My fabrication: I can play Mozart on the piano.
He makes me play all day, every day, five hours a bloody day, chained to that piano. The keys hurt me; they bite back. I have callouses and scabs to prove it, and it’s not easy stuff either, not simple crap, but flipping Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart: The Magic Flute and Eine Kleine Nachtmusik and all those dizzying piano sonatas.
Dad, like his freak of a father, pushes me, wants me to compose, like Mozart, but I can’t. The notes flow out of my fingers but not from my heart that’s walled off like a castle, like a fort. I’m technical, not inspired.
You ever see images of Mozart’s sheet music? Not one single revision – it all poured out of his spirit perfectly formed, fully-fleshed and finished, with the heady mix of angels and devils.
It’s never going to stop; he was a prolific little bastard.