I’m not in the mood to talk. I don’t feel like talking.
After his breakdown, Dad played the piano when he was drunk, only. When he was too drunk to play Liszt, he played Chopin. I sat under the piano. It was damn loud under there, but I liked it. I was listening to the Ramones, in those days.
Dad was a mad scientist. He was a musicologist. He was a mad scientist. He thought … there was something mathematical about creativity, musical creativity. A formula. There were no geniuses, really, but people, lucky people, who chanced on the formula. Berlioz, Strauss…
“Imposters,” he called them. “Worse than impostors. Romantics.”
The Secret of the Secret. That’s what he named it. His theory of the formula. He spent half his life, trying to prove it.
The Secret of the Secret. That was the book, too. His colleagues… Of course they called him a lunatic. He was a lunatic. He was a musicologist.
When The Secret flopped, he bought every copy he could find. And burned them.
I just don’t feel like talking.
I was playing the piano, one night. Wagner—my favourite. By my late teens, I’d grown bored of punk. It wasn’t heavy enough.
Ride of the Valkyries. That was the piece.
I smelled gin. Dad hated Wagner.
I turned around.
Dad wasn’t… He had a strange look on his face.
He closed his eyes.
“Beautiful,” he whispered.
He kissed me—my forehead. I think … that was the first time. In years.
The Secret of the Secret.
He never proved it, of course. The theory. All he proved was the Theory of Gin. That’s how it usually is, isn’t it?
I’d rather not talk about it.
Hardly anyone went to the funeral. Not even my mother. None of his colleagues. He was an important musicologist. He was a mad scientist. He was a musicologist.
I found a notebook. Going through his things. Notes about the theory, mostly. Some lewd sketches. But on the last page… Under the heading AUTOBIOGRAPHY:
“Early in life, my ambition was to be a composer as great as Liszt or Chopin.”
That was it. He didn’t get any further.
It’s not easy, being the daughter of a musicologist. I could tell you stories.
I’m not in the mood to talk.
I have a short story in the Fall/Winter issue of Slice, out very soon. It’s about the end of the world. You might like it.
When the late Charles Chaplin came to tea
mock-draining vacant cups
Finally I (a child then) said
“You’re awfully smart Charles”
“But I can see your coccyx”
He spat his tea
grabbed hat and cane
and clattered down the lane
There’s a happy new review of Kabungo in the Spring/Summer issue of Transition. Read it here.
As you may know, I was recently in Vancouver, where I received the inaugural Joan Betty Stuchner – Oy Vey! – Funniest Children’s Book Award. Here are a couple photos from the event (FYI, I’m the tall, ape-like gentleman):
For more photos, check the official website.
The Oy Vey! Committee is thrilled to announce that the Joan Betty Stuchner Oy Vey! Funniest Children’s Book Award for 2015-2016 goes to Rolli for his charming and hilarious book about a cave girl who lives in a cave on Main Street, Kabungo. Funnily enough, we announced the prize on Main Street last night, to a full house at the Cottage Bistro.
Thanks to all who came, to those who entertained us, and to especially Rolli, who flew out to accept the award and his prize of $1000, and to read a bit of Kabungo to us, in a gorilla suit, no less. And thanks again to all who helped make it happen.
Ten-year-old Beverly is an ordinary girl with an extraordinary best friend. Her name is Kabungo, and she lives in a cave on Main Street. No one knows where she comes from or who she really is, but life is never dull when Kabungo is around.