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“I want you to crawl into an attic someplace and just keep writing these musical pieces,” she told me.
“Fine, I know a place.”
“Your own place? You are not thinking of coming back there, are you?”
I nodded. “The best attic in the world. Thank you, darling.”
“I was joking. You have plenty of time. It’s only Monday. I am sure you can –”
There was no turning back. I had to catch every single of the fleeting flashes of music attached to the candy of ideas.
I love my attic. There is everything for an artist, a photographer, a painter: a plushy couch, a conspicuous queen-size bed for consummating the works of art, a TV set and a VCR, an old turntable with an amplifier, hundreds of LPs, a cute bathroom, a dumbwaiter and a large window.
She knew better to give me space; she felt the need to give me time.
“Wait, you don’t have any food up there!”
On the way, I picked up Lucky Strikes. I will smoke for art.
I went back to my own place. I exiled myself to my beloved attic. I locked myself. I wrote in a fury. You know how those haikus are: the glimpse of happiness, the innuendo, the punch line. I was tortured with the spinning hurricane of the Haydn’s Sinfonia In Re Minor, with the schizophrenia of Brahms’ New World Symphony as it faded into Beethoven, with the taunting insanity of Stravinsky’s L’Histoire Du Soldat. I could not catch them all.
Endangering her reputation, she snuck out to come over. Maybe I have heard her tugging at the doorhandle. She may have understood, withdrawing to the living room, watching the late night news, yelling good byes, the dumbwaiter bringing me a pot of delicious coffee, Entennman’s chocolate chip cookies and a Reuben sandwich.
Deliciously I wrote, smoked, ate, listened to the Electric Light Orchestra, went to the bathroom and wrote again.
Come morning, I was still writing, having forgone the eggs and sausage sandwich she brought on her way to work.
Come afternoon, the haikus were ready.
“All this - ready? This is beautiful!” she pushed me onto the couch.
“Let’s go up to the attic,” I offered.
“Why?”
“The air. It’s still rich with music.”
On the wonderful bed in the middle she played with my chest hair.
“How did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“How did you manage to write non-stop?”
I wrestled her hands to the sides:
“Simple. It’s the visions of you wearing Daisy Dukes and dancing the Pas-de-Deux from Swan Lake.”
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Cherry High-Coo
