I submitted three works for the Moss Piglet May 2025 issue - Musical Instruments:
Conservatory of Intimacy
Two figures stand in front of a door at the end of a long hallway. One reaches for the doorknob and guides the other in.
“Please come in, my dear. Let your eyes gaze upon my collection of items here within my Conservatory of Intimacy. We shall make such sweet music together.”
“I must say you have quite a collection of instruments and devices I don’t recognize. But none of them appear to be musical.”
“On their own, they’re mute. But when in use, they’ll help you sing lustily.”
“You want me to sing? My voice has been described as a load of gravel on a bumpy road. I was asked to leave the church choir. Even my children beg me to refrain.”
“But I tell you, my sweet, that you’ll stir the gods with your passionate enthusiasm.”
“Begging your kindness, but I refuse to blasphemy.”
“Oh no, my dumpling, your cries of delight will bring tears of joy to all who hear.”
“And now you intend to make me cry? I’ve heard enough and will take my leave. Do as you will to please yourself but do so without me.”
“I suppose that will have to suffice.”
Music of the Night
Hushed silence, a blank sonic canvas, envelopes the neighbourhood. The wind is still but the atmosphere tense. Furtive movements, quick flashes of figures, position themselves in readiness. A small cadre of swift messengers stand ready for their majordomo’s orders.
DJ MT closes his eyes, sniffs the air as if looking for a particular odour, then opens them slowly.“Rhythm”.
The first runner races to the end of what is known as Dog Lane where several players wait. Each of them trot to their marks just outside leash length of their assigned outdoor dog house and begin to nonchalantly clean themselves. The dogs, as one, begin to bark and whine while trying to break free of restraining ropes.
DJ MT bobs his head in time. “Timpani”.
The second messenger runs to the mouth of the alley and sends a new group of players running over the metal trash cans, toppling them and sending metal lids banging to the ground.
“Trills”.
Another runner heads for the nearby park and sends the waiting climbers scurrying up trees and into bushes. Coveys of birds erupt in full-throated alarm.
“Queen Mimi”.
Perched on an abandoned deck, the star of the show gently clears her throat, then commences to deliver a caterwaul performance of the ages, heightened by her being in heat. Within seconds, her voice is joined by responding males: crying, yowling, screaming.
DJ MT smiles in satisfaction, knowing his creation had taken on a life of its own. In the morning he’ll once again be Mr. Tibbles, the Smith’s family cat, but in this moment he’s a pleased musical conductor.
Hope Springs Eternal
I can’t say I was crafted - that’s a term for a Stradivarius and not for a lowly instrument like me. It’s more accurate to say I was manufactured. Despite that, my dream was for a life full of concerts and beautiful music. The reality, however, was my lot in life was to be a means for students to learn to play music. Long before any sort of music would emanate from my body, there’d be a lot of tentative squeaks, uncertain bowing, and inexpert fingerings by an elementary school student. And I was to be the reluctant and unenviable producer of those noises.
What I hadn’t counted on was the neglect by my first owner, a boy who I later learned had been gaslit by a music store owner into choosing me as his first instrument. He’d wanted to learn the drums. A viola is many things but not a percussion instrument. Unless I’m dropped, but let’s not tempt fate by saying that again!
The neglect came on slowly. At first things were great. We played scales and learned Suzuki-style exercises. We spent time learning how to read music. He was never great but was adequate enough for his school orchestra. But over the years, his enthusiasm waned until in our later years together I’d be locked away in my case only to be brought out for the necessary playing at school. Never brought out because he wanted to, but only because he had to.
That was a dark and painful time.
Things changed one day when someone I didn’t know and who had no business inside the orchestra’s storage room took me away and effected an involuntary change of ownership. I suppose some would call that theft but for me it was a chance to live again, to be with a new student who would play me on a regular basis. It turned out that there was a bit of a misunderstanding as I was handed from person to person, being seen as an overly large (and I suppose, in the “bigger is better” mentality, more valuable) violin, but I was being played again and that was all that mattered.
It’s been nearly fifty years since my creation and I think I’ve matured. Certainly endured. And I’ve become inured to all of it. Which helps me become more philosophical in considering my lot in life. While I may have a new owner on a regular basis or I end up in a dusty attic, my one and only goal is to inspire the next aspiring student to love music. Hopefully as a viola but dress me up as needed. If nothing else I’ve learned that, for me, hope springs eternal.
