Fools rush in and get the best buys where angels fear to tread upon clerks full of turkey in walls full of mart, compounding the hypocrisy of Thanksgiving with Black Friday’s opening ceremony of the month long idolization of the latest models of golden calfves for the profit of money lenders culminating in the birthday of one later crucified for warning about both. Ironic, it’s trategic stragedy if ever I saw it — parents paying off the yearlong threat/bribe to children’s good behavior lest Santa punish them with switches and coal. It’s built in conditioning like the DNA of civilization, these generations of closed minds following the habitual limits of the invisible prison pointing out the window at the crazy people dancing through walls to inaudible music.
The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art, and all science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe is as good as dead, his eyes are closed. —Albert Einstein
You don’t have to know how to read sheet notation to make music. You don’t have to make music to love it. Music is the string we claim as our heart that runs through all mankind. I enjoy playing my bamboo flute for my garden far more than playing any part of my 4.6-day’s worth of music on iTunes, which I prefer to going out for live performances these days. If it weren’t for getting to meet up with old friends, I might never rejoin the pub-crawl crowd. I think I enjoyed music more before I got too close to the business exploitation of it by managers, venue operators and fame seekers alike that seemed to tarnish the purity of all but the most dedicated musicians’ performances. The most important quality of musical performance is the musician’s love for it. The sour notes make the good ones sweeter so I can’t bitch about any of it.