Peter told me.
Voice from the past, he called Monday morning.
Frank's gone he said.
What ... ?
But we were just talking about him last night, about how much better he was supposedly doing, about how he was on his way to Germany to do some kind of Zappa-Stockhausen retrospective concert, about how he'd beat that prostate thing, how he'd be back on stage soon playing his brilliant insane sublime guitar solos and vomiting forth his ridiculous pseudo-obscene lyrics and spitting in the face of the music establishment and— and—

World without Zappa.
Goodbye, Frank.

Still can't quite believe it.
Can't accommodate the thought in my small square of reality.
It's like Charlie says:
Each new revelation causes a shift in the frame of your personal reality.
Dominoes topple and shift, matrices realign.
Events change you, change your body.

World without Zappa.
Rest in peace, Frank.

I almost met you once.
Hans-Ola, Ole, and I were touring America, gathering material on US composers.
Carl Stone set us up to interview you.
But it fell through at the last minute, you had a previous engagement.
Probably wanted to spend a few more hours in the studio composing.
(Towards the end that's all you did; compose and spend time with your family.)
A big disappointment:
To have nearly — but not quite — met America's greatest living composer.
A missed moment.
Forever missed.

World without Zappa.
Hope the pain's gone now, Frank.

I have a piece for you: The Zappa Variations.
Based on a theme from an early composition of yours.
Oh no, I don't believe it.
You say that you think you know the meaning of love.
Been working on it off and on for five years.
Planned to send it to you, my hommage to the master.
Who'll I send it to now?
Moon Unit, Dweezil, Barking Pumpkin, your wife (your widow)?
One of the Zappa Foundations or Societies that's bound to emerge?
Maybe I'll just pack up the cassette, address it to FZ, and drop it in the mailbox, unstamped.
I really want you to hear it.

World without Zappa.
Hope you were ready to move on, Frank.

Marge says we choose our own deaths.
She says maybe you went so far in your music that you began to yearn for a new sonic arena.
A new set of compositional challenges.
A new palette, new pitches, timbres, rhythms, dynamics.
A new audience.
An audience who could really hear your melodies, harmonies, counterpoint, ornamentation.
Not like your earthly fans, who listened for the tang of rebellion and the titillitating lyrics.
(I loved them too.)
They say that the music beyond is infinitely richer than the music here.
May you find your niche.

Be a loyal plastic robot for a world that doesn't care!
TV dinner by the pool ... I'm so glad I finished school.

World without Zappa.
Journey far, Frank.
World without Zappa.
Compose well, Frank.
World without Zappa.
Don't forget us, Frank.

World without Zappa.
Goodnite, sweet Frank.