Don’t you wish to just consume
some pieces of music – fuse them with your atoms and motives, so their
intricate compositions infect your being thoroughly?
No?
Ok.
***
I’m unable to
tether sound to memory. So that pretty sound you created yesterday? It
unravelled itself from your elaborate arrangement and drifted away the moment
you released it. All I was left with was a sense of you playing, the tenderness
you put into it and of course, the memory of finding it enchanting – this
intimate drama of you, your softly flitting fingers and the prettiness of the sound
– you created such a moment of magic. This will stay with me. Not the music.
***
To emerge from the safe shallow silence of ignorance into a world of
music is bewildering. It is alarming. It is frightening. It is, possibly, also
liberating.
***
You have no idea how defenceless I am, do you?
With your fucking crotchets and quavers and your sixteenth fucking notes,
you wield your melodies and rhythms with impunity while I cower in cold spots,
my skin hanging off me in bags, collecting sweaty pools of incompetence.
***
I would relinquish a few words, about 250 grams of precious punctuation
plus an inch of grammar to be able to sing mellifluously to the beat of your
flawless rhythm, sweet merry music maker.
***
Music can make you write pretentious things without shame. It is that
classy and irreverent.
4 comments:
I read this three times in different ways: once moving my lips, partially reading some in my head, another out loud, and yet another quietly in my head. You can see I'm obsessed ;)
I'm happy to learn you have versatile reading skills. :-)
cool-liked the grams and inches like the 60 hz flicker on my 50 hz eyesight.
like the hut oranging on a blue cucumber night.
60hz flicker. :-)
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