(no subject)
Tonight I went to a house concert with my parents. This dude knew his fiddle.
When I listen to fiddle music, I don't listen listen. My dad picks out everything in the music. I just listen to the emotion, and I watch the emotion in the face and in the movement. I enjoy the guitar acompanyment (HOW is that word spelled???), but the guitar player doesn't move like the fiddle player does. The fiddle player leans forward and backward, arches and unarches his spine, swoops his arm, his wrist, moves his fingers as though typing a letter. And he is feeling every note and every moment between notes with his face and when he purses his lips the audience becomes more intent. I just like to watch and listen, and imagine the player's marriage to the music. Only he can ever understand his affair with the music. It is like it is his child, his mother, and his mistress all at once. He creates it, shapes it, molds it to his liking. It makes him who he is, teaches him things about himself. And when he performs he makes love.
so there was a long sad tune, and all of a sudden I formulated the plot to a short story. And I am completely inspired to write it. It will be based on what I know of Timothy, our story, his story, my story, what I wish for him, and lots of things that never happened and i hope never will. It will be very sad and I will die at the end. I think I will name myself Laura. Or...Jane. Something simple. He will be Kyle. Or maybe something more macho. Macho but innocent. Kyle? Connor? Peter? Kevin? Nick? All those names can go in a lot of directions.
Peace out, brothas and sistas.
When I listen to fiddle music, I don't listen listen. My dad picks out everything in the music. I just listen to the emotion, and I watch the emotion in the face and in the movement. I enjoy the guitar acompanyment (HOW is that word spelled???), but the guitar player doesn't move like the fiddle player does. The fiddle player leans forward and backward, arches and unarches his spine, swoops his arm, his wrist, moves his fingers as though typing a letter. And he is feeling every note and every moment between notes with his face and when he purses his lips the audience becomes more intent. I just like to watch and listen, and imagine the player's marriage to the music. Only he can ever understand his affair with the music. It is like it is his child, his mother, and his mistress all at once. He creates it, shapes it, molds it to his liking. It makes him who he is, teaches him things about himself. And when he performs he makes love.
so there was a long sad tune, and all of a sudden I formulated the plot to a short story. And I am completely inspired to write it. It will be based on what I know of Timothy, our story, his story, my story, what I wish for him, and lots of things that never happened and i hope never will. It will be very sad and I will die at the end. I think I will name myself Laura. Or...Jane. Something simple. He will be Kyle. Or maybe something more macho. Macho but innocent. Kyle? Connor? Peter? Kevin? Nick? All those names can go in a lot of directions.
Peace out, brothas and sistas.