Heard Plainly, Forcefully
There was an old lady who swallowed a fly.
It's never completely silent in here; there are always sounds that occupy the vast corridors. If it's not being broadcasted from a device outside, then the music starts internally. The orchestra of voices and instruments down in the bowels, the foundations from which all the structures build, has always been a busy entity, and it doesn't always take my direction. I suffer and enjoy what might be considered auditory hallucinations from time to time. I can hear the music plainly, keeping time independant, just behind everything else. Sometimes songs I didn't even know I knew, lyrics I thought forgotten singing back from the archives.
I don't know why she swallowed that fly.
And it is often undeniably silly. Usually, it comes out as a contrast, against whatever it is that I'm doing. Out to mangle my composure. There are parts of myself that find absolutley everything ridiculous.
Perhaps she'll die.
Yesterday it happened as I entertained a fellow who, amongst other things, was obvoiusly married, and timorously enjoying what was probably a simotaneously eroitc and nerve-wracking experience for him. What to do?
There was an old lady who swallowed a spider.
My leg braced on a wall; pressing; turgid, and moving to the beat of the club's slow fuck mood.
That riggled and jiggled and ticked inside her.
I just about lost my shit. Not only did I hear it clear as day through the techno beat, it was being sung by a woman in a thick cockney. I had an image of some wench up on a rough hewn table in a tavern, regaling. My face must have changed because the man looked suddenly even more uncomfortable. I didn't laugh, but that was the end of that.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.
I don't know why she swallowed that fly.
Perhaps she'll die.
Music is my life-blood. Words being music too, the resonance of them, and letters themselves, attatching each other in aural notation. Sound ties my life together, and provides the superstructure of memory. I provide soundtracks to take myself from place to place throughout the day. When I was younger the Imperial March gave me the courage to walk into a hostile room.
So geeky. I know.
A great many of the friendships in my life have music in common. Not always the same tastes, but the importance. This feeling of essentail inevitability. We all get lost in the notes and the chords, and there we are, forcing each other to listen to our love affairs.
"You have to hear this. Loud."
She swallowed the dog to catch the cat,
She swallowed the cat to catch the bird,
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider,
That riggled and jiggled and tickled inside her,
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly,
I don't know why she swallowed that fly,
Perhaps she'll die.
This is especailly true of Cobra and me. We built our friendship on music. We raved together. Worshiped. Danced to the trance gods. I was with her when we got the speakers of her wet dreams. We sat in front of them, full throttle for the better part of a day.
"This is just dumb."
"Again, again!"
Those speakers, coupled with her prodigous CD collection, necessitated the forms of our socialization. Cobra is a home body by nature, but has been forced to relent some of her stereo-nazi inclinations as she is frequently hosting the host of audiophiles that make up our circle of friends. We inaugurated the two-song rule. Everyone gets a turn, and it goes in a round. You get two songs. They can be any two songs. No one can object and you're not allowed to complain. However, payback can be a bitch.
"What's that? Dwight Yoakum? No, no, that's alright. Go ahead. I think I have some speed death-metal in the back."
We've been playing the two song game for several years now. It really doesn't get old.
I know an old lady who swallowed a cow.
In anticipation of leaving the country, I've been converting all my CDs into mp3s. I have no intention of travelling the world without my entrie music collection at my disposal. I'm more than half-way done. It's rather erie, putting a couple hundred disks onto three DVD-ROMs.
I don't know how she swallowed that cow.
When it comes down to it, all these technological short-cuts, toys and accoutrement are only aplifications of the essentail. Music carries in the anatomy of humankind. One of the two universals (the other being math, my un-favorite). We have the most basic elements at our disposal at all times. We keep a beat by living. Thump, thump.
Thump, thump.
I know an old lady who swallowed a horse.
I have a regular who comes to see me twice a month, very sweet and quite deaf. We do manage to keep a rythem there in the room; he can still feel the beat of the music through the wood, but deafness is one of those things I don't know that I could ever swallow. There was always that looming hypothetical, first put to me in Sunday School: if you had to lose one, your sight or your hearing, which would you choose? It was meant to bring us out of presumtion, make us appreciate, but it's the sort of question that can hit a highly imaginative child differently, terrifyingly. In the dark, or in silence? At the very least, at this point in my life, I have a resovior, a deep well at the centre of things, that can still broadcast to deaf ears even after they burst or seal shut. These sounds could still play, and vary; but the thought still chills me to the bone. A very isolated world, taken away from new epiphanies of ecstatic song. I don't know that I could reconsile myself with that thorough loneliness.
