THE RED POINT, Excerpt 2

The train to Freiburg is scheduled to leave at 7:19 p.m. That gives me a
little over two hours to spend in the Amsterdam Station. I lug my bags to
a small cafe behind the ticket booths, sit down and order a glass of red
wine. The station is hot and crowded. A drone of muffled voices fills the
room like fog. Well-dressed men and women mill around, evening papers in
hand, waiting to commute to their homes in the Amsterdam suburbs.

I reach into my shoulder bag and pull out a small spiral-bound notepad.
For years I've been collecting: ideas, thoughts, quotes, impressions,
self-analyses, scraps from magazines and newspapers, movie reviews,
ticket stubs. The notepad is nearly filled now, and I hold it in my hands
as I would hold my own child.

"Idea for a piece," I write. "An instrumental ensemble as a complex,
living organism. The composition unfolds as the organism evolves. Five
clarinets, three double basses, two timpanists, and an enormous bowed gong." 

The wine has begun to work. There is a warmth in my belly which loosens
the cramps. I start to feel drowsy and realize I haven't slept in nearly
twenty-four hours. It will be good to lie on a couchette and stare out
the window at the Dutch countryside. 



