Falling into Music - like Falling in Love
Tails it is . . . . Inherently shaken up by the attention I had been giving her or from slam dancing forever mosh-pit staining the slick bar linoleum; yet indifferent; the primitive amateurs doped on paradisial anguish with her; instilling more voice and more tragic pain of the quiet desperate vocals for nostalgia of the once crackling wastelands fumbling, ‘down-Ohdoowwwhown’ falling into place Mad Season’s River of Deceit moved stronger then, exact, duplicate, by the voice of a girl; justified for the unknowns, trippy, backs tweaked and shit, squirmy in slo-motion like splashy clasp splattered over her entire bust --- but when the shuddering charges framed my canyons at that ceaseless loss, the crumbled fragments of toppling over, the shoulders, curves of spaghetti strips highlighted, shreddings un-layering, un-plugged, song connections once…..it was not her on stage; now, candle acoustic intro, barely listen to the captured frozen Power just all too surreal once her words ended like the very blood beating thick liquid to the same face throbs, then thick liquid roll of song-loss, placid, horror of second-loss, silent instincts beating my heart, including the drummer who smoothed his hair behind his ears, pushed forward here, assuaged simply in loneliness and sanctuary of amber quilts suspended a moment and trapped forever in electric resound, the lead guitarist, he fiddled. I can hear fades away with the aching voice, away, in youths and the suffered overflow of heroes surrendering to become professed by the silence there; that rumbling meaningless message all mixed, song softened, sounds taking around the head all day lounged in the lofty burst, caught up in the middle of crowded circles of bodies, the thousandths of substratum ichors of the entire crazy crawls up off the pavement to that very disappearance…
As that the girl poofed away singing that’s ‘sooo california’ for um the small crowd around the band at the same floor level, so they never heard; when in leopard print tights and pink slip-ons, halter top, she just stuck out like a boner dressed that way, huh freaky that was --what it was as handsome formations accentuating away in the exceeding wonderment and clever cruelty of rituals, heads banging rhythms to separate such a clan before her, she started embracing everything as she yearned as if sacrificed within the unsettling herd all her admiring thoughts to the heavy walls, to every intention promoted there to erasing the homemade plastic, and strangely like scratched discs unrecognizably show in necessary raked memory skipping the outlasting, the extraordinary filmy disaster that may never be heard again. Sucked or extracted like depression on my entire body, sensing quotes to the similarity to this thinness of the singer’s structure extending eccentric, the electric lead guitar resound incomprehensibly, performing—a kind of rugby green collared shirt on, tattoos down arms, Sivertabs hanging conducive—then electrified to the sound waves too; amplified like lightning bolts off knuckles of the playing fingertips along, with mouths immediately accentuated again to stiff upper and lower lip gnarled in invincible conversions—only a fu-man-chu juiced the remaining girls—the band epitomized the floor, leveled stage that was just a corner of equipment— and the bass player had Dickey’s, tied in a sleeveless sweater; in decorated polyester plaid he had pants with a sports jacket, the drummer, with the cuffs of his button-down undone and flailing around beats and pummels, thwaps, ascend their pwatt pwatt patt putt putt pwatt as they resumed into the trendy ‘That’s So. California’ with bass major chord dissenting to relax the brow-furrowed eager forcing, the dire interest to touch the sounds like flicking eyebrow ring, orbit to yearn sheer emo gleams, drumming aphorism of compelling clings, twangs repeated as whimsical chords relentlessly hone these core fiddles exhausting frisson riffs, the “dollop of agony” (thank-you Spin) she knew was coming back, the way they always had.
But she had left, absorbed in the occasional wall-to-wall unscattering back there; through overcrowdings, to the backyard fleeing and shit down sidestreets, alley, walking all the way back home, maybe dwindled then interrupting the fast couple pumps apart from others. I tilted to her, followed. But she was something – something else.
