To Bayside

Sick and tired of the Liszt B Minor Sonata.

Still trying to remember or otherwise discern if the conversation I think I had tonight at the Sunswick pub on 35th Avenue really happened. I haven’t been allowed to talk about the overlay of language for a long time. I talked about Lacan, Freud, the Rosicrucians. Just like old times, times during which I add that no one but myself listened. I did it just there, I switched from passive to active voice. “No one but myself was listening” became “No one but myself listened.” More engaging that way, whatever the rammar or the Freud. “Freud has been trivialized,” I heard myself say tonight. Out loud. Those words slithered off into the ears of one other person.

Just kidding about that Liszt B Minor. I would type more words here but I’m savoring the theater of this music. I remember as a teenager thinking this piece too good for Liszt. It must be a fraud, I thought. Liszt could not have composed this.

Rumor is, he did. My 13 or 14 year old self stands corrected. Way to go, Liszt. You had me fooled!

Today’s good news is that I have legitimate reason to travel to Bayside. I like Bayside. Maybe I’ll buy it.