What if Wolf never believed the lie?

Wolf was surrounded by people who were attempting to deceive him. Some were family, some were ‘friends’, some were colleagues. They flattered him. They tried to gain access to his inner circle. They tried to gain his trust. Why? Let me explain.

Wolf had been given an unusual gift, one that none of them had. It was a gift of perfection in music. To make a musical analogy — his gift was like a perfect fourth or fifth, whereas there gifts were like major or minor intervals. That is what made Wolf’s music incomparable. They hated that, and they hated him for that.

None of this is really new — it was alluded to in the movie “Amadeus”. Salieri was, in essence, symbolic of all the treachery and deceit that surrounded Wolf. But Salieri may have known a secret that he tried to use to gain an advantage — that Wolf had been a victim of being caused bodily harm through the administering of small doses of toxic substances. This may have started when Wolf was living with his birth family. Perhaps it was the jealous Nannerl who was secretly doing this. Wolf’s mother, Maria Anna, was unable to protect him. She died in his arms in Paris. Leopold and Nannerl tried to blame her death on Wolf. This added a terrible burden to Wolf’s own grief.

The ongoing administration of toxic substances without Wolf’s knowledge or permission could have been done as a means of controlling both him and his extraordinary gift. As a result, Wolf was supposed to be little more than a mind-controlled zombie. When Wolf married Constanze, the same thing could have happened by her hand. The antipathy between Constanze and Nannerl, in fact, led to them being buried at opposite ends of Vienna.

Were Wolf’s continual moving from one place to another, as well as his being supposedly ‘not good with money’ in fact connected to this ongoing pogram against him? If so, was he supposed to believe that it was God’s will that he suffer the possibility of bodily harm by those who broke bread with him? If this were to be the case, would that not account for perhaps some of his frantic activity to compose as many pieces as possible as quickly as possible?

But, in a worse-case-scenario, surrounded by a brood of vipers, a vortex of the evil eye, in fact, is it possible that Wolf never believed this lie?

I offer to you Wolf’s last major opera, Die Zauberflote, which defines with some clarity this great gift that he was allowed to be steward of during his life on earth. If so, he knew this gift better than anyone. He believed in the power of this great gift — a gift of brilliance never again seen in music — and a gift of shalom, no matter how trying his earthly circumstances were.

The Mozart ‘tornado’ concert…

After Monostatos left my children and me, after having held us hostage for about 666 days, I decided that despite the threats to my life and slander of my character I would not be silenced. And so, with the resources at my disposal — which were limited by having been musically ‘locked out’ by Monostatos and his cohorts at the Minnesota Orchestra — I booked the Art Room at the Hennepin Avenue Methodist Church for an all-Mozart concert. The photo for the posters was taken by one of their own. A poster hung in the stage entry of Orchestra Hall. It included a phone number to request tickets. My answering machine took quite a beating, as tens, if not hundreds of hang-up calls were made every night from that point on. I figured Monostatos may have had something to do with that, and did my best to brush it off.

I had found a very good accompanist to work with. That was surprising, as most pianists seemed to have only a limited understanding of how to perform Mozart. I was pleased and relieved — something good will come of this, I thought. Despite the answering machine omen, that is…

Everything was going beautifully. I gave a pre-concert at the Minneapolis Public Library during lunchtime a few days earlier, that was very well received. I had learned by then to trust die zauberflote — and also to expect a lot of twists and turns. Little did I know what lay ahead…

The morning of that June 14th was just gorgeous. It was becoming a bit humid, but that was to be expected at this time of year. I gave my darling children, who would be coming with me, a brief lecture on not running around and making noise while I was performing. I naively thought that would be the worst of my concerns.