“Some maneuverings, huh?” She had broke loose from the spaghetti shoulders over her too, one looping closer to her elbow and approaching cluster around that girl, to see that she might recognize me as never before, acknowledge the hassle perturbing, the unhealthy sides can-opener grinding, that turning knife that wheeled as if kept set aside for personal thoughts, developed awhile inside retractable earth, but intended to go folding in on her selflessness, as all of them might have within the tesseract and terraced; in tatters, when these clenched grips that can’t hardly process desolate cafeteria afternoons of mine own schooling; which should be without concern, the learning and growing, the developing and the social figurative mind for the future; when the young and the healthy girl who would like everyone there if she had the chance to meet them, gets ahead of me in a matter of 4 years a-hold of the shoulder straps, gains on intellect quite readily; comparably, a normal on-campus-across-the-globe sense that captured in the flattering earthful layers of promiscuity now begging from gurgles curling bubbling blood-filled belches ever exhaled, let alone traveled from the esophagus, rolls and rolls of how one gets hungry for a girl too, “Oh, Did you see her? That was nice Bow. That was real nice!”—“who? No. What Girl?” –“The singer Bow! The whole time you were staring at her!.”
But you can’t, you can’t hear her, and no one will ever hear again the infamously interlacing, the interacting, lack of elbow room that filtered the room, warped up to the chamber of orchestras, via a tiny band, touring maybe, a local group intermixing like Lemonheads with Pennywise, succinct dreamers scaling away, punkish notes accompanying text, so it sounded thick full spits of shouts, screams, maybe, maybe, peeling away apple whisks with strokes skinning, flaying souls, reeling until their own hands bleed…oh how so much happens in the ecstasy of animals chewed from slumber and consumed into the intelligent light tremendous, and certainly flung, literally strung out for only outlets to the light and glory of their own obsolete souls they are now over-aware of from exceeding grinds the mind tried to transform into something magnificent, in magazines, the pollution, the words, the sounds, for a story that doesn’t sound written but told; for expressing the voice you have thought; there is still a greater difference of being in certain worlds with nothing, and being fluently influencing talent; yet no one had any clue THIS fringed on the chasing exteriors in bizarre ways. She looks at me from the kinked concrete valleys puzzled, the uneven backwards garage fencings, unearthed treasures, approximately above the night and stares much into Bowen (who didn’t blink), me, into the guy; thinking infinitely and absenting Elsie …. to just go down the polyphonic roads of a romanfleuve a minute; almost too impermissible to truly narrate anymore upon another than the startled way she provoked in this lousy goon to be like the one operating lead guitar off the minor stage set-up of equipment like I told there at floor level. Fangs bit in, poison, low blood sugar feelings, “why you gotta look at her?” vices on the right, tracked the desire to express the story in a time period prepared with the unique ability to change the conceptual ways ones think in an instant, that Elsie said, “I wish I could make a song. Really...I mean, that is the most immediate way to reach people nowadays. Why waste time writing a big long novel no one will ever read entirely. I should just write a radio song, a one hit wonder to make people realize what is going on with me. Something to stimulate the creative process, to enhance the art—uh like…Tennyson, I think, who recited poetry aloud into it -to hypnotize himself to some extent—“ she suggested. I study every aspect with a preoccupation to vanish art in this case, and describe Elsie by selecting and typing no more than every vicariously failed signs of reference before it has begun, when your author awoke to the popular way it is to express oneself.
The intermittent breaks unafraid of the impending controversial inquisition, splattering guts across to describe disaster, that won’t flush away the clog; but shipping something I’ll never get to the people; without censorship; multiple historical changings in just a couple words or stories never read but heard.
In their own lives, in the irony that musicians or some professionals bug-eye in the machine, will deny the truth and realities, once it is published; like where all the soldiers exhume flashbacks in the glares and ammunition; since some can’t accept the way they are powerless to the stereo influence, the primeval concept still lingers inventing new-fangled industrious intentions to break through that stream of disgusting conscience, perhaps just to clear the voices and quotes of men in experimental capacity exceeding old western late 20th century imperfections and low quality craftsmanship, when literature comes to mind and such plans and stories and ideas and details fashionably written on unique magnets, chromed in see-through plastic, reproducing marionettes, hinges clearly the restoring of real prose in frescoes of generous recognition via radio waves in the valves of evolution and metaphorical greatnesses beyond even posterity; but regrets and never explain enough of which inexplicably bounds, chains, tethers; just as I am. Just me.
