I am listening to a CBC radio podcast from the Ideas program called 9 Minutes that Changed the World. In it the work of Claude Debussy is analyzed and posited as the beginning of the 20th century. The hypothesis is that the music that went before was ordered and structured and technical. With Debussy, music bursts boundaries and flouts technical rules for composition. This musical revolution leads the vanguard of a new western world where rule breaking or perhaps more accurately thinking outside the box, ignoring old rules is the rule. Debussy is sometimes called a musical impressionist where music creates mystical impressions in the manner of Turner’s paintings. Poetry is mentioned in passing, but I would guess the Beats of the 1950s at least, but free verse for sure are included. All this is then at least 60-70 years old for words but actually dates back to Symbolism in late 1850s France. So…. my poetry is out of date. My playing with integrating words, images both moving & still and music in single word paintings is merely a re-arrangement of old standards. Not that this realization will stop me…..
a cool wind swept in
clouds of dust rose from their rest
as he walked along
She smiled and laughed talking of this and that,
“Should we hold hands” she said and hugged him quickly then darted back, her eyes
were dark she looked low and up at him, blushing quickly as he raked her body firm and young with his eyes old and tired, remembering youth and soft women of the past
sighing he smiled his only answer as she waved and laughed swallowed by the door that opened for her but not not him
Titles are interesting. I used to have book titles pop into my head quite frequently. I didn’t have a story or characters to go with the title. But they appeared anyway. Today it happened again after a long gap. A Confusion of Dreams. Actually I was answering a question about my night’s sleep. I could only recall a series of dreams all broken and shattered in my mind and lying in a heap on the floor of my mind. A confusion. Crows come in a murder…. dogs in a pack…. cattle in a herd…. dreams in a confusion.
I leaped silently through the night/my body flexing and flying to the stars/sex i had (almost) as i woke before i could be had/back into my pillow i dove/now walking down a road alone/the pavement rose to meet my feet/cool winds blew then turned to heat/
You get the idea.
I delight in silliness. Silliness is the breath of life, the peanut butter between the slices, the sunshine during rain, the faded pictures pinned to a wall, the bag that holds the chips, the car on cinder blocks adorning a front lawn, the open window, the unlocked door, the Beatles album called the Liverpool Oratorio, the one wheeled bicycle, the bottle containing the edges of beer, the bubbles in the pipe…. I love them all.
[posted in response to a troll who took my joke about the Liverpool Oratorio seriously]
Simon muttered stumbling, kicking a small green cup, sending it spinning and twisting across the floor. Light danced as it moved and a thin sound came from it, like a scream but pure. The wall wavered again
Simon turned away and into the wall, then stopped. It felt good. Little sparks scratched and titillated that deep itch that never quite subsided. He stretched his arms out wide and floated up slightly, letting the cinder blocks meld into him, firm after the softness of their plaster cover. He shimmied slightly pushing the rough molecules deeper , sharpening and polishing. He stretched his toes out – that always felt good in a hot bath after a long day – and felt the curious little sparking warm them. He flexed his legs carefully sending part of his left foot outside of the wall. Simon heard steps outside and pushed his face part way, looking into the hallway leading to the stairs and building doors. A short, blonde girl with incongruous jet black eyelashes screamed. He moved back hastily into the security of the wall.
Simon sat, feeling the breeze soft and fresh, hearing trees rustling softly to each other; their song strummed lightly. Sundays were so quiet, dead, or nearly so. He was in Hell’s waiting room, after all. He thought for a moment about that phrase, ‘after all’. How appropriate! He was now after ‘all’ his life and was waiting. Other ‘guests’, in their golden years snorted, farted, lay inert or babbled meaninglessly. Perhaps together it all made sense. The noises of Hell’s invitees, an orchestra tuning up for a tuneless eternity. Katy came, floating in the air an inch or two above the bench beside him, but was interrupted for a bit by an almost poem that popped into his head…… then she returned into view, beckoning, threatening, promising. ‘Well’, Simon supposed, ‘what sort of hell would Hell be without her?’ A pretty poor one, ‘a hell’ rather than ‘the Hell’. He ignored her for the moment,
They watched tour boats of tourists in the ever present English rain and rare sun; Musette taking pictures of them and the glistening streets, and of tall doormen in Ruritanian costumes in front of hotels, whatever attracted her at the moment. Mingled with the smell of bus exhaust and old churches they held each other. They discovered one funny old church that sat back from other buildings on a small street with a gate at one end. They entered and sat in the stillness, joining the silence, feeling a soft ancient sadness caress them under a timbered beam roof, light filtering through stained glass. They did not touch there, but felt each other’s warmth.