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Robert Schumann
B. 6.8.1810 Zwickau, Germany / D. 7.29.1856 Endenich, Germany

Late last night, when I got into bed, rain was still falling
rain filled the courtyard, rain brushed the windows, rain strummed the fire escape bars
as usual, I put on the classical music station
rain greeted the trains at the station, turned wheels to waves
there was this symphony on that I couldnít identify
all day it had rained and Iíd canceled all my plans, some of them gay
bad Brahms? stupid Mendelssohn? typical Liszt?
instead watched TV day and night, read a book, ate leftovers, cried repeatedly
Iím not such an expert, especially about symphonies
the wellsprings of my pain obscure, their tapping mechanisms various
theme repetition minor theme variation near-climax something superficially startling
my surface worn thin by rain
and reprise, this I could hear
odd derrick-like structures nodding over my day, sucking out tears
over the rolling breaker-like trains and the sounds of an unsteady downpour
over the prom scene in Stephen Kingís Carrie!
a piece that makes you say classical music, what is the point?
you just know
lying there, I pictured the pages filling with marks
you have to wait these things out
an unhappy mind grinding away, even managing to convince itself (but only at moments evanescent as silence on a rainy night) that its existence was a deeply, even ultimately joyous one; and at last the announcement:
Robert Schumannís Spring Symphony.

Consolation Site: And that which does not make us stronger

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