On Music
I don’t think music is capable of being contained to the extent that, like a flame without access to oxygen, it gets snuffed out.
I think music is the reverberation of the thumping carotid artery drumming blood to the brain blended delicately and at just the right moment in time with everyone else.
Bee hums tracing the flower-bush-lines on a map somewhere, a well-timed drop of an acorn, people as they are, and the gentle paper harpsichord of leaves against branches like fingers.
Music is like the whisper of some collective dry lung perceiving and preceding a voluminous, watery storm dancing across a desert some 500 miles away. It is relief, and it is oversaturating.
It’s endemic to being alive in a moving, sound-ing, breathing world. In a world that speaks and cries, a body that can or won’t or might or did.
Music sings when it is silent, as it compels silence at the heights of song.
Depending on the attitude of the listener, it can be survival of the safety-seeking and the stuck-here or the transcendence of the intrepid for the sake of a tremulous future that beckons..
For the birds, as for whales, as for man. Music remembers. As for woman, as for child, as for offspring anywhere.
Making music with leaves. Music does not forget.
Concentric rings escape the orchestra section and send back to the far-most seats the same silent breath like an anacrusis at the start of a composition that began before clockhands and cash registers and sun-dials.
The bow strikes string. But does not the string also strike the bow?
Music.