There it is— that long sustain, slow and true, bright as day, cool as water. There it is— that muse of fire, carrying vision and bearing time upon the very air. The one note bent, the rhythm swung to either side of the scale. Cymbal and kick drum and the teeming senses, the dense absence between the pianoforte keys holding the shape of the song. It is in your head, it is of your heart, it scrolls through the open tabs and the riffled pages, the mystery and the evidence the moment leaves in your hands. Climb up the drainpipe to heaven’s rooftop, see if there’s a window open to your ingress.
The songs change, the arrangement strolls down the corridor of style, the genius of one era the embarrassment of another. The framework of every age soaking in the movement of the moment through the mind. Each of us a stitch in the lingo, culture held to the real by the seam of peoples, everyone arriving more by pattern than by intent. Whether barstool or bandstand, street corner or colosseum, the music puts us in our place.
It is always in the distance, the imminent truth we know is ours. That dream of destiny, the victory lap that spills out of fantasy and into the crumbling streets and lonesome buildings of our lives. I am, so I must be so. The dangers that devour, the foolish misjudgment of our mettle, the fool’s errands and grand delusions we witness and believe ourselves immune to. To wade through this shame and slaughter, inoculated from ever knowing ourselves, all jewels and crowns and feathers for macaroni. Forever only a direction, immortality a going concern, we claim our luck as destiny. The note held so long because we know the song must end.
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