Wish I could follow you through your day. There’s a rhythm in what you do. There’s some music. Okay, maybe sometimes just a noise, but often you make music in your actions, or, at least, the stuff of a coffee house suite. Wish I had a guitar. Wish I had taken lessons. I would love to put to music the day you live, sometimes a quiet time and at other times a little louder. Your music would tell the tale of humanity.
You do experience much even when you don’t think you do. So, you think you live a boring life? Maybe an ordinary one? Maybe a desperate one? I’m starting to put down some chords here. I have notes on the staff. The beat varies. The various strings play the notes of your multifaceted life. You know, even when you are bored you seem like an interesting subject to me. I mean, there you are, trillions of cells, processes that fill a biology book, neurons that make meaning in a chaotic world. Yes, there’s definitely music in you, maybe an entire opera, at the very least an album of diverse songs.
Now that I think about it, a guitar wouldn’t do you justice. I need all the instruments, and I mean all, even a didgeridoo, a pan flute, an upside down pot, a contrabass balalaika, all. If I follow you around closely enough I might even hear music you never knew you made. Different pitches in voice. The strike of your heel on a pavement. The sound of your hand helping another. Maybe, but I hope not, the sound of your hand hurting another or yourself.
Go ahead. Live your day. Don’t pay attention to me. I’ll be in the coffee house trying to convey all that you are to both disinterested and interested patrons. The disinterested might be oblivious to their music. The interested will be those seeking in your song some echo of their own, some genre of commonality. When they open themselves up to your music, they open themselves up to their own.
You do experience much even when you don’t think you do. So, you think you live a boring life? Maybe an ordinary one? Maybe a desperate one? I’m starting to put down some chords here. I have notes on the staff. The beat varies. The various strings play the notes of your multifaceted life. You know, even when you are bored you seem like an interesting subject to me. I mean, there you are, trillions of cells, processes that fill a biology book, neurons that make meaning in a chaotic world. Yes, there’s definitely music in you, maybe an entire opera, at the very least an album of diverse songs.
Now that I think about it, a guitar wouldn’t do you justice. I need all the instruments, and I mean all, even a didgeridoo, a pan flute, an upside down pot, a contrabass balalaika, all. If I follow you around closely enough I might even hear music you never knew you made. Different pitches in voice. The strike of your heel on a pavement. The sound of your hand helping another. Maybe, but I hope not, the sound of your hand hurting another or yourself.
Go ahead. Live your day. Don’t pay attention to me. I’ll be in the coffee house trying to convey all that you are to both disinterested and interested patrons. The disinterested might be oblivious to their music. The interested will be those seeking in your song some echo of their own, some genre of commonality. When they open themselves up to your music, they open themselves up to their own.
RSS Feed