Issue 4.4

Music Theory “Heartstrings are tugged by pentatonic scales,” the Oxford don intoned. “Here’s middle C, and this, a major chord”—which, without fail, produced a fulsome, joyous leap. Such keys he touched—now, a diminished fifth that creeped me out with its metaphysical dissonance— would seem to show “there’s a mysterious deep connection, not cultural conditioning or chance, between Western music and our true emotions.” “—Yet, what of Indian ragas or medieval chants, I asked, “or all the other moods and modes?” “These systems may attempt, my dear, but can’t portray our soul. I fear they’re naïve failings.” So, his gut theory. And my queerer feelings.

The Red Lion The landlord never let me take a break so I pulled pint after pint until the crowds at the bar started looking like ghosts. One of the delivery drivers said his son ran the Red Lion on the edge of town and he reckoned there would be a job for me there If I ever wanted a change. When my boss withheld my overtime and I argued and got kicked out I followed up the lead. What I thought was a short walk turned into a trek down the main road. When I arrived the landlady gave me a warm welcome but when I asked to speak to John a shadow passed. She told me he'd been killed on the dual carriageway. She still had a job for me. I could start right away so I hung up my coat and as I poured my first pint I built up the courage to ask if I could stay in the flat upstairs and the landlady agreed and I whispered a thanks to John for sorting me out.

Audience His old friend calls him a poet even though he hasn’t written a word for fifty years. Every Friday they drink wine at the varnished kitchen table and discuss how everything they loved has changed and everything they hated has stayed the same. Then the old poet crosses the concrete yard to the toilet. Beside the cold pot is a well-thumbed edition of his only collection now surviving as a single copy in this unusual library filled with spider webs and moths.

Who's in Charge Here? My doctor says to operate, my banker says invest. My swami says to meditate, my sister says to rest. My dentist says to fluoridate, my rabbi says atone. My life coach says to contemplate, my mother says to phone. My broker says to speculate, my tax guy says to cheat. My lover says to lose some weight, my ex-wife says to eat. My lawyer says to litigate, my trainer says to stretch. My shrink says "Yes, communicate!" My Bubbe says, "Don't kvetch!"