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.
It's nothing"Whatcha doing?" you ask over my shoulder.
I flip the notebook shut, masking the beating of my heart with the abrupt act. Somehow, it works. I don't know how you can manage to not hear the racket that silly organ of mine is making. It's so loud that I'm convinced it can be heard through the floor of the room. I slowly let out the breath you've made me hold.
"Nothing," I mumble.
My mind races. How much did you see? Those lines about your "beautiful blue eyes"did those reach their subject? You just stand there, smiling with that coy grin of yours, the one that makes me want to simultaneously kiss you and bash your teeth in. I want to melt away, melt into those arms, melt into the ceramic floor beneath me.
Oh, stop talking, please just go away. This isn't ready, not yet, give me more time. I know this has been a work in progress for a long time, but you can't know that, can you? You can't be impatient with something I've hidden so well (haven't I?), it won't hurt
19-08-2011Sometimes, when you stay up far too late into the night, just before the dawn eases itself through your window, you hear something not unlike music radiate through the walls of your room. It goes something like this:
You hear the soft murmurs compelling you to do... What? You stretch an ear, trying to comprehend it, but it remains just out of grasp. It starts slow, deliberate, strings plucked, chords struck. You find yourself, though curious, oddly at peace.
You wonder what you are supposed to hear, what is being said in wisps and whispers. It swells; it ebbs. You unconsciously begin following the pattern with your fingers, marking the beat onto the parchment of your flesh, maybe you will remember it that way, once light and clarity and reason catch up to the fleeing night. But you know that you will not, that this is a dream, that it does not want to be remembered; but then, what? Why?
You picture your thoughts so intensely, willing an answer to come with all the might you can muster,