Thursday, May 19, 2005

Portrait of a window, through which a young artist gazes at clouds.

My soul terror is looking through wordless windowsills, empty horizons of widows and windows; winnowing in the grass outer space of that Sunday afternoon front yard. A sound free canopy of stillness.

It’s the waiting for nothing, smelling liquorish on your hands; a desire for longevity, enabling this suffering to go on well into eternity. You, a musical god who has not synthesized the first Adam.

When that light in the kitchen above the small and antiqued-before-its-time breakfast nook goes dark and dead, you wait long damp moments, dearth of light, sitting until your eyes tell you to solve the problem. You, in the dark quiet, alone.

Discontent isn’t the right word, but it’s the first thing that comes to mind.

Its all happening in Greece or L.A. right now, all of it; and you are not there to witness it. The people, the parties, the youth in the clubs like low hanging, silvery night time clouds that smell blue with their fullness of rain.

The music. Oh god the music. F*ck me, you say, the music. It is all in some Mediterranean Island, waiting for a bronzed Ibizan to flick her cigarette while standing topless on the beach at night; looking so Balearic all the while. You are still sitting in darkness.

The music. God the music. It comes in beat packages of four over four, with a kick drum thud, made of earth and clay, dropped from sonic airplanes into the sweaty frenetic club waiting below.

You are not frenetic.

Underwear in hand you change the blown light bulb after waiting in a long, self loathing darkness.

And the music goes on while some young Finish boys dance with some young Danish girls to a stuttering synthesizer, flashes of light highlight the glistening blonde hair, a pale yellow forehead that is now green with club color.

It’s the build up.

You know the song. You can’t make your mind make it over that hump where the track bursts into a preponderance of funk and cool and loud and flow. The song; It’s stuck somewhere in a quiet Sunday room, windows and underwear, a drumbeat eternally looping a shade before fruition.

A sonic holding pattern.

You are doing this on purpose, you say to yourself, maybe out loud to the silvery clouds outside.

You know things. Music things. More than the rich children of Europe know. A lot more, you say to the cloud that now looks like a 12” vinyl record, broken in half by the cobalt blue sky. You float up into the cloud, with the things you know. A moog can sound like someone dying. A hihat like a paper tearing against the grain. A pan is a slow burst of melodic texture, often spanning dozens of beats, bringing the track to the next chapter every time it crescendos.

A woman’s voice always sounds sexier after she finds her sorrow.

You know you like to spin tracks in the club at 128 beats per minute; that is the speed of your heart. In front of those people, young and glistening ebullience, naivety, jocundity, tired feet and absorbent bloodstreams. A crash cymbal, if properly synthesized, sounds like rain hitting palm fronds, then cascading to a mud laden jungle floor.

Brown slippers on brown carpet. Underwear still in hand, now hot from the blown bulbs dying heat. You are not in a cloud, or a club- rather you are sitting, listening to your mind. Its syncopated thoughts, its flanged receptors, gated synapse lapses. All so in time- all so precise. The windowsill, the time to percolate your feelings, clouds with their rain stored for the impending shower.

You, the talent borne upon nothing.

You, a musical savior to no one. You; a rash of funk you will let loose like a plague; melodies will set in like locusts; your beats will kill all the first born…

…And suddenly your windowsill is a stereophonic horizon; a budding birth of hope in tempo, opening a portal to forever and ever. Your mind is organic and electric, both a lattice of activity, of thought, of pans and flange, borne now a heard vision. Sound and silence.
You who creates, are eternal.



Post a Comment

<< Home