Then the weather began to change. A friend called to tell me that it looked like there was a tornado atop the IDS building in downtown Minneapolis. Another friend called to say they would not be able to make the concert because a large tree had fallen across their driveway in the Kenwood area. I quickly assessed our situation — the weather was still good in Hopkins, so we packed up to head downtown. Then the accompanist called to say that a tornado had touched down on his apartment building and he was suffering a panic attack. Also, his ride had canceled due to the weather. I asked if he could take a bus, but he refused. I called another friend who lived nearby and they offered to give him a ride. Other friends called to let me know that they were stuck in the Har Mar mall, where another tornado had hit, and would not be able to attend.

Though tempted to give up in anguish at the sudden and frightening turn of events, I headed downtown with my children and flute. The Art Room was humid. As I warmed up, sweat was dripping down my chin, and my fingers were sliding on the keys. Great! I thought. What next?

But gradually people trickled in. Ashen, my accompanist finally arrived, looking like he had seen a ghost. The skies had settled. The flurry of tornadoes had stopped. My children were playing quietly, as a neighbor kept an eye on them.

And then the concert flew by. Literally, lifted on wings. The culminating piece was Wolf’s D Major Flute Concerto. The extraordinary shalom of die zauberflote was heard throughout the room, to delighted and at times even rapturous applause — as much for my gifted accompanist as for me…

Once again, the darkness had lost…and all was well…and die zauberflote had been taken out of the night of the darkened stage at Orchestra Hall into the light of day, and of the common people, the salt of the earth…

Would you care?

Would it matter if you were to learn that most of what you are being told about the death of Wolfgang Mozart is false? Would it matter if you knew that there were some who passed the truth down in a secret and occult manner? And that this was being deliberately withheld from the general public? Would it matter if the movie “Amadeus” was intended to put up a smokescreen to make sure the truth never came to light? If so, I may be able to help…

An as-yet undefined subplot in the opera Die Zauberflote as prophecy…

There are some straightforward characters in Mozart’s last major opera, The Magic Flute, that correspond to those in real life — my Mother,for example — the real-life Queen of the Night who managed to bewitch just about everyone (but me); my Father, who gave me my first flute; Monostatos, who is a player with the Minnesota Orchestra, and of course, my three children, who are represented as such. The reality, however, may be even more profound than the opera (granted, Wolf didn’t have all the time in the world either) in that the children who save Pamina from despair when Tamino is silent are actually her own children. Filled with fury, the Queen of the Night comes after the children and tries to use them in her machinations, attempting to leave Pamina bereft, and thereby contributing greatly to Pamina’s despair. Monostatos also goes after the children and attempts to enlist them to the Queen’s agenda…

…and so, all that is left for Pamina is the wondrous sound and assurance of die zauberflote…

A terrible loss, a small tribute…

My stepson, Kevin Dixon, great LA rock guitar player and sound engineer, had been battling depression and other issues of mental health for some time. We hoped and believed that his life was coming together in a new and better way. But that was not the case, and we lost him last week in a tragic act of his own doing. I am still in a state of shock, as are his many other family members in Minnesota, Florida, and Hollywood, where he lived.

I can say with all conviction that whenever we deal with someone battling terribly difficult mental issue, every moment doing this, no matter how painful, is precious. Every day counts. Somehow I believe it will all be used for good.

Here is a musical tribute for Kevin today…

The hidden life of Wolfgang Mozart…M4B*

We tend to think of Wolfgang Mozart as a happy child, eager to please, proud of his stunning musical gifts. By the same token we then tend to wonder how he turned into a arrogant, callous, supercilious musical snob. Of course, the movie AMADEUS captures in caricature that part of his personality. But still, when we stop to think about who this eccentric person really was, and what his life was like, many of us tend to end up feeling stumped. We hate to admit it, but there is about Mozart an aura of mystery. What was his life really like, we may then wonder? Did he even grapple with day-to-day living in the same way we do?

Many who write about Mozart tend to pander to surface lies and misconceptions. In fact, a sense of myth has developed about him, to some extent. Where did his gifts come from? we might ask. Why can’t I be anything but a humble supplicant when I perform his music? we may wonder.