He's dead of course.
It's never completely silent in here; there are always sounds that occupy the vast corridors. If it's not being broadcasted from a device outside, then the music starts internally. The orchestra of voices and instruments down in the bowels, the foundations from which all the structures build, has always been a busy entity, and it doesn't always take my direction. I suffer and enjoy what might be considered auditory hallucinations from time to time. I can hear the music plainly, keeping time independant, just behind everything else. Sometimes songs I didn't even know I knew, lyrics I thought forgotten singing back from the archives.
I don't know why she swallowed that fly.
And it is often undeniably silly. Usually, it comes out as a contrast, against whatever it is that I'm doing. Out to mangle my composure. There are parts of myself that find absolutley everything ridiculous.
Perhaps she'll die.
Yesterday it happened as I entertained a fellow who, amongst other things, was obvoiusly married, and timorously enjoying what was probably a simotaneously eroitc and nerve-wracking experience for him. What to do?
There was an old lady who swallowed a spider.
My leg braced on a wall; pressing; turgid, and moving to the beat of the club's slow fuck mood.
That riggled and jiggled and ticked inside her.
I just about lost my shit. Not only did I hear it clear as day through the techno beat, it was being sung by a woman in a thick cockney. I had an image of some wench up on a rough hewn table in a tavern, regaling. My face must have changed because the man looked suddenly even more uncomfortable. I didn't laugh, but that was the end of that.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.
I don't know why she swallowed that fly.
Perhaps she'll die.
Music is my life-blood. Words being music too, the resonance of them, and letters themselves, attatching each other in aural notation. Sound ties my life together, and provides the superstructure of memory. I provide soundtracks to take myself from place to place throughout the day. When I was younger the Imperial March gave me the courage to walk into a hostile room.
So geeky. I know.
A great many of the friendships in my life have music in common. Not always the same tastes, but the importance. This feeling of essentail inevitability. We all get lost in the notes and the chords, and there we are, forcing each other to listen to our love affairs.
"You have to hear this. Loud."
She swallowed the dog to catch the cat,
She swallowed the cat to catch the bird,
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider,
That riggled and jiggled and tickled inside her,
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly,
I don't know why she swallowed that fly,
Perhaps she'll die.
This is especailly true of Cobra and me. We built our friendship on music. We raved together. Worshiped. Danced to the trance gods. I was with her when we got the speakers of her wet dreams. We sat in front of them, full throttle for the better part of a day.
"This is just dumb."
"Again, again!"
Those speakers, coupled with her prodigous CD collection, necessitated the forms of our socialization. Cobra is a home body by nature, but has been forced to relent some of her stereo-nazi inclinations as she is frequently hosting the host of audiophiles that make up our circle of friends. We inaugurated the two-song rule. Everyone gets a turn, and it goes in a round. You get two songs. They can be any two songs. No one can object and you're not allowed to complain. However, payback can be a bitch.
"What's that? Dwight Yoakum? No, no, that's alright. Go ahead. I think I have some speed death-metal in the back."
We've been playing the two song game for several years now. It really doesn't get old.
I know an old lady who swallowed a cow.
In anticipation of leaving the country, I've been converting all my CDs into mp3s. I have no intention of travelling the world without my entrie music collection at my disposal. I'm more than half-way done. It's rather erie, putting a couple hundred disks onto three DVD-ROMs.
I don't know how she swallowed that cow.
When it comes down to it, all these technological short-cuts, toys and accoutrement are only aplifications of the essentail. Music carries in the anatomy of humankind. One of the two universals (the other being math, my un-favorite). We have the most basic elements at our disposal at all times. We keep a beat by living. Thump, thump.
Thump, thump.
I know an old lady who swallowed a horse.
I have a regular who comes to see me twice a month, very sweet and quite deaf. We do manage to keep a rythem there in the room; he can still feel the beat of the music through the wood, but deafness is one of those things I don't know that I could ever swallow. There was always that looming hypothetical, first put to me in Sunday School: if you had to lose one, your sight or your hearing, which would you choose? It was meant to bring us out of presumtion, make us appreciate, but it's the sort of question that can hit a highly imaginative child differently, terrifyingly. In the dark, or in silence? At the very least, at this point in my life, I have a resovior, a deep well at the centre of things, that can still broadcast to deaf ears even after they burst or seal shut. These sounds could still play, and vary; but the thought still chills me to the bone. A very isolated world, taken away from new epiphanies of ecstatic song. I don't know that I could reconsile myself with that thorough loneliness.
He's dead of course.
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