And All You Play Are Notes

2024.05.21

Good morning that great way.

Hello again and things that go and went bump in the night.

That's all right you say and you say things that are all right at times.

But there's time.

And time looks like this when the words go all revved up like that.

Good morning worth it enough to say it twice.

All right.

Here we are again doing our thing with these fingers these digits pulsing out digits to the masses unmassed in mass amassed in Mass.

How is it with you this morning?

Haven't had a stream of conscious-y day in a while.

Haven't done the blah blah free write in some time.

The music is roar, or never whimper, unless the words are about whimpers then it's whimper wimpy old whimpers.

It's humor, not humorous, that gets through some days.

It's the recognition of the plasticity of language.

The rock-hard plasticity of words.

If they're being rock hardened plastically speaking.

So here we are again daydreams and things that go bump and a whole lot of other things in the night.

Not a fight.

Dreams.

New dreams matched with old.

A rearrangement of parts to restart the hearts of all.

What strange dreams.

Not out of the ordinary just out of the usual character of my venue.

Not what I usually watch on TV.

"You're watching that?"

Yes.

"I didn't think you watched that channel."

'Thought I'd try something new.'

"You? Try something new?"

'Yes.'

"Who knew?"

'Indeed. Who knew?'

Sometimes it's only a measure of the feeling of the keys.

Nothing more than the tip tap tapping tapped out tapping in the feeling of the fingers press press pressing pressed, not the printing press, but pressed letters on binary don't be wary, or worn out, forlorn'd out screens.

He's at it again.
That hodgepodge of language.
Those Joyce-like joyous moments.
That how do we keep up with this,
With these words business...
Busyness business he goes into sometimes?

Here's what it is.

You play a violin your whole life.

From Bach to Difficult-Piece-Only-Masters-Attempt.

But you wake up in the morning alone and all you play are notes.

One long C to staccato A's and E flats and F sharps just with as much careless care as you can.

Like a child picks up the violin for the second time and loves the way it makes those sounds.

The feel of it.

The basics.

Uninterrupted by anticipation of anything but the sound of it.

I make words and words call for more words.

But I type.

And the tap of the keys is the pluck and rosin slide of that violinist in the morning remembering the joy of just notes her arm can make when she draws that bow over those strings and listens to the string in or out of tune sing its strum.

And these keys pressed pressed for time to remember what it's like to have joy without the interrupts of every freaking thing else.

Just the fingers on the keys, chicklets I've heard them called, pressed not pressed for time.

A world where dogs running to closed doors whining, begging to get out, get into the outside to catch some creature it knows it never can because the trees are tall, and it wasn't meant for flying, and it's still waiting on those wings it ordered from Amazon 3 days ago when it was a two-day delivery guarantee.

Dogs like people and their people like problems.