The Unswung Bat

Wednesday, November 17, 2004
Noise Nothing

Hands on the piano rock back and forth like leaves falling without a breeze, an ear stirs to the touch of notes. Springling music becomes a warm, wet patter. Demanding to know all the composer knew, the listener strains. Is there a grain of wisdom he can pull from it, yank from it, wrest away and deposit meekly in a meager store his own?

The music ends, the fall of leaves leaving nothing but bare, naked branches, and the musician stares at the piano even after standing up, for a brief arc of ticking seconds. A short counting time, the music is still in his mind, and then the craze of other sounds obliterates it. Later, later it will resound and under one voice rise to a greatness of doing and feeling. Now unknown, a Quiet queen circulates in hollow hallways.

original site + text contents ©2004 twenty oh four by me called it

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