that it
was
not just a poor piano
grade that brought
this on. Sitting on
the day bed in the
quiet of the basement
of my parent's house,
I unfold that my student
deferment draft status
had lapsed. Conscription
into a losing war, manufactured
by American weapon makers
and the politicians
whose
pockets are laced with
the money bloodied
by the many lives lost
and maimed by war,
looms much greater
in my life than a
“C” grade in piano.
On the phonograph,
the Moody Blues
provide the musical
background as you
take my hand into
yours and draw us
both to our feet.
You embrace me,
and slowly we dance,
the brown and white
speckled floor tiles
of my parents’ basement
under our feet. a
tear slowly glides down
the smooth cheek
of your beautiful face.
3.
The Phoenix, always
present in disaster,
rises from the ruins
of my Fall Semester
emerging with a
new year, a new
beginning with a
renewed perspective.
The German Musical
Sphincter, advising me
to abandon piano, only
spurs me to defiance,
to reenvision, to
refocus
my attention to piano,
to music education,
to voice, casting his
band ideology to
the scrap heap of
old brass and spit
swollen wind
instruments.
I ascend from
despondency
to new purpose into a
future certain only in
its direction to a
destination unknown.
The one constant in
my life is you. You
listen to my new dream,
encouraging,
supporting,
being present, your
eyes searching mine
trying to discern
the mystery within me,
your gentle hand
resting on top of mine.
Were you to know
my full design, one
I hardly know well
myself,
would you willingly
follow me into this
unchartered future?
I can only hope.
© 2015, from The Book of Ruth, by Deacon Bob
Wagner OFS. All rights reserved.
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