Violin Concerto No. 5 in A major, K.219, “Turkish”

I: Allegro aperto – Adagio – Allegro aperto – Sky

God climbs in through the zeppelin window – he is unmistakable.
The windowcleaner duly melts, along with the whole co-ordinating staff,
the management, and the casual vacancy workers (who wear blue uniforms)
into a rapture of gorgeously unnatural screeching. In step with the breathing
pattern of a wing-clipped angel, who after the acidic depression of his last
9 holes round the cloudgolfcourse, is out for one last spat of insane
and awe-inspiring hopedeath, we dive, one foot at a time, pushing wind
under the wings of starlings, toward our pre-ordained crash site. Soon,
preferably at knifepoint, we will be able to explain away the suffering
of humankind, to kick brotherly love in the guts and say ‘I know all
anyone could ever know about you. I have solved you.’ Soon – only 3 leagues –
we will be able to clang the gong of our proud communal stuffishness
and blow illusions, like ribbon, into the sky where they belong. The upgush
recedes slightly as we realise God bailed out a while ago – and is probably still up there.

II: Adagio – Earth

How can anything cause so much of the opposite of pain?
How – no, how? I’m asking you – do seven seconds of melody
carry, as if in one wicker basket, my entire childhood, shrivel
my suicidal agony into dust, diagnose the affects of poison and flood
my moss-soiled soul with the antidote? How am I supposed to sit here
without suffocating on holy light? What is this melody? I feel as if I’ve
heard the last, love-drunk syllable to escape my mother’s mouth before
her boat berths in the Western Isles, as if I’m teetering on the verge of a reservoir
bubbling with revelation, and only need dot a few thoughts’ is
to see the love of God quash the dam and swallow the valley.
Oh, I have spent myself pointlessly. All I needed to know was that
if God was a bird, this would be his song: this worldstained heartsick
smile, this wounded deer, this man sobbing before a bench
with his wife’s name on it, this guarantee of a brighter star
than our own, and of people I would love but will never meet.
How can there be such complexity in such innocence? Why am I
unable to disprove that everything wonderful is true, and not only true,
but flesh, with warm breath and children in its eyes?
One day, perhaps, someone will find something else that matters,
in the leafy bushes or in a nice old lady, but all that has mattered so far
is the clichéd love of God. The love that walks naked on the tightrope
of that violin string, and lifts us on the wings of elephants
into the safari park of transcendence. The love that plants
the Amazon in your heart’s Sahara, and begs you, on its knees
for the privilege of giving you all it possesses,
the love that adds ‘duh!’ to ‘There is no death’, and kisses
your sleeping eyelids under the shade of horse chestnut trees.
I really, really, really want to cry. Behind my eyes…
my eyes, and my lips, and down my neck and along the chest
flows a pulse of complete, lossless tenderness
that has no name as interesting as our randomly chosen name of ‘love’.
Love is making me look at the sunlight like I am the sunlight,
soaking the earth through with curious, talkative forgiveness,
and flickering through fresh leaves. Nothing goes unblessed. No corner
of my heart is far enough from that well of well-rested preciousness
for my cells not to raise their voices in a jubilant wail. More
than lovely, holier than the thunder, than the jewels of souls’ crowns,
than the sacred cliffs of time, holier than the blood in the body of a lover,
holier than God, and also God. You are the coffin of all fear,
the pyre of all jarring and lingering. You are my soul’s home.
I love you more than I love you.

III: Tempo di menuetto

In the sun-shocked valleys of the Aegean, where coral
tickles the dorsals of saltwater salmon, and dolphins
spell their names correctly, our glowing soul-bubble
bobs and whispers to itself, in an echoing falsetto:
– What must a man do to survive his life?
– Nothing lasts forever, (the sea says), unless of course you count
everything. (it laughs) Try as you might to give Mozart the glory
you can only do so by taking it from yourself.
– Why do I deserve it? For what?
– Shut up, (says the sea). Take it.
– But why are you giving it to me? I didn’t…
– Stop talking. Take it.
– But Mozart wrote it!
It wrote Mozart, you fool. It’s writing you. Take it.

(played by Jascha Heifetz)

by Col. Baldwüllz

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