Ironically, from my standpoint, most of what you may believe about Wolf is false. To complicate matters, I think you may be lulled into a sort of complacency by the myth. The myth, including AMADEUS, are, to my thinking, intended for the general public. Those who consider themselves insiders have a very different view. This dilemma can be considered comparable to the Warren Commission Report which came out after the assassination of President Kennedy. It’s purpose was to calm the public. The insiders knew it was not true.

And so it may be with Wolf…

So here’s a bit of the inside story.

Wolf was given a gift different from all the musicians around him. It is a gift analogous to comparing a major or minor interval in music to a perfect fourth or fifth. Wolf had a gift of perfection that came not just through his compositions, but the energy that they created. It was also evident when he performed. All the controversy and chaos that regularly surrounded him was related to this unusual gift. Nobody would confirm to him that he had it. He had to figure that out on his own. I think he finally did — when he wrote his last major opera The Magic Flute. The flute that carries his voice will always stop evil in its tracks and use everything for good. Its energy can survive death and time. It is, in fact, a gift of shalom.

Those in Wolf’s inner circle went to drastic means to try to control him and this gift and use it to their own ends. I think he finally figured that out as well…

And I think Wolf may also have fought off a dark angel that was trying to take control of his gift, his family, and his life. That was the other part of the gift.

And so, following that hypothesis, Wolf was dealing with a spiritual battle every day, even as he cheerfully and masterfully (if occasionally annoyingly) created and composed his marvelous works.

And he never complained…

*M4B=Mozart for Believers

A few of the mysteries behind the opera The Magic Flute…

Almost from the moment of its premiere the public was talking about the occult significance of Wolfgang Mozart’s last major opera, The Magic Flute. There was so much to consider — after all, it was full of Masonic symbols, and, despite the fact that it was a jocular singspiel, it held a pregnant sense of awe — of things not explained. To make things even more convincing, Mozart himself died a few weeks later. Was there a connection? Was Mozart poisoned? What happened? Everyone wanted to know. Or was it just the hand of fate? Some asked. Perhaps writing the Requiem under someone else’s name was what did him in? Others questioned.

Well, for one reason or another, the mystery has continued to this day. And for good reason. What if the opera were, in fact, a prophecy that included Wolf himself? What if that prophecy was to come to life over 200 years later?

Unthinkable! said many. Impossible, said others.

However, if this were to be the case, let me provide some details that are implied in the opera. I don’t ask anyone to believe what I say, simply to test my words. Just for the moment take as an hypothesis that the opera being prophecy is simply a possibility — extraordinary though that might be.

Here might be a few insights —

Pamina’s father dies after presenting her with the magic flute. Her Mother, the Queen of the Night, flies into a rage as she feels her power is threatened by her daughter’s having the flute. Sarastro, Pamina’s step-father, steps in and kidnaps Pamina to keep her out of harm’s way, but says nothing to Pamina, who is confused and frightened.

The three children are Pamina’s children. They are an even greater threat to her Mother, who comes after them and tries to bewitch them and steal them from Pamina, who is terrified. The Queen of the Night holds the children ransom as she orders Pamina to kill Sarastro, creating even more terror. To make matters even more sinister, the Queen has a ‘spare’, so to speak, in Pamina’s sister,(the so-called ‘other Queen’) who helps her Mother against Pamina and her children. And, last-but-certainly not least — add to that the possibility that Monostatos, who happens to be a musician in an orchestra of false servants to Sarastro, has also attempted, frantically and viciously, to insinuate himself into the lives of Pamina and her children, in order to help the Queen.

Pamina has had glimpses of Tamino, but nothing more, except his picture. When she sings her desperate aria “Ach, ich ful’s”…she feels she has lost everything. As the children are being deceived by the Queen, even they cannot really help her. Me with my three K's...:-)

And yet, Pamina perseveres, in love and in faith…with the help of her longest best-friend, Papageno…

A missing piece…

I had an insight today that may help to explain some of the curious behavior of my birth family at the end of my senior year of high school, when I was preparing to go to college. All of a sudden, it seemed, my Father decided to leave his job as a lab mechanical engineer at the Bassick Company in Bridgeport, CT.  This was the job that had brought us from the Midwest to the East Coast in the first place.  It was a stable job, and Bucknell was not an inexpensive school.  Back in those days there was no financial aid, per se, and only good students who were truly indigent received scholarships — or so I was told.

