Music

Sometimes I wish the words I write in here could be accompanied by music. Slow. Down. Like my mood most late evenings/early mornings. When I feel like a pinball bouncing off the rubber triangles encased in hard plastic. Spinning with nowhere to go but down a hole to signal another loss. Controlled by something outside of me. I imagine that, no matter my mood, the words are read at the same pace. I doubt I inject the my sentences with a rhythm matching the mood with which I write them. I doubt I have the ability to evoke an authentic tone.  I went to two musical performances tonight. Erin joined me at the Red Lion to watch Jill with hordes of her supporters. I then went uptown to the Birdland, that historical New York jazz institution to watch a new friend of mine sing in front of an Afro-Cuban orchestra from New School's jazz program. I watched singers and musicians do their things. Their things. Their what? Their art. Their lives. Their passions. The sounds filled me up. That emptiness I've been writing about in my "thesis." Which I can't fill. Whatever. But there are other things going on. The occupation of Palestine. The terror in Spain. Guerilla warfare. The hunger next door. Death. Despair. Desire. Desertion. My pinball path looms much less than all of it and everything else. This I wish could be accompanied by music. The only way I can inject the sentences with the intended rhythm. There are people out there making music. And there are those who can only listen.