The feelings music gives me scale from peace to rage. Arpeggios of emotion.
The one I like least, raw jazz. It agitates me, and dumps me in foul mood. It makes me want to slap or break things.
It makes me want silence.
Not like this sublime piano, stopping time, mesmerising me to write. Pied Piper to my mind. Calling ancient thoughts, passages, rights, mistakes I made - before me now, in graceful parade.
The appreciation of music is not led by the ears. The vehicles of sound. No, it's in the gut. The ancient mind.
All of music is a feeling. Invoking spells of wants, needs, half remembered feelings - but which are new, which are ancient history?
Did I fall in love because of that tune?
Was I touched by the music he gave me?
Not the giving per se?
The remembered turned-on state of a long forgotten slow dance.
Not this one per se.
Is this the one?
Is it now is it happening now?
Is this what I hear?
Or what I think I hear?
What I once heard?
Or what I thought I once heard?
Can anything ever happen now without a cinemascopic cast of full technicolor ancient history running to greet it, surround-sound it, box it, label it?
Send it packing?
Glass piano solo, makes me want to lie still, my head on his chest. Lie there, beside him, half on, half off, rocked on the wave of his breath, staring into space, silent as a nebula. Not a word to be uttered.
Not a sound.
Leading our feelings for us. Whatever they are.
We have nothing else to hang them on but these finite notes
In this order
In this moment.