Capellmeister Weintraub‘s second bottle message, including a blueprint of a budding symphonic world & a metamorphosis report. Musical snake-trail with lyrical landmarks.
The sorrows of a young dragon
July the 12th – A posthorn in the still countryside.
The vesperine chimes rang as an athletically oiled raven broke in a low flight through the ecstasy of a mosquitoe swarm and laid a bottle of gold minted azure to my feet.
A holy song of thanksgiving on my lips, I jumped up, decapitated the bottle with a rakish chop and fondled the scripture, which yawned at my feet on the freshly mown lawn.
WORDS OF WEINTRAUB
(to declaim in fig-leaf-robe to cicadas‘ chirp & the fizz of winking wine)
My felid Fidelio!
From the abyss of my heart, thank you for the ravishing gefillte fish, that crowned my breakfast crockery this morning.
The boy flourishes in the composer‘s incubator to become the magnificent heroic theme of my budding symphony. The cannibal desert was too raw for this freshly hatched rosy prince, and I had to transplant him into the mild silvan biotope of an E-flat major greenhouse. The newborn thrives at the horn spring by pear milk and vine dew and develops a coral dentition.
I had derided the juvenile dragon as a decorative gecko and warmed him by the fireplace. Sirius was barking in the skies, as he swelled up overnight into a bilious green basilisk. My pulse syncopated, but I succeeded in expelling him at an early growth stage to the no man‘s land of the musical circle. There, he is now trapped in eternal enharmonic chess, between F-sharp major volcanoes and G-flat major gibbet moors, mumbling eschatological haikus with a split tongue. This violent repotting will certainly have shaken his adolescent worm-soul, but let‘s be honest: antisocial dragons have been promoting poetry since time immemorial.
A miracle alone can save the wounded pelican lady in the A-flat major sanatorium – she is thematically still unresponsive. The wise tortoise Melchior wanted to pick you up the other day, but the intellectuality of his salad bed tormented his stomach. Yesterday, ravens brought me carpaccio draped on olive bread and whispered to me scornfully, that you yearn full of melancholy like rotten fruit on the lawn. I understand – your soul is sloughing like a reptile during Lent. But nobody is so intimately interwoven in my symphony as you are. Therefore, I beg you on my patellas: Dare to be wise and follow me into the musical circle!
My long-awaited metamorphosis was not consummated without complications. My longing for an organic retransformation was misunderstood by the chromatic lizard, whose caper made me wake up in the lap of my orange box as a not yet assembled organist‘s torso. A myriad of registers and additional extremities from the wildest organ fantasies were included in the delivery, and made the montage an ungrateful task. The head-motif’s dominance had led to its own inflationary sequencing, and a true coin collection of heads fought for control of my dull trunk. This Far Eastern heron is currently undergoing a comparable contrapuntal procedure. Have mercy on him, for his suffering adds up into infinity. After a heated quarrel, the head-council proclaimed polyphonically that I should switch head on each of the six working days and rest headless on the seventh day. Rejoice and exult and praise the Lord for it!
I now bathe my soul in salamander distillate, steel my body through cactus flagellations and prelude daily with a skipping rope.
The latter melts inner frost and forms the typical baroque calf. This frugality is absolutely vital, for many a composer resorted prematurely to wine and delusion, to be composted before laying a symphonic egg.
Unfortunately, this traumatic thematic change has caused much domestic turmoil. Emotionally snubbed, my beloved orange box escapes into hesperian fantasies. In drunken dreams, she glorifies the grandeur of a bygone volatised age, as the rue family wore the carefree pride of royal trellises... Sleepwalking through airy castles and pleasure gardens, coltishly enamoured under the dove swarm of the Pleiades, she whispers with bruxom Naiads by Triton wells... Sleek marble gods lurk behind taxus ball hedges, the satyric rascal with the reed grins at the pond, and look: her fruity cheeks blush at the sight of the curved chest of a garden hercules with an odd number of ribs...
My beloved orange box! I beg you, don‘t leave me! Don‘t desert me for a garden god with triple arm flexors! I shall extol and praise you, celebrate you with wholehearted passion, like Solomon the gazelle, Leibniz the monad, and Marx the proletariat! Felix, must it be? It must be! And for that, I need you as a gravitational field in my orbit. Grab your teddy bear and toothbrush and follow me! As soon as the entropic dynamics of the composition will begin to form themes out of motivic raw matter, I shall send you a detailed map and a musical astrolabe.
My week-heads join the day-head on my shoulders to pinch you kindly on the cheek.
Yours, Capellmeister Weintraub
Weintraub‘s musical mapa mundi
Special thanks to Brenda Landes for her diligent proofreading of this english translation.
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