Precipitation.
Andrew Bird is playing live on 90.7 FUV tonight. I am listening to his familiar whistles and staring at the slant of my ceiling. It has stopped raining. I am sitting still suspended in the tension and release of the music. Music, much like life, follows those cycles.
Last night I woke up with too many words in my head to sleep, thinking about weather and W.B. Yeats.
"The storm blows my body awake. I am turning and turning in the widening gyre of these sheets. Breeze and draft move over me. I hear chaos and leaves. Ominous and burnt looking, the sky smolders with the heat of early summer. My body burns with it tonight, blanketed and anxious. Lighting flashes and leaves me in bright silence. I wait for the thunder, for the tension and release. We live by those laws of discord and sweetness. Those are the moments we move between. There are subtleties, intricacies, and long falls.
I turn again, listening to the loosed anarchy, but I find so many patterns that it almost seems planned. Note for note."
Last night I woke up with too many words in my head to sleep, thinking about weather and W.B. Yeats.
"The storm blows my body awake. I am turning and turning in the widening gyre of these sheets. Breeze and draft move over me. I hear chaos and leaves. Ominous and burnt looking, the sky smolders with the heat of early summer. My body burns with it tonight, blanketed and anxious. Lighting flashes and leaves me in bright silence. I wait for the thunder, for the tension and release. We live by those laws of discord and sweetness. Those are the moments we move between. There are subtleties, intricacies, and long falls.
I turn again, listening to the loosed anarchy, but I find so many patterns that it almost seems planned. Note for note."