Leo would, under the influence of a large amount of stimulants and alcohol, compose pithy little works meant to mimic the emotional arcs of his favorite pieces of music. Once thoroughly immersed in his new mindset he would sit himself in front of a record player with the volume set to the most deafening notch and allow himself to be moved while willing his fingers to mimic the flights of his soul. He was aware that this attempt to render in writing a feeling that was characteristically pre-linguistic was asymptotic in nature, so he contented himself with the metonymic beauty of whatever came out in his heightened state of aesthetic sensitivity. It was an exercise in spiritual reception, he said. The stimulants were entirely necessary for they helped leave his nerves just the right amount of raw.
To the tune of “Sylvia: Act III: Divertissement: Variation - Valse,” his favorite piece from his favorite Delibes ballet, he set forth these words:
(Start the record as soon as the sound of the first syllable is released.)
Standing alone in the Magyar gallery the tall slender woman cocked one foot on bent toe the other resting flush against the ground. With the first swelling of the strings her hands rose to the air forming the shape of a hydrangea bulb with the arc of her arms.
She then protruded one leg and proceeded forward first with a spin and then with a twirl to dance past the Tree of Life towards something more cubist. It was free flowing and with each beat her chest heaved as she rose to meet the music it was on one on two and on three she would collapse on the floor in heap only to rise again and to take the ass of a marble sculpture, one cheek in each hand, and to hold it as she could never do were a docent present.
Dancing, dallying, delaying dusk that was inevitable, eyes closed, mouth agape, she ran wild hurling herself past the Skeleton King over the rails down into the Danube the dancer defeated dashed down without hurrying passing Mother Maria and my eyes alike.
Ecstasy ensued as she neared her certain death she saw not only God but felt freedom from the forms that had bound her consciousness in chains of logic and wreaths of reason.
In the instant before she collided with oblivion she was graced with the most profound sense of peace and the knowledge that what would come next would be an utter surprise but she would be entirely safe in the soft folds of non-being.
If only she had been able to feel this freedom before bidding farewell.
In more sober states Leo was wont to complain about the aesthetic self-indulgence of certain writers, directors, and painters, but his work was exactly this: onanistic ecstasy wrought upon a page. He could not overcome his self-awareness unless under the influence and so his move towards greater degrees of spiritual freedom involved states of intoxication that were increasingly frequent and extreme in nature. However, these binges left him sick and unable to work for days. Only when completing a piece deserving of posterity did he feel the freedom for which he longed. Only in writing could it be made eternal.