Clare Louise Harmon

The Walking Exclamation Mark

[Redacted] chose not to meet his birth mother           no
the moment of location              was met
with anomie
Rather than a letter
or photographs             of his children
[Redacted]
sent several
recordings        reviews and
his curriculum vitae.

As a teen            [Redacted]
attended [Redacted] Preparatory
alongside the now-famous         violin soloist
[Redacted].
Indeed               [Redacted]         was being
groomed
for a complementary career
until     the moment
of collegiate matriculation         arrived.
[Redacted] rebelled
left
the iconic
New York conservatory              pursued
a degree
in comparative literature
at Yale University.
By all accounts
a pointed
attack on           and deep
disappointment
for        his mentor         at [Redacted] Prep.

Before he won
his section position       in the [Redacted] Orchestra
[Redacted]        self-described
as          “fucked
by my own       craziness.”
Days before all previous
life-making auditions
he changed
every fingering               every bowing
for         the thrill of it
for
the satisfaction
of his most self-destructive      desires
the iteration      of a deep-seeded
fear                     of success.

In a pattern not uncommon      for his sort
[Redacted]        battled debilitating
stage fright
for much           of his career.
Years of study
private
coaching           with the foremost        experts
in this type       of anxiety          left him
poised
to share             his gleanings
with students and colleagues
who similarly
suffered:
“if you get nervous        just squeeze
your hands        together
hard      as you can
like you’re taking           a huge shit.”

[Redacted]
is hyperbole personified
and his playing               thusly similar.
He shifts           gleefully:
Kreisler-esque              gestures indicative
of his Franco-Belgian
lineage
ostensibly reckless                      though
paradoxically    accurate
deeply  expressive.

Detractors describe his musicianship
as “fat-man-plays-violin”           that is to say
slovenly             crass
undisciplined                 insecure.
In truth              it is near-divinely
embodied
a testament knowing                  though
not
without              its irrepressible
irreverence.


Capital Campaign

The funds
accompanying                [Redacted]’s first job
              adjunct faculty at [Redacted]
              rank-and-file player     in the [Redacted] Symphony
              summing more
              than she’d ever seen     after
              years of graduate school
were allocated            to the purchase
of sixty-five dollar
rye        the finest
pu-erh
fleur de sel and various             assorted
artisanal salts.

At first Maldon             gold and flaked
spiked              with truffle
shipped special
from a culinary boutique         in Portland.
Later    a selection
of mountain salts           Himalayan      pink
Hawaiian           black                  only
to return safely
to a respectable             Breton variety.

[Redacted] believed      her
status                 a working girl               musician
finally   paid      for her toil
deserved
ostentatious flair           a mark
of her first
steps    in an ascent       to the bourgeois.

In truth              her
extravagance
was anchored in Bandura           bobo doll
modeling                         a stretch
designed to emulate      her
most     trusted advisor
the so-called     self-described
“thinking musician”        the        wished-for
indoctrination
to the                 particular class
of artist
lousy with donors
guarantors        and the like.

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CLARE LOUISE HARMON is the author of The Thingbody (Instar Books, 2015) and the chapbook If Wishes Were Horses the Poor Would Ride (Finishing Line Press, 2016). Her work has appeared in numerous journals including Sixth Finch, Tammy, PANK, The Feminist Wire, The Fem, The Stockholm Review of Literature, and others.