Better than main-lining Côte Rôtie

Propulsive Bach. Glenn Gould, mumble-singing as he hammers away at the English Suite causing my knees to jig up and down, my fingers to break away from the computer keyboard and attempt – vainly – to drum out arpeggios on my bare wood desktop, my heart to give in to all this musical gaiety and convert it into stuff that goes straight into my brain making me spryer and younger than I have any right to feel. I’m writing Blest Redeemer and closing in on 100,000 words; Gould’s Bach forces me to attempt the impossible and match my word creation to his impish, agile fingers. I used to think music would distract me from writing but its very accessibility on the computer hard disc means it can be as comforting as sucking a humbug and as transformational as gin. After all if I can work in the company of the former cantor of Thomasschule in Leipzig and German Royal Court Composer to August III, that’s high-flying company and some of it’s going to rub off now and then. And even when the piano shifts into a more reflective, less demonic tempo I still have his image in my frontal lobes, benign but clever, tea-towel wig down to his shoulders, waiting for the English Suite to end so that he can try – for the hundredth time – to explain that the chromatic scale isn’t really all that hard and I’ll be a better person – A better writer? – once I understand. And as my creative wellsprings put Judith, Zara and Mabel into the order that Blest Redeemer demands there’s this mental left-hand accompaniment pushing up via vibrations in my rotating office chair and I’m calling him Joh instead of Maestro because he’s so damn familiar and he’s been with me most of my life.