“After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.”
— Aldous Huxley, Music at Night and Other Essays
About this image: This is one sculpture amongst the many that have their home in the outdoor rooms of the Franklin Delano Roosevelt Memorial in Washington DC. The memorial is a focus for those who work tirelessly to promote the welfare of disabled citizens. I thought that this sculpture captured beautifully both the idea of sound and its absence,
Borrowed sound
Eclipsed in the wake of a memory lost,
Burdened with quiet respite.
In ivory bound
Your fingers have found their freedom at last,
Tethered to light.
*
London’s Thames-scape at their feet. Silent and alive.
The ice clinks against the G&T-filled glasses. One story ended. Another courses though their veins, yet to be told…
*
“Where do you live?” he asks.
“Cambridge.”
“That’s… Epic.” Eyebrow raised.
She laughs: “It’s not that bad. I’ve been commuting for… seven years now.” She pauses. Sighs. “Gosh. That makes me feel so old.”
Their eyes meet. Too short for alarm bells. Too long for comfort.
“I don’t think you are old,” he sais it slowly. Deliberately. He means it. Perhaps there is too much meaning being read into.
She looks away. Pleased that one evening’s greys would conceal her blush.
*
I love this record, baby, but I can’t see straight anymore…
Him: I’m a fool to want you. I’m a fool to want you. To want a love that can’t be true, a love that’s there for others too. I’m a fool to hold you; such a fool to hold you. To seek a kiss, not mine alone, to share a kiss the devil has known.
Her: Is this it?! Is this it?!! Is this it?
Him: Down and down… I got to get up. Oh I’m up, I’m up. Get down. Bring your questions to the floor. Down backstairs and out front door. Your feel! Your pain! Over and over again!!!
Find somebody close to you. Follow you heart! Follow your heart! Don’t I love you! Do what you want. Do what you do. Don’t I love you.
Her: If I were a painter, I would paint my reverie, if that’s the only way for you to be with me… We’d be there together, just like we used to be, underneath the swollen skies for all to see, and I’m dreaming of a place where I could see your face, and I think my brush would take me there, but only if I were a painter…
Him: I spend my time watching the spaces that have grown between us. And I cut my mind on second best, all the scars that come with the greenness… And I give my eyes to the boredom. Still the seabed wouldn’t let me in. And I try my best to embrace the darkness in which I swim.
Her: Just dance! Gonna be ok. Taraptururup… Just dance! Spin that record, babe… Taraptururup. Just dance! Gonna be ok. Taraptururup. Just dance ! Dance… dance… dance! Just dance.
*
P.S.:
Non. Rien de rien. Non. Je ne regrette rien. Ni le bien qu’ont ma fait, Ni le mal. Tout ça m’est bien égal.
Aujourd’hui. Ça commence avec moi !
http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/10/06/daily-prompt-music-2/
Photographers, artists, poets: show us MUSIC.
vic briggs 