He decided to switch to a job that was commission-based.  It required traveling in a territory that included New Jersey and Pennsylvania.  Everything seemed to be hush-hush about this, so I did not ask a lot of questions.

That summer we went to South Dakota for a family reunion. It became evident to me that my Father was not his usual self.  I did not know what to make of it.  Nor did I have any understanding as to why this was happening.

During my senior year I consistently made my own breakfast and lunch (for school).  The only meal that was cooked for me was dinner.  Ironically, my Mother suddenly decided to get up early and watch me make and eat my breakfast every morning.  I found this odd, as she usually liked to sleep in.  When I asked her she said, offhandedly, something about “your Father wants me to do this.”  Odd, again.

Every morning when I left the Fairfield house I shut the door on the pain and trauma connected with it.  I had to do that in order to function at school.  And so, no matter how uncomfortable I was having my Mother stare at me as I downed my soft-boiled egg on German rye bread toast, I somehow managed to leave all of that behind.

It was about three weeks into my first semester that I said to myself, “Wow, I haven’t thrown up since I’ve been here.”  This tended to confirm my suspicions as to what had happened in the Fairfield house.  But, it seemed, the next thing I knew, my Father had almost died by his own hand.  As you can imagine, my only focus was on his well-being.

Fortunately, he recovered.  And he managed to keep his job.  He always made sure to stop at Bucknell when he was in the area.  He insisted on taking not only me, but also my friends, to have a bite to eat at the Bison, the local hang-out…





My High School Equestrian Experience…

When I was a teen-ager, my parents insisted that I attend ballroom dancing classes given by the lovely and renowned Irene Comer at the Patterson Club in Fairfield, CT. Apparently, I was supposed to learn not only how to dance but also some social graces that would help me to meet the ‘right’ kind of young man. But I didn’t want to meet young men. I wanted to ride horses.

As it turned out, my best friend at these classes was a boy with the same birthday as mine — Dicki Bonnett. We got into all kinds of trouble in school and out, as he was something of what you would call in those days a ‘wise-acre’. But when we could, we kept company at the ballroom classes and he let me know when he had straight pins stuck outward in the lapels of his white dinner jacket that he would jam into the other unsuspecting young ladies as he crushed them close to him. He was like that.

But when I was circulating — as one was supposed to have many dance partners — I found myself dancing with the dazzling boys from the Hill. This is Greenfield Hill. It was mostly full of large estates and horse paths. My father was an engineer — a transplant from South Dakota — so we lived humbly at the bottom of the Hill. These boys were entitled.  They knew they were wonderful. They were also horrible snobs. They had everything. Even estates… with stables. That meant horses.

And so I found myself turning the pleasant patter expected of us toward the subject of horses. And before I knew it, I had a number of places where I could ride. My parents were refusing to help me with riding lessons in any way, so I thought this was an viable alternative.

So a few times a week I found myself riding before heading to Andrew Warde High School. Frequently we would ride on the wonderful horse trails throughout the Hill. One of the paths led to the beautiful Merritt Parkway, which happened to be a main throughway to New York City in the early morning hours. And there, on the 20-foot-wide stretch of grass was a riding experience of a different level.

And so, on one of those rides, a simple race along the grass turned into the horse taking the bit in its mouth and trying to run away with me. Fortunately, it tried to unseat me by heading toward the low-hanging trees, rather than into the traffic. (I have to admit that was one of the dumber moments of my white-knuckle riding days.)

My parents never knew. And as long as they insisted on paying for dancing lessons I smiled sweetly and went along with them. But, of course, it was a cheshire cat smile…

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