I recently composed an operetta by copying Italian-American composer Gian Carlo Menotti’s style. In the story, three donkeys stop for the night at a pond in the forest. A poor single mother and her child find them there. Then, they all begin to sing and dance.
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Yes indeed, I certainly did stop, and after a not unlikely story. The thing I liked most was knowing the exchange for a piece of bread, for whom life wasn’t a continued exercise but a postscript to death. In the meantime, I needed to figure out which idea contained a thought poetical to express.
I was in the audience for her performance. She used to be a friend of mine. The Devil was a friend, too. There was a bold opening movement, then she began her discussion with a flock of sheep, pitting the two largest and most agressive against each other in front of everyone.
Only one thing in sight. The pulsing blood exiting my chest. I lit a cigarette and looked at my life. My mother was not here to do the thinking. Where did I want to go? Who did I want to be? I was supposed to be opening a door leading to a poem.
My favorite tea is an exciting blend of green tea, papaya, coconut, jasmine flowers, and aged scotch bark from Venezuela. One cup of this will make you want to load and carry your closest friend off to a galaxy far, far away. When I drink this tea my feet tend to flop up and down rapidly, and I hear the sighing and blubbering of blowholes everywhere.
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August 2018
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