Message in a bottle

Narrative opening moves in balmy beach weather – exposition of the cat-theme and the Capellmeister counter-theme in a dialogue by pen – transformation scene –

cadencing castling.

Lost and lonely lay the city as dawn dispelled the dread. I hatched out of a fish-like dream that I could not decipher, sipped milk and honey out of Golda‘s dainty china and preluded well-tempered to the beach promenade. The rose fingers of dawn fondled my back on the seashore, as hungry waves devoured my paces like warm sand cake. Thus, I broke into loud lamentations, as my life under the sun melted away without meaning, and neither milk nor honey could quench my lyrical thirst.


An inebriate wave stormed me in a deep salty embrace, and wafted a bottle of heavenly blue to my feet. Cloudless oranges and the epigraph Words of Weintraub in capital letters consummated its roman beauty. I rolled the beach like pie dough with the bottle of azure and blushed at the wide open beaks of my wisdom and their craving for salvation.

And there, old crab Archy headed back from his impending stroll with a thirsty soul and unbidded decapitated the bottle, which exhaled its void with a sigh. He stripped a scroll from its entrails and passed away unfulfilled in the sand grain field.


Minted with lavish vines, the seal broke in the sea breeze and the scripture unfolded at my feet like a yawning morning rose.   


Words of Weintraub

Capellmeister & tamer of tone


Worthy Stranger!


If the interplay of sand and sea brings my words unto your hands, winds and waves have chosen you in consensus with further hackeneyed alliterations. I linger in the desert under the aegis of a loving orange-box. I long to dwell forever in her tent, since my beginning shall be consummated in the breeder of lavish fruit.

Peregrin: The haven and comoser's sanctuary of a Jaffa orange box in the desert.

Capellmeister Weintraub's composing hut

Once a celebrated Capellmeister, I dwelt in the orchestra pit and saw many curtains fall before each other. They encased me in a concretion of dusty ruby like peels of a centennial onion. One evening, dazzled by tears, I stabbed the flowing curtain wall and heared the scream of pain of an eavesdropping individual, whom I had carelessly wounded lethally. He lay checkmate on the boards, soaked in tomato juice, his still beating heart in the marble hand – a statist from the first act, who wore my facial features.

The haughty audience rose mumbling to announce their indignation by Dom Pérignon’s carillon. I draped myself in mourning and left the theater, my coat collar up.


It was a knife-sharp winter, the road tasted salty and the pestillence of putrescent bills whiffed from the letter-box. I carried my shadow up to the frigid gloom of my appartment and, candelit on spicy fish delicacy, I cursed the day of my birth. For my woes weighed heavier as the infinite number of sand grains on earth.

The green lion woke up de profundis in his bath, chased me panting out of the building, chevied me to the cathedral and up the circular staircase. In seven-mile-boots, I climbed these rock steps, which had been smoothed by centuries of diligent monk-sandals.

Heated by the escalation and almost reaching boiling point, I step by step lost my habitual corporeality. The onerous gravity had already left me, as the reeling drowsy bell hove the anchor. The sound wave seized me in the eye of the hurricane, washed my feet from fear and took me up by the hand to the chilly firmament of the floating overtones… high up to this kiss to the entire world above the starry canopy… Ave verum corpus. Recovery position – silent night. 

Please allow me a methodical insertion to initiate you to the inherent musicality of my being.

This illustration of a paradigmatical and robust boxfish-theme shows how a musical theme is composed of limbs, that we like to call motifs. Please note the dynamic character of the head-motif: the rising melodicity and rhythmic bravery of the noble forehead are lyrically rounded by mouth and eye. The fin-motif animates the theme with melodic grace and frames the thematic trunk into a mystical triangle. Fin-shaped and symmetrically fanned out, the cadenza eventually crowns the theme and blesses it with tonal stability.

Anatomy of boxfish-theme

Sequence, the repetition of a motif or theme at a different pitch in the same voice, should not be confused with imitation, for the latter occurs per se in another voice. Particularly fashionable with fugue themes is its adaptation of the imitation to its new environment, which often entails a cosmetic operation on the head-theme.

Tonal imitation of turbot-theme

The imitation of this turbot theme in the upper voice (heraldically left, i.e. right) requires an adaptation of the eye-angle to the newly gained perspective. In its archaic might and the dense chromaticism of its fins, the turbot theme remains a pillar of the rhetoric of major sin. Please note the indicting bitterness of the mouth region.


Now, back to the second act of my metamorphosis. I woke up in the warm sandpit under the wings of my orange box. Freed from the stranglehold of unresolved dissonances, I dwelt now in the Abrahamic womb of the simple-mindedness of my new thematic structure.

A longing for Apollonian harmony, had poured my essence into the atavistic figure of an oafish ray. And lo and behold, it was very good. The citrus scent refreshed my senses and I too was in Arcadia. It was evening and morning, the first day.

At the second blink of dawn, the alabaster-white fermata appeared and said: „It is not good for you to be alone. I want to reflect your theme, then you shall be completed.“ And thus, she gave my ray-theme a Siamese twin brother. Like the scales of Justice, we formed a paradigmatic palindrome.


Then, the alabaster white fermata appeared once more and said: "It is not good for you to lie horizontally. I want to mirror your theme in another axis, then you shall be completed.“

And she gave me the thematic shape of a ray rose, at peace in itself with the typical flattened affect of cruciferous stoics.


It was noon and a glorious frying egg was sizzling in the sky, as the chromatic lizard came to my camp and said: „How long will you serve the peace fermata as a ray rose theme? She keeps you captive at life's abaric point!“

In a four-voices chorus my voice answered: „I woke up enlightened in the womb of peace. I do not think, therefore blissful am I. Do not disturb my circles and abscond!“

But the chromatic lizard insisted: „It is not good for you to be alone. You have to return to life’s frenzy, to the rushing seas of resonance.“

My voice replied, well-disposed: „I have suffered enough, was chased through fugues, wheeled in passacaglias, split off and liquidated through sonatas. Do not disturb my circles and abscond!“

But the chromatic lizard persisted: „Once again venture back into life. Turn from fish to ship, kiss the snow wings of your fermata goodbye, and embark on your last journey. Smash a bottle of sparkling wine as an overture, put up a heroic head motif as a figurehead under the bowsprit of your theme! Hoist the longing motif and heave the anchor! Compose and become composed!“ Thus he spoke - and absonded into the sand.


I sank exhausted into sleep’s oblivion and was visited by a pastoral dream. My beloved orange box was still a young mother and provided for a bunch of unripe country fruits. She had taken them to the playground to bless them with the benefits of fresh air, and laid them on the lush grass. From a nearby bench she kept an eye on the thin-skinned fruit, which lay huddled in a neat triangle. A snow ball shot out of nowhere with a meteoric swing and hit the small flock of oranges with full force. They rolled over the lawn, repelled each other - some sank into pastel coloured rabbit burrows.


At this point I woke up with an epiphany. For I wanted to complete my beginning and lay a world-size symphonic egg in earth-alien loneliness. In the beginning was the white ball. Yes, dear stranger, I ask you for a game of billiards. Purely platonically, of course.

At the gateway that parts the sea from wasteland, a letterbox is whipped by the wind and keeps vigil with a stiff neck. It is guarded and fed by scholastic vultures who proudly wear monocles on their saber beaks. Under the kind cinnamon star they now await the conception of your mail, while I listen to the hooves of laughing camels on honey-sweet dunes...


Yours truly,

Capellmeister Weintraub

Special thanks to Brenda Landes for her diligent proofreading of this english translation.

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