Strange Times
Funny how time moves. You can walk into a movie theater and come out having experienced a lifetime. You can lose nine months and it seems like a week.
The headphones are on the head but no music is playing. It's kind of nice. Blocks out the helicopters, the car alarms, the sound of the freeway. Just the fears and hopes pinging off the inside of the cranium, like the sound of a heavy rock heaved onto a frozen lake.
It's been a fallow season. But when springtime comes, it comes all in a rush, and all the flowers race to outbloom each other. You would not believe the music that is heaving itself up out of the soil. It makes me jump up and shout. I want to finish it immediately to push it on every person who walks their dog down the sidewalk in front of my house.
I wonder who writes this music - the music that I can't recall formulating? I would like to meet that person. Drinks are on me. Perhaps I will be lucky and that person will be Leonard Cohen or Samuel Barber. Probably not, but you never know.
In any case, I can't seem to kill it or convince it to leave me alone. Perhaps I am doomed. Perhaps I am blessed. So it goes. I can't wait to play it for someone.
The headphones are on the head but no music is playing. It's kind of nice. Blocks out the helicopters, the car alarms, the sound of the freeway. Just the fears and hopes pinging off the inside of the cranium, like the sound of a heavy rock heaved onto a frozen lake.
It's been a fallow season. But when springtime comes, it comes all in a rush, and all the flowers race to outbloom each other. You would not believe the music that is heaving itself up out of the soil. It makes me jump up and shout. I want to finish it immediately to push it on every person who walks their dog down the sidewalk in front of my house.
I wonder who writes this music - the music that I can't recall formulating? I would like to meet that person. Drinks are on me. Perhaps I will be lucky and that person will be Leonard Cohen or Samuel Barber. Probably not, but you never know.
In any case, I can't seem to kill it or convince it to leave me alone. Perhaps I am doomed. Perhaps I am blessed. So it goes. I can't wait to play it for someone.
posted by Bob M. at 4:22 AM
2 Comments:
I don't reckon you're doomed, well not any more so than the rest of us. I actually reckon you are blessed with a gift of observing the small and delicate details that make up the fragments of the human condition and the tension of wrestling between here and eternity.
I eagerly await the new songs to seep from my headphones and to bounce around my cranium, to feed my soul and entwine with my very fibre as I limp onwards on my pilgrim's journey.
Ooops, not sure that I linked my comment back to my blog. It's the wee small hours here in Scotland as I type this and I ought to go to bed...
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