Incarcerated by limitations of one’s own ideas, tormented the composer flapped the manuscript about as though swatting lazy summer flies; candle wax dripped as shadows cast danced upon the ceiling. It was not the symphonic sound as notes fell from stave to ground the music maker wished to hear; a crotchet, in fear, lay amidst the quavers, and the rests, of course semibreves heaved a sigh and discordant silence fell across the room, quiet, still . . . the old composer climbed upon the wooden second floor window sill.
Not the fall from bed to floor that woke me, but the shout of Eureka! outside my bedroom window, and there prancing like the devil himself the composer skipped in circles waving the manuscript as though fanning imaginary flames. Eyes agog I watched him reel as he fell to kneel and kissed the dirt with exclaims, I’ve taken by the girth the birth of an idea in celebration of our mother earth, to compose a piece encapsulating the beauty of her four season. I looked to my unfinished painting of vibrant yellow flowers, oh the insanity of that damn fool composer I thought whilst seeking my reflection in the vanity glass; lightly I touched the bloodied image of my right ear, soon the pain will pass.
© Julian Clarke 2016