Shostakovich: Quartet No.11 in F Minor Op.122 [early 1966]

The composer, who is seated in the armchair, has been reading Pravda but has just set it down as AN ODDLY UNSETTLING LIGHTING CONFIGURATION FLOODS THE ROOM. 

I don’t like this government either.

None of these governments are okay.

Whose government is this?

And who is destined to oversee true reforms?

If this sounds too pragmatic then I will remain silent during the rest of the piece.

Would you like that?

Would it be an improvement?

As if addressing the people at the back of the room:

Would you rather the instruments were silent?

He pauses as if listening intently.

Notice the glissandi.

I paint what I see.

Somewhat awkwardly, he stands and expends the effort of kicking the air while trying not to lose his equilibrium.

Kick!

And kick!

Lest it seem as though you have someone compliant.

Rather than me.

He starts to attempt another kick, then decides against it, seats himself and takes a deep breath.

I sometimes stare as things run past and think to myself:

All of this is bloodstream ringing changes in my ears.

He frowns and smiles at the same time.

I’ve turned into a mad old mutt.

Look at me!

Suddenly a cuckoo clock on the wall strikes eleven.

It’s only me.

I have the cumulative vision of a sixty-year-old bundle

Of neural fibers and state-issue tobacco

Ah, well.

It’s only me

Affable and gentlemanly:

So let’s have our meal together

And perhaps a walk if you don’t mind those occasional glissandi

And the odd gait of an old weathercock in thick rimmed spectacles.

It’s only me.

FADE TO BLACK

© arwulf arwulf 2015