The belly settles almost ceased for me to leave her in the hidden backstreet. Walking in the continuum (since I did not choose to do so); following her home, oh how bad, there’s no convincing, no obvious comparison to the otherwise crucial fatality with those black and white spots nursing the inside of me like air drip gasps continuously clogged to my sinuses in the rear of my head; to keep up with her always running, always running from me in the stares of music and temperament, surrendered to the striving emotional playing in the airwaves, the modulations through summer car turned power windows immeasurably all the way down; but incalculable sensations of encounters throughout, some unrelated manner filtering, touches of inanimate objects like went uneven, as we had all ungrounded at the threshold, left the placement among connection, to experience the planet where it was hard to perceive, by these tumbles or scrapes, stumbling down along the back trails then huge collision and observation followed by scents and dust-clouding vicarious emotion and empathy responding to the minor reactions, the rapport; yet nothing impeccably blows from dash boards in that corner of my head once against the windshield, the bash, the ear tugging screeches of hollow tires in the back of mind…endlessly fidgeting places around, busts, incorporate back into sound, squeezed from the lodge of annihilation to utter distractions of the planted momentum inside calibrating rumbling masses craving relief from the sidestreets just as a sleeping limb might require adjusting from the unpleasant needle pokes; sure, devouring intuitions and intentions, the missing puzzle wedge piece in a drawer by itself and the photography plays with lights and shadows, as she step back with captures, stopped to look at me, and every flash but of Elsie; looking you incomplete, right incomplete in the eye with such a fiery jealous rage that falls in love, makes you fall into love with her every single time.
#hotwednesdays
The Music
The silence engulfs me, trying to drag me down into the depths of it until it is all that I know. I look around for anything to save me, and my eyes land on my old CD player. Reaching towards it, I hope there is at least a CD in it to play and break this everlasting silence.
I press play, and the first song crackles from the speakers, the melody and rhythm of the music sweeping me up so that I am dancing on the song itself. Every time my foot touches the ground, it hits the beat of the music, my arms open wide and catch the lyrics in my hands. The melody continues swirling around me, holding me up and helping me stay on my feet. I close my eyes and can feel the singer’s voice as it wraps around my heart, squeezing it in a way that I can only describe as heart wrenchingly beautiful. I continue letting the music take me away, grabbing hold of my body and leading it through the entire album. Every song changes effortlessly to the next one, and my body moves with it, not giving it another thought.
Then the final note of the last song rings throughout the room until it is once again silent, and I am just my ordinary self.
Green Tones
The music moves in golden arcs
It's silver fingers touch my cheek
It leaves its copper burnished marks
And one long amber liquid streak
Ruby blue, and icy red,
Fills my eyes, blue clover
Covers a soft bed
With a wavy purple cover
Song rises through my feet
Orange heat inside my lungs
Pounds a yellow striped beat
Climbs my ribs like ladder rungs
Pours out my hair in auburn waves
Bronze shaved dust upon the floor
Hardens into stones that pave
And lead me to an open door
White light
Grey night
Clear Silence
Night Out
(Verse 1)
Smoke machines and flashing lights
Gonna call you up tonight
My judgments impaired
Undying love declared
Head full of tonic and lime
Can’t get you off my mind
Gotta see your face one more time
Then I’ll leave you behind
(Chorus)
The music’s playing
My heart’s racing
My body’s shaking
Our time we’re wasting
The music’s playing
My heart’s racing
My body’s shaking
We’re escaping
(Verse 2)
My friend got me in her sight
There’ll be no call from me tonight
Wake up when the moon is sinking
Look back on a night of drinking
Head pounding and all too aware
Still wishing you had been there
(Chours)
The music’s playing
My heart’s racing
My body’s shaking
Our time we’re wasting
The music’s playing
My heart’s racing
My body’s shaking
We’re escaping
(Bridge)
You said you’d always be there
You said you’d always care
But when I really needed you
You were never there
(Chorus)
The music’s playing
My heart’s racing
My body’s shaking
Our time we’re wasting
The music’s playing
My heart’s racing
My body’s shaking
We’re escaping
***One of the first songs I ever wrote***
Awesome is Music
Neurologists are still not sure why music tickles us. The pleasure center I guess is the best they can do, but you let any under developed, aged or even damaged brain hear music of their taste, and watch the windows of the soul gleam. Quickly there are nods and foot tapping. Movement is life. Music, voice and song affect our feeling in nearly impossible to describe ways. The movie director will carefully choose sound to influence the mood of his audience trying carefully to blend it with the scene, enhancing his intended experience.
