againit's an odd feeling
that of picking up a
pen after so long
this is a ramble, a piece
made up of yet more pieces
a garish amalgam of thought
(or lack thereof,
i feel lost.
i feel lost, so i'll
let my hand guide my thoughts.
it's an odd feeling.
i watch the clouds that span
the grey horizon, thinking
but where is the sun, and
burning in the space beyond them.
they pass by not so fast as wind
through wavy brown hair or feet
on sealed stone pavement and
dew-tipped grass (though no more);
or the passage of time itself,
measured in mathematics,
arcs and radians and functions describing the
never-ceasing motion of an unblinking uncaring undying
measured in heartbeats and
in nows and thens,
in see-you-laters and
i feel lost, so i'll
let my hand guide my soul.
where am i going, i ask
what am i doing
but in the end--
i will push through.
am not perfect
am not special
ScalesWe're in class. It's test day; I'm playing scales. All is going well. There is no difficulty in this, not really. Not anymore, at least. I've become capable at this if not at much else. I reach the upper tier of B flat major--the same assignment as every year, of course--and breeze back down.
It's easy to learn something that happens all the time. After a while, you just know it, with an intimacy that guides every twitch of your fingers and laces every breath that you take.
I'm in G minor now. Natural, then harmonic, then melodic. It's a pretty gradation for something so melancholic. That said, I've always held a preference for the harmonic scale. It's what most people hear when they imagine a minor progression, and I did the same. As a younger musician, it fascinated me. Basic, yet different enough from what we were seeing at the time to lure me in, I played with the minor by ear.
Of course, I always emphasised the dissonance.
That kind of bothers me now, I think. The dissonanc
21-10-2011Help me, I've fallen and I can't get back up.
I'm surrounded by dark walls and darker soil. There's no light in here, not really anyway, not anymore. There used to be a lot of it, I think, but it's dusk now. There's only a faint glow if I look up--or is that down, already?
I've tripped into a well, I think. Somehow. So the light must come from above. That much I have now, at least.
Tattered remnants of once-white sheets surround me. A beetle skitters onto my knee and screeches at me. I jerkily flick it away. There are more down here, of course, lots even, but I try to ignore their little cries.
Leave me alone. Can't you see that I'm bigger than you?
I'm a bit scared, but I'm not worried, not yet. People know I'm gone, someone will realise I'm supposed to be back by now. I just need to wait patiently for someone to find me and help me. I just need to be calm.
Time passes. I think it does, anyway. It's hard to tell in here.
Isn't anyone coming for me? Hasn't anyone noticed my absence? Ho
the tree fellThe room is quiet.
No, it isn't quiet.
It is full, just discreetly so.
The air is saturated with possibility:
the (potential) energy of a seed in a new abode.
up swishes the conductor's wand,
and up snap the heads of his group,
and soft, velvety notes begin,
The sound climbs,
and it flies,
Now bells come in,
ring striking tones,
and suddenly it's snowing,
it's Christmas in July.
The movement is everything,
then fall then rise,
like a musical breath.
But the heartbeat that drives
it slows down to a
and the dancing becomes
footsteps once more.
Melancholy grips the partition, sounds
become mournful and soft
cries in soprano-tenor voices
as the players look up and find
nothing less missing than themselves.