Hesitant Postscript

Generally speaking, a composition is something to which I cannot make dinner. A composition cannot be an accompaniment to chopping, stirring, tossing, roasting, waiting, watching, plating.

Generally speaking, a composition cannot murmur beneath the conversation between me and my dinner date.

A composition is not what I dance to when I step out of the shower and decide what to wear. A composition is not for the weary cyclist (post-thirty-forty-fifty-odd miles, thank you very much) with beer in hand. A composition fails me as I strip and remake my bed. And to frost this here realization cake: very few compositions reside in my iPod.

I love my dinner making music. I love my conversation music. I love my clothes folding, back rubbing, hamstring stretching music. Yet, if I contemplate this music, none of it strikes me as a composition. And none of the performer/composers singer/players strike me as composers. Such roles and definitions are much too muddled. Composers are of no use to me. Composers tend to be "not useful." They require my sit still, do no other task, straight spine, ears perked skyward.

As of late, such posture does not become me. So what does? Well, the spoon in hand dance, sock fold wiggle-hip, or very simple 8 p.m. double-bed snow angel sprawl ... oo, accompanied by my dearest, most beloved "tunes" ... those are true moments musicaux. Lyric perfection. Elixir. Not compositions. No composers. Just uncompositions by noncomposers. An iPod full of balm.