The Squeak Strikes Down the Story
A man on a marimba plays a discordant “Flight of the Bumblebee” while a violinist imitates a mouse. When people call me Josef K., I nod my head painfully. When they shout, “Gregor,” and offer to toss me peanuts, I open my mouth obediently. But now–in these precarious times of cat-like shadows creeping in the corners–might I not vault onto the painted pail of the ringmaster and assert my Josefineness all the same? I am Diva, in a sequined red jacket and black top hat, snapping a bullwhip as I whine about my utter lack of vocabulary when it comes to music writing. I have entered into a conversation for which I have no words. And yet, I will sing.
By Nathan Dixon.