“Remember me ! ” that age/old cry, piteous, imperious, born out of terror , oblivion being our threat….
Remember me in tones, bronze, the name of a lousy street, a tomb as a clarinet concerto, what else ?
Motor of art, with death a motor of religion, that which binds us.
I chisel it in , write it on water, in the sky,
all orchestral trumpets blazing.
Change the nib.
Begin a new composition.
Oblivion will lap. Of course it will. Stoics
and Epicureans and our Buddha and all the Celtic saints of the Burren and great or indeed bad, indifferent workers in
all the arts yell quietly those four syllables. ” R ” and ” M ” and ” B ” , enclosing just two vowels…. Not bad.