I’m working on a longer post about the memory wormhole opened up by a chance encounter with the title of a play, but the wormhole has turned out to be much deeper than I thought so the post has taken a more involved turn.

In the meantime, I must report that I have not worked on the cello sonata in a week or so. Small crisis of confidence, which is waning but still there.

Yesterday afternoon, during the intermission of the Masterworks concert, a bunch of us were chatting about the piece we’ll be singing at Lincoln Center in June. It’s based on a children’s book that none of us were familiar with. I ruefully commented to one of our William Blake singers that whatever it was, it was not my piece based on a children’s book.

After the concert was over, I got in the van and decided to pull out the William Blake CD and listen to “Blake Leads a Walk on the Milky Way,” the infamous (to the singers) No. 10.

It’s gorgeous, folks, still. This morning, the CD picked up with “When We Get Home, Blake Calls for Fire.” I let it run, and this music still gets to me.

It restored my faith in my ability as a composer. At least of choral music based on children’s works.