What's fascinating as well are the marriages of instrumental sound. A book could be written on the inclusion of percussion which is in nearly every piece of music. Go figure. That said, think of all the blends of instruments and how each recipe may lean towards a type of music.
Life without music is ill. The sickest people mentally or physically, lack music in their lives with the exception of "devil kill noise," I cannot allow some publications to be considered music, it's more like shit on a CD.
Some songs are written through people by God and are sang by people with their gift of voice, pitch, rhythm and style. Lyrics are beautiful expressions of the human experience.
Doesn't everyone feel the pleasantries when an old favorite song plays? When this happens you remember what and when. Sometimes the memory causes pause, but there is no denying its affects. Like moms spaghetti.
Don't some voices cut to the soul? Whitney Houston affects me like that when I hear her sing, "I Will Always Love You".
So many outstanding singers exist. Individual characteristics of voice splash into sound waves in perfect pitch to dance with the music which supports the mood and words. Awesome is music.
Awesome is music and voice.
Dirge
Her lips found me in the dark, in that place we were both hiding.
It was summertime, and the sun had set among purple clouds and pink whispers of fantasy and want. We'd managed to steal this time together, away from the eyes of fellow students and watchful counselors; they, with their matching shirts, smiles, lectures and lessons.
We had our own arts and crafts.
We built. It had been building, and so it was that we gave it life; need led us to that little lake shore, just past the weathered dock and safely skirting the edge of the street lamp's glow. We found our own light within each other.
Summer songs of the bullfrogs and crickets drew us in with their melody as we sang a not-so-different tune. In our echo of that lakeside chorus, croaks became moans, chirps became the rasp of denim undone. Reeds were our bed, and shadows our sheets and sheet music.
We built and we sang and we loved and we came.
When we finally went the way of so many first loves, part of me died.
I still sing, but the harmonies have never been quite the same.
Heat
Talk to me,
or let me be.
Come away with me
or set me free.
Don't torture me!
What will it be?
Drummer, stop!
Guitars hush!
Temptation's up,
I'm drowning in lust!
Look away.
Don't he-si-tate.
Must run away
or seal my fate!
Step away from the bass!
Stop tapping in place!
Got to run to where it's safe!
Get away from this café!
My Musical Magical Stage
Songs fills my world as I dance my own dream.
When "Beauty and the Beast" song comes in I can't help but imagine dancing in a beautiful gown with a handsome beast treating me like a princess as he twirls me around and we do hints of ballet.
Bollywood songs that are festival with colorful dancing makes me want to dance and celebrate, which puts me in happy mood, especially since my hips are fully recovered and are happy to finally move around as if wanting to dance no matter what.
When Christmas time comes around I always listen to the Nutcracker, and different versions of Carol of the Bells, makes me wanna do ballet with dancing snow flakes in costumes of emerald green and velvet red, especially Lindsey Sterling's violin song "Celtic Carol". That's the kind of festive music I love!
I love Kagamine Len's songs "The Prisoner of Love and Desire" and "Purgatory and the Canary Girl" they're both so catchy, it makes me wanna do a whimsical dance as if I were the Mad Hatter as well as make me wanna sing in Japanese.
Epic and powerful songs makes me picture a battle scene between life and death, like Gumi's song "Crystalline" the chorus version. I feel pumped and ready for anything, inspiring my soul to fight forward and never give up. This is how tough I can be, and no one shall break me!
Blackmore's Night makes brings fantasy to me and helps me imagine a world full of magic and adventure. Dancing under the moon, singing songs of mermaids, minstrels playing music everywhere while gypsies dance to the beat. "Queen For A Day" makes me feel like a queen, of course, but their songs always ALWAYS makes me wanna be a minstrel, too!
Music fills my day and feeds my mind with many feels, never ending, always inspiring, and always fuels my soul